Papurau Newydd Cymru
Chwiliwch 15 miliwn o erthyglau papurau newydd Cymru
3 erthygl ar y dudalen hon
Cuddio Rhestr Erthyglau
3 erthygl ar y dudalen hon
YHE DREAD SHADOW.
Newyddion
Dyfynnu
Rhannu
YHE DREAD SHADOW. A CHRISTMAS STORY OF THE NORTH EXPRESS, By JOIIN PENDLETON. Author of Newspaper Reporting ia Olden Time aud To-day." CHAPTER 1. IN THE SIGNAL-BOX. enough, he added grimly, "but any man who takes to it-at any rate this department of it -is an ass. I'd rather be a chimney-sweep. He's only got to get up early in the morning -not to stop up all night, wandering about a boggy wilderness like a lunatic." Arnold, usually one of the most good- humoured and certainly one of the most capable reporters on the staff of an important English daily, was filled with chagrin. He had lost his way, and his temper, too; and for the loss of the latter perhaps there was some excuse. Two hours ago, when making himself com- fortable in his cosy room, as the host of a bachelor party, the telephone bell at hi* elbow rang fieroely, as though it would whirr his head off, and he rang back with apprehen- sion and disgust. "Are you there!" came the stereotyped inquiry. But it seemed on this night to have a sardonio ring in it. "Yes," he replied curtly. Is that Arnold?" Yes." The compliments of the season." "Thanks—same to you," he growls, cer- tain now that something unpleasant was coming. Sorry to drag you out; but there's been a big accident up Settle way. Will you get on there ? We don't issue on Christmas Day but perhaps you'll send us a good telegram tomorrow." Ye-es," he jerked ou t angrily through the tube to the newspaper offioe, and wished tele- phones and daily papers in Hades, Never- theless the journalistic instinct was strong within him. Ho told his guests to make bemselves at home, donned his ulster (for it was a bitter night), took a hansom, got to the itation in time for the last train; and was soon an his way to the north, The line was blocked at Devil's Bridge, the nearest station to the scene of the aocident, and he had to get the best way he could to the deep cutting in which the disaster had occurred. Along rudely-made lanes, and fields deep in snow-drifts, he had staggered until he reached the plantation. Therewassome aatisfaotion in going through it, however, for though he sustained many a knock against tree trunks, and once or twice was brought sprawling on his hands and knees by the trailing undergrowth, he knew he was nearing the railway track. He could hear voices. Then he saw the fiioker of fires and yonder looming shadowy in the distance something that looked like an express. Just below him, in the steep rugged cutting where the telegraph wires glistened with ice, and the rails curved through the snow like black serpents, there was a breadth of cheer- ful light. It came, it flashed from the signal- box, perched half way down the ravine on a projecting rock, A rude path led to it, and he let himself down, scrambling to the door. lie knooked; and the signalman, who had his right hand on a lever, shouted, Who's there? Come in." Arnold opened the door, entered the signal- box with a great gust of howling wind, and explained as tersely as possible his errand, while the signalman, busy with bell and dial, sent warnings up and down the line. The signalman, tall, with cadaverous face, deep-set eyes, iron-grey hair, and a habit of silence that bad come with much solitude, only answered questions. If a had lived in and near this cutting a long time, scarcely (jeein Aonl, except the flying figures of the engine driver and stoker on the express engine as it dashed by, or the phantom faces of the passengers as they peered up at him for a moment, and were whirled away into space. His only excitement had been signalling on to the next station-four beats of the bell 11 Train on the line," or seven beats of the needle to the left, Train passed without tail lamp." Possibly in the long dreary wintry days he had got a little sport and a little game—seen a hare caught napping and killed by a passing train, or a bird fly against the telegraph wires and kill itself. But he had few opportuni- ties of wagging his tongue. He had no idea of the delight of instructive and brilliant con- versation. He was morose and taoiturn with responsibility and loneliness; yet he felt a certain sort of contentment that he had managed to work his signals all right, so far, without appearing before a coroner's jury and being found guilty of manslaugter. -1 Is it much of an acoident ? asked Arnold, seating himself on a stool away from the gleaming levers, in order not to hamper the signalman in his work. There's been no accident,replied the man, grasping another lever and giving it a fierce pull, jerking it so emphatically that the lever's movement seemed to be part of the signalman's assertion-to olenoh it beyond contradiction. "But there's something wrong?"' hazarded Arnold incredulously. "No, there isn't," said the signalman shortly, beating the bell, frantically as it seemed, at least a dozen times. Why, we've had a telegram to say there's been a big aocidcnt to the express," retorted Arnold, mystified and half fearing that his journey and struggling had been in vain. Have yer ?" responded the signalman flowly, giving two impressive