"STAR" TALES.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 10011, 24 November 1910, Page 4

"STAR" TALES.

A LONG CHASE.

(By OWEN HALL.)

[All Rights Reskrvkd.}

"Thank God you're hero at last, Jack'" This was the welcome I got rs [ was trying to knock some of the mow off my hoots before opening the door of my brother-in-law's house that ■winter's night, and I may as well confess at once that the tono of it gavo , v iriie rather a shock. Tho fact was I ■had been unlucky again. I had taken (Bob's sleigh out for a run that afternoon, and somehow or other Sprinter, his favourite sleigh horse, had got his "foot into a hole, and I had been obliged to walk him home over a couple of .miles of snow. That had rather tried (my temper; hut it was a good deal ■worse "when Mike, who was in charge ..tof the stable, greeted me with "tho "Slews that the only other reliable fcleigh horse on the- place, had got " a Jdivil or a could, an' couldn't go out -•nt all, ; at all. And here was the masiher telling liim to he ready, in case somebody had to go to Standish for „th« docther." \ ■_ ""We were getting confoundedly I can tell you," my brothev-'Sh-law continued. " Somebody'll have •fco'go for the doctor to-night/ 1 think, fJack; and Mike tells me Sprinter's Jthe only horse we've got that can do )it,;' since Tommy, it seenis, is sick. ; (Splinter must bo ready to start as Moon as he's had a feed." -

|i- Here was a nice state of things. His JBnly available horse useless, and Stanjdiah, where'Dr-Mackenzie lived, fifteen, miles away, over roads three or four feet deep in snow. There was mottling to he done but to tell him jthe worst at once; and 1 could have (torn my hair out to see the wav the ipoor fellow took it. He wouldn't say ja'word, or even give me a look that jwight hurt my feelings, but J. could fced he was almost despairing. Ii*;" Look hero, Bob," I said, laying jariy hand on his shoulder, " very likely Jibe won't bo needed to-night, ,old fel33'ow; hut if he is, don't you fret—l'll ftetch him all risdit," )-:. "Fetch him, Jack? "Why, it's fifteen miles to Standish, and we haven't &i beast in the stable that could go ffcvie. What a fool I was not to proIvide against accidents sooner." , I?-: f Oh, bother horses. Bob," I rejoined cheerfully. "If it's necessary jiWß'll manage better than that. I'll 'go on my bicycle." V "On your bicycle?" he exclaimed. ■*' Well, that might be possible, I suppose, on the hard snow; but, nonSense, Jack! What am I thinking about? Margaret would never forgive •one'if I let you go. Fifteen miles over snow at night; and you just from ilhdia." ':■ " Don't tell her, Bob. The thing's ,fcafe enough. You don't know what a 'good bicycle can do in hands that aro '.used to it. Fifteen miles? I'll race any sleigh you've got, and as for the §now —well, I dare say I won't feel the cold after the first mile or two." i-..80b considered for a minute. '''£ Well," he said at- last, "I won't tell Maggie, poor girl. I know she'd ibe frantic; and indeed nothing but necessity would make me think of it anyself."

.'"... Of course, I wasn't anxious for a ride like that oh so bitterly cold a night, so ft said: "All right, Bob. I'll take a Hook at the machine, though, in case dt - should be wanted, m the meantime."

1V Mike, wtas, sent off to Johnson's—a i.Tbeighbour whose place was about four , anijes off; and when I had eaten a hearty dinner—northern Alberta in Jwinter is good for giving you an appetite, I can tell you—l employed my- \ pelf in oiling and cleaning tho bicycle. "{ft had been a little neglected since I ,3iad found out how little it was suited 'jefor the autumn and early winter roads i'in Alberta. It was- one of tho best "that could he bought in London, how- , erer, and it had only been used ''enough to get it into good working <»rder. I found it only wanted rubibing over, as the dry air of tho house' ilia preserved it from rust. ! The time dragged slowly on. Bob came out of Maggie's room now and '.then, looking very anxious, stayed ■jfwith me a few minutes, wondering When Mike would get back, and then going back again. The time passed, «ajd 'still there was no sign of Mike. I could see that Bob was growing very uneasy, though he wouldn't admit .that there was any cause for it; and ih'ts evident anxiety affected roe. I went to the window and looked out. 'Che moon was rising, for in tho east .the blue vault was growing grey and the stars were losing their sparkling : brightness. Already there was a change in the aspect of the country, in spite df'.its general wldteness. I could see Where the forest encroached on the open land—no longer as merely a darker . shadow, but with a vague outline of trtees. It would soon be light enough to see a track. I thought of Bob's : anxious expression; I thought of the tiweet face of my only sister. Bah! iiWhat was a fifteen miles ride in good vinoonlight over a track as hard as a ropk? ,