beats of the needle to the right to tell the man at the next box that the line was clear, "Yes here's the telegram," said Arnold quickly, pulling the crumpled pink paper out of his pocket. "It's fearful bad writing," remarked the signalman, glancing at it, and pondering, and then he added, All I can say is—it's a lie And he worked away at his levers again, with his head half-turned towards Arnold, but keeping a keen watch on the moving, gleaming bars, which, as they jumped and jerked to and fro, seemed to support his con- viction, and to oreak out the words: It's—a —lie It is a lie Then the levers and the belle and the needles became quiet suddenly, as though some giant grasp kept them all in check; and the signalman, with a twinkle in his eyes, put both his hands in his trousers' pockets, and leaning with his back against the window bar, ventured upon an original remark. "They generally is lies." Out came the words slowly and distinctly, just as if he was giving a signal, They ort to be warmed up as sends 'em!" But surely something has happened said Arnold in despair. 11 Well-surnniat 'as 'appened; but nowt's 'appened to t' train. T' line's clear, and she's just off yonder wi' 'er tail light all raight." Then what the-- is it ?" blurted out Arnold impatiently, irritated beyond polite- ness by so much mystery. Ar shud think t' wire is about t' forriner," replied the signalman, not in the least per- turbed. Foreigner !-what foreigner asked the reporter in amazement. Why t' chap under t' sack i' t' corner," he replied, pointing towards the farthest corner of the signal-box, nearest the ravine side. Arnold could just distinguish in the deep shadow something that lool,J like a human form. The light waa dim there, but Arnold could just distinguish in the deep shadow something that looked like a human form. H What-who is it?" he asked, a strange thrill creeping through him, as he grasped the signalman's left arm. H Nay, tha moanfc ax me," replied the signalman, taking his lamp, placing it on the floor, removing the sacking and old apparel, odorous of tram grease, from the pros- trate figure, and wiping the man's forehead (for it was a man) with a piece of cotton waste dipped in water. It's not a bit o' use axing me," he continued, tha man ax 'im ole ar know is 'e's a for- riner. He jumped out o't mail as she wor goin' round t'bend, aud 'e's got a bit knocked on t'head. He 'as been goin' it wi 'is lingo— a parley-vooing and a reisch-lahing, aud a whirlin' his arms about." There was no doubt about the man being a foreigner. There was nothing English about his pale oval face—a handsome face, with clear-out aquiline nose, and firm, de- termined mouth, and dark eyes that flashed with a beauteous light, even in delirium. There was a crafty, cunning look in them, too, as Arnold gazed into their depths, and the thought came un- bidden to the pressman's mind that this man, however capable he might be of good, was certainly apt at evil. In the fitful light of the lamp be had almost "There is something peeriny in!" a sardonic look, for his white face and black, carefully trimmed moustaohe worked strangely, and now and then he would shrug his shoulders in contempt, and fling back with a quiok movement of his left band the great mass of glossy waving hair from his forehead. The stranger, a well-dressed, well-set man, apparently about thirty, was evidently soothed by this habit of hair-flinging. Jt was just as if he lifted a great burden every time ho did it, and it quietd him, but not for long. 'Es at it agen," said the signalman, bend- ing over the foreigner. ,Jim's a of a time goin' for t' doetor. Ar shud a' thowt ed a' been back bi this." Whose Jim ?" asked Arnold, half in reverie, as he still gaznd into the stranger's face—and now noticed for the first time that near the right temple, which was away from the light, a little stream of blood was making a course for itself by the edge of the old sacking on the signal-box floor. Jim's t' lampman. He's gone to t' village for t' doctor but he's lame, and it's three miles off. Just hark at t' chap now," said the engineman, full of perplexity, as the foreigner, shrugging his shoulders and grimao- ing, poured out a torrent of words in a foreign tongue. What sort o' lingo do ye teink it is ? Ar nivver 'eard owt like it afore, tho' a once worked i a pit wi Joe Co wen's lot." U It's German," replied Arnold, who was a good linguist, and had studied the patois of many a tongue. I fancy he's a Badisher," he said, listening, and comprehending without Lmuoh difficulty tlje iiiiured man's mattering, I "Yo're reight enough," said the signalman, mistaking Arnold's refereno to the locality of the man's birth. He is baddish; ar reckon he's about as bad as he can be—he'll be dead afore t' doctor comes if Q'.vd Jim doesn't limp in wi' 'iyo soon." The words seemed likely to come speedily true. An ashen look crept over the foreigner's face; and his lips, though frequently mois- tened by the signalman's clumsy but kindly fingers, were livid and drawn. But his tongue was free, and he rattled out, with many a strange gesture, torrents of words that were Greek to the signalman, but easily understood by Arnold, who, bending over the moaning, wrestling figure, heard a startling story from its lips.
CHAPTER H.
Newyddion
Dyfynnu
Rhannu
CHAPTER H. A. HEAP OF QUAKER GOLD AND CAULS CRIMK, The career of Carl Schmidt," moaned and muttered the tossing figure, is nearly oyer, Death is hovering mysteriously about me yet I can see thefaces of the frightened passengers, and hear the snort of the locomotive that quivers again under the brake. But thank God I don't see that other face! Death comes easier than I thought. I see no menaoing God, no flaming sword, no dark waters of Styx, no molten sea lapping the shores of Hades, I shudder but at the remembranoe of my life in this world-not in terror at my prospects in the next. Yet I am soarcely filled with repentance. Your what do you call him- Carlyle—talked about the brilliant farce of life. To me it has been a tragedy nearly ever sinoe I stood at my mother's kuee in the quaint timbered house in the old oity by the Rhine. Soon came the thrill of the war the devilish glee of taking my gun into action at the Stras- bourg siege—the thunder of my battery, the havoo we wrought. Then the march past at Berlin, and Carl Schmidt, the proudest of them all, with the Iron Cross for valour on his breast. Bat the wild delight of bloodshed, and the pride in the pomp of victory, are as nothing to the thought of leaving the Fatherland and coming to London. Lucky in war, I ara unlucky in peace. 1 do not find the great oity paved with gold. I am told it is the place for the German olerk; that with his knowledge of languages he has only to put his head into a commercial house to become a Bismarok of trade Bah It is a fiotion of I'eufelsdrokh'a. 1 iind it a city of struggling and hunger. One stout, prosperous-looking stockbroker, to whom I apply for a situation, tells me—as he strides briskly about his office, giving instructions about Eries, and Cedulas and De Beers, and telephones to bis partner on 'Change for a quotation of Costa Pioa*s that he may have a vacancy in a month, and comforts me with the remark that I shall be all right, for I Germans can live on so much less than the English.' This, I think to myself, is fortu- nate, for 1 have not dined lately, my last banquet being a dish of sauerkraut at the eating-house cf my countrymen in Hood. lane. How I bate the city, with its noise of I traflic, and its pavements not of gold, but of I mud; and its brusque, busy, hard-hearted people; and I get to loathe 2aocheus Bower worse than all. 11 1 Thou att from Germany, and thy country- men work oheap,' says the old Quaker, at our first interview, as he looked severely at me through his speotaolee, and toys with the old- fashioned gold seal that hangs from his fob. I shall give thee ten shillings per week for thy wages but thou must serve me well. Thou knowest that I could get an Italian for nine, but I like thy look, and wile engage thee if thou art willing.' "I Witling My heart beat with delight. It is vulgar, I know, but my whole system throbs with pleasurable anticipation at the prospect of a dinner. "Zaocheus is a wizened little man in a brown coat that was made in the last century. He also wears a long brown waistcoat with lappets over the pockets, and drab breeches and gaitera. He is a Friend—an old- fashioned Quaker. There were, I am told, many similar figures in English streets a quarter of I a oentury ago. But the broad-brimmed hat, the brown coat, and the drab breeohes have become obsolete. The Friend of to-day is scarcely distinguishable from anybody else by his dress, and not always by his address. Anyhow, he is a Friend—an overseer of the meeting-house; but like most men ho is first of all a friend to himself, and he ohuokles and rubs his hands with a gentle satisfao. tion when I promise to do his work faith- fully. '"Thou must kuow ), he says, that I am ft-- Zaccheus, the bookseller, and I irant thee to help my arranpe^iaiifc » £ tit strwlogue that I send to my c DeberaB, my niece, has tried; but she is a giddy maiden, and would iiooti ruin my business.' The little dingy, book-lined shop, not far from Paternoster-row, scams filled with music, Zaccheus is not a pretty name to pronounce. You have to bring your teeth together with a snap but this voice makes sweet music as it sends out in one prolongation of rich sound the name-Z-a--cc-he-us-s The old man smiles, throws down an ancient hisiory he has been lancing at, and turns towards the door leading from the shop to the kitchen. Before he has taken off his spectacles, or taken a step, the latch is raised quickly, the loosely-fitting door thrust open, a ad a girl's face appears. It is Debo- ab's-riot a beautiful face, but an attractive face. The first thing that strikes you about it is that it is so clean It is, you can see at a glance, the face of a Quakeress, a face that bears out the Biblical teaching that cleanliness is next to Godliness. The dark eyes, which have just a suspicion of fun in them, are rather deeply set beneath her broad white forehead, and her nose, though a good- humoured nose, has not much shape to recommend it; but she has roses in her cceks, and a sweet mouth that seems incapable of whispering deceit. The girl does not blush. Her eyes only open a little wider with astonishment at a stranger's presence. Thou hast got another helper ?' she asks, half in mockery, half in reproach. Yea Deborah,' Zaccheus replies bat thou must not pout thy lips. It is not seemly. Besides they hast thy house-work. It will do thee more good than filling thy head with silly romanoes.' "Deborah is not pleaded. Her eyes flash with anger, and a rich colour suffuses her neck and brow. She has, it is evident, a little temper but, schooled in calmness and silence it is soon under control. She bows demurely as I am introduced, and though 1 may be mistaken, there seems to be a smiling dimple at each corner of her mouth as she grace- fully bends her head, crowned with straight- combed but brightly gleaming hair. She leads me out of the shop into the kitchen, places two high-backed chairs close to the tea- table that is already covered with a spotless cloth, brings out the willow-patterned cups and saucers, outs the bread and butter with as much indifference as did Charlotte at Werther's indiscretion, and then,saying "Faro- well," almost abruptly goes to meeting, and leaves us to take tea, and talk about books— not of their contents but of their prices, for Zacoheus, accounted by the learned a Biblo- maniac, poses as one simply for money, for what he can get out of the craze. In his avaricious zeal to get hold of a copy of The Vinegaar Bible," which I have beard of at Leipsic, be lets out the seoret of his life that he is rich When the shop is closed, and I have wan- dered about the streets of the city envying the opulent, and stayed as long as I dare over one glass of laager at Herr Joeppen's, and crept, hateful with discontent, into the wretched bedroom I share with half-starved Queer Koff, the Nihilist, I can see the heap of Quaker gold. It glistens on the dirty, rag- ged Turkestan rug by the empty fire-grate. It lies, heaped there, a shining, glittering mass, on the tattered bed-quilt. I see it when the body, overpowered with sleep, no longer clogs the mind. I am by the seashore, in a horse- shoe bay, sheltered from the winds by huge headlands, and all bright with sunlight. I am alone, absolutely alone; and thrilling with a delight more intense than that of Gaspard the miser, for the sands are of gold When awake again, poring over the faded MSS. and curious records in the shop. I lee it still. I hear the ohink :of it. Some fool has just given Zaccheus one hundred pounds for an original copy of a book that ought never to have been written. One hundred pouiidg and he has thousands more put by. Now I curse my poverty and long for his wealth. But I do not think of scheming for it until one night when I am with Deborah. We have been at the meeting. The cave of Tro- phonius oould not be more silent. Not a word has been spoken. There has beenastrangestill- nesa. Everybody's tongue has been at rest; but my mind has been busy. There is no calm in it. It is filled with two fierce passions—a thirst for gold and a thirst for love. As we quit the plain brick building, and make our way towards the bookseller's, I tell Deborah, in my whimsical English that I love her-that I think she is a comfortable, well-developed girl, and that I drop my heart at her feet. And her laughter ripples through the quiet roadway. She says she likes tc hear me speak; that my pronunciation is delicious. Then she repeats the words 'comfor-table,' well-devel-opped,' and unable to control her sense of the ludi- crous she altogether forgets her Quaker train- ing, and indulges in merriest laughter. As we near the swinging sign over the doorway of the shop she regains her calmness. The proximity of Zaocheus seems to tame her, and she rejects me sedately. I Thou must pardon, Carl,' she says, quietly. I have learnt from thy looks that thou lovest me—and thou art comely. But how poor thou art. Besides, Pbineas wants to take me to wife. He is ungainly but he has a homestead, and lauds, and menservants and farm maidens. Thou shoulds*t sas his home in the wolds where he is going to take me to wife--but if thou had'st wealth it might have been different, for I like thee. Thou art prettier than Phineas, aud thy converse ia full of entertainment. It does not occur to me that Deborah is mercenary. The girl's frankness, her strong common sense, increase my fondness. But, above all, she is discreet; and on the day fol- lowing my avowal starts for the North on a visit to the friends of the clumsy but con- stant Phineas. Now she has gone I find the cataloguing of books hateful. Zaccheus, too, is strangely suspicious and restless. Has he any idea, I wonder, of my resolve ? Thou wilt stay, and complete the catalogue to nigh t,'he says, after we have had a day of bard work among the old books, and the shutters are being put up. ■' I Yeii I will stay—and finish the cata- logue,' I reply, with such peculiar, though unintended, emphasis on the last sentence that Zaccheus lifts his face to mine, and gives me I a searching glance through his spectacles. The book shop is closed. Outside, the echo of the roar of traflio still lingers about the city. The rain pelts against the old shutters and clatters against the kitchen window, and from the worn, rotting spout that projects from the house-roof there is the heavy drip, drip, as of blood. Within there is a great stillness, that seems to be rather aooentuated than broken by the steady tick of the quaint clock in the corner-a clock that bears the name of Zacoheus' bro- ther, r Nathan Bower, watohmaker, Manches- ter,' and has been ticking there with Quaker- like regularity for nearly half a oentury. Zaccheus, wearied out with prolix thought of coming bargains, has forgotten his suspicions and his fears, and lies asleep on the broad couch in the kitchen. There is not a sound exoept the clock's voice and the slight jingle of the needle and hammer that I have taken from the breast pocket of my worn serge coat. The toy imple- ment#—they really only look like children's toys are tfce Nib ilist'u, I h«ve stolon tUeia from his vjjrkaktfp, an old cellar where he 131- forge qe* to himself, and makes cliau-$ iiistrume.m to further his cause.. ne n.II" long, slender, of the best crucible steel, an the peculiarly-shaped hammer, are onlv refinement of the tools used by Delilah ah hel1 she slew Samson, but they are very deftlf made, and never bungle in their work. "IIow Zaocheus slumbers! lie does not move even as I bare his left breast. A boog falls from his grasp, but it disturbs him DOt. I place the needle point, as I think, just ovet his heart. There is a tremor, a slight move" ment; but before Zaccheus can awake I ilf, the hammer quickly and strike, and the longi bright needle no longer flashes in the candle light. It is buried in the Quaker's heart* His eyes open, with one startled, stern, despf rate gaze, and then close for ever. Zaccheill is dead! f "I do not feel the slightest remorse. rather flatter myself it is neatly done. Only the slightest puncture is discernible on the Quaker's breast, and I paint it so cleverly that the tottering doctor never dreams tha. he has been murdered. Poor old Zacchi,' he says, I fleartdiseaSO; had one foot in the grave for years and W sends a certificate, telling me to communicate with Deborah. "There is not the slightest suspicion r foul play in hl3 iiiind. He does not see me Id the room over the shop, among the faded manuscripts and vellum, throwing thefll hither and thither to get down to brass-bound box, fastened with one ot the famous locks of Nuremburg. BU dream of gold is fulfilled. I find the in its customary hiding-place between the leaves of the old Bible, unlock the J.¡oS with ease, and find within it, in notol and gold, at lest twenty thousand poundsl With what glee I count and re-count th- money, and then place it in the bag, labelled, 'Steel plates,' and hug it to my room at the Nihilist's.
CHAPTER HI. Iii
Newyddion
Dyfynnu
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CHAPTER HI. Iii THE SHADOW. ¡; It ischristinas 1, ve. I am goitig in starol of Deborah and I am happy, for she wit. accept me now J am rich. It crosses 111. mind whether it is wise to leave tb. money in the care of Queer Kofi After all, I could not End a safer custodian. Poor devil !-crack-brained enthusiut, bt151 in the oonstruotion of infernal machines to annihilate Russian Kmperors, he will nevtl think of examining the bag labelled 'Steel plates.' Apart from this doubt, then, I afll happy. My hunger days are over. I have yontbo good looks, health, riches, and a convenient conscience. The fact that I have taken the old Quaker's life does not ruffle me a bit. All I can think about is that I, Carl Schmi^i lately the poverty-stricken, the half-starved is rich at last, and the happiest man in all the crowd that jostles about St. Pancras. If you aredispirited or lonely on Christm** Eve you should go to St. Pancras, and wail for the departure of the north There are some sad hearts in the station prO- bably, but the majority of the pal3geDgEfo bubble with enjoyment. The platforms .re pyramids of Christmas gifts. There is smile on everybody's faoe; and the gre*| arched roof tries to keep within its gi»fl! arms, its great embrace, the eohoes a thousand pleasant voices. As I push 011 way to the train I feel kindly w all men. A poor woman, with two childrool ill-olad and miserable, looks pleadingly at pi" I thrust half a sovereign into her hand. is too surprised to fully thank me.' bl- she gasps; and as I shoulder my iyslf through the throng I remember her as all interesting psradox-a woman able to langr and cry at the same time. The train was due out at five o'cloolf, There is a banging of carriage doors, muot. whispering and kissing, and 11 hearty ,good- byes' and the express starts on its long barst through the winter's night to the north. "It is not a traditional Christmas There is neither snow nor ice. The blows in great gusts about the windows. rain pelts, with a swish and a against the speeding train. But suddenly the sound dies away with a moan, the rain and the atmosphere becomes sooold that eyoff one in the oompartment shivers. At this time it is very dark; but tho lapd, all snow-clad now, is jast discernible as dash away from a Yorkshire town into a wi" country. I have been happy all the way do telling a commercial traveller stories of adventurous life as a student, and as a sol^ in the campaign; chatting with a cur»^ who has been working in the East$. amid drunkenness, squalor, and vi^j giving biscuits to Grey Friars boys (w^ appetites they have) going home for holidays; and actually nursing the sign*/ man's baby the mother is taking n°r\! 4 Christmas Day bein like Sunda, you knofl sir, and no trains a-going through.' ,w But nay light-heartedness dies away ljjv the wind. I am^gonscious of another senoe. I do not shiver merely, I tremble dread. 1 dare not move; I become siIllt rigid. I sit in the left corner of the com- partment with my face to the engine. I feet and my heart seem turned to ice—^ temples throb-my brain is filled with a sur ing heat, I long, yet dare not look out of the Vvl dow. THERE IS SOMETHING PEERING IN • G I know it, though I cannot see it, for » signalman's baby, lying on its mother's has an awe-stricken look in its wide-0 eyes, and its mother has swooned. ( commercial traveller is livid. The schoolboy hide their faces in dismay and the curate e' pale; something that sounds like a praY comes from his lips. fI "My eyes are strained but tearless. iton they ache with a dull pain just like that my heart. "The suspense is terrible. Despera^' and yet with a strange indefinable fasoinati0 I turn my face to the window. Ob, God how hideous! < A cry of despair escapes me. My nIl and body shrink with fear. It is just above me—peering in witb mocking face—you look at it—see there •' THK SHADOW 'the express is tearing away at sixty fl11 an hour, through tunnel, over bridge, bj$r erags, and along wide-sweeping valleys, wbe in grey stone cottage and spaoious homeste* the country folk are keeping Christmas. But speed is nothing to this shadow. j it is a little behind, now a little in front; wherever it is, the hideous thing never its menacing look away. In the tunnel 1 small, impish, with a cold, oruel glitter Iil eyes; in the open oountry it beoome3 lglItI tic, stretching its mighty limbs acro»» jo fields and the river, and indulging in mimicry ou rock and slope. I close my eyes, covering them witb^ hands; but I oau still see the fiendish tb'' and God have mercy—IT HAS TUB F OF ZACCHEUS! ,<0H Now I cannot keep my cyaa jA. jjy 1 terror-stricken, unstrung I am. What I must be brave-I must remember my opt! Cross for valour. After all, the thing a shadow; and a shadow can have no "e It is only some freak of the engine fir«' .;$• No, no !->-it is no shadow! It is o' See The (faon is alive—it is the f* Zaccheus, wiih every Liatare enlarged intensified tlij flame atatfflu wssirled 40 with the same mercibaet ?iK5r.a tt-e eyello