i I turned from the window and proceeded to dress myself for the journey. VWiat should I wear ? Mocassins ? Yes! KJtotbing could be better for the purjpose. Furs? Well, if only as a reasonable precaution I must put somo on; hilt, as I might find them too heavy, jl put on a foraging jacket of thick cloth that buttoned up to the throat, and over that the great fur coat with ijjie hood that came over the head. IThere were fur-lined overalls for the legs, but I felt that these would make bicycle, riding impossible. I was just tpntting on the fur cap when Bob's pale (face showed itself again in the doorway.

|"What are you doing, Jack?" he ftfked in a half-whisper.'* ! °Doing? I'm getting ready for a [itart. It's about time I was off, for the moon's rising and I see no signs

*■' Oh, no, Jack; it's not so urgent as ijl that yet."

£'v"lsn't it, old man? Take a look at |jro«r face in that mirror. Do you think |Tye got no eyes? < No, Bob—-I'm off." J' "A light came into Bob's eyes that nrisir't there before. I could see his (face flush with the sense of a new relief. Still he held out.

['■■'"Maggie would never forgive me, 'J»ck, irshe knew."

"Then don't let lier know. I'll be {back within three hours; and I can see jjby your face I should have been gone *tt hour ago. There, old fellow, it's no Hake talking; I'm going. .By the by, [where' s that hea,vy revolver you had yesterday?" I .""In that cupboard. But Avhat do grou want it for?" , " Oh, nothing in particular. A professional weakness for weapons, I suppose." |: '* Oh, .well, take it by all means, if 'you want to; it's all ready loaded. And rjack—rmind you hurry Mackenzie up." j lb was the man's real feeling that fpoke then. There was a sort of gasp-

iiijj; anxiety in the tono. arid my heart | smote mo that I hadn't gone sooner; I b:;c I would make up for it now. My eves rested on the bright machine. '•All right, Bob," T said. "Rely on me. You'll .seo what a bicycle can do at a pinch." Another minute- and 1. had pushed the bicycle quietly from the vnom, while in another the door had closed behind mr, and ! stood on the hardly-packed sn/ xv under the brightening sky. I I'.wk oik- lone; look around me to accustom my eyes to the new light, as well as to make sure of the course T had to follow. Fortunately I was familiar with the way to Standish, as 1 had travelled it perhaps a dozen times in sloighs during the six weeks I had been staying with my brother-in-law. Dr Mackenzie was a great friend of Bob's, and ho had been over pretty often ;rf late, and I had generally gone home with him. This was lucky, for I knew tho way almost as well by moonlight as by daylight, and that goes for something' when you have to travel at night. There was no sign of Mike. T fastened the ear-guards of my fur cap under my chin ; I felt that the revolver was safely in my belt: 1 gavo the last glance of inspection, with which the would-be professional cyclist always favours his machine before startiug. In another moment I was in the saddle and had started with a crisp crackle over the frozen snow. The road lay across the plain for the first four miles, between fences, where any fences were visible above the snow. * Then there came a long rise as you entered the forest, which lasted till you reached tho top of the ridge, and got perhaps a couple of miles down the other slope. After that the land was open and fairly level till you had crossed the bridge, and in loss than another mile you reached Standish. After all it was not so very much of a ride. T had done three times tho distance in India under hot sun., and four times as much in England, and thought nothing of it. The poiut was to do -it quicklv. That look on Bob's face came back to me, and I put on a spurt to get rid of it.

I bowled along swiftlv. The snow was smooth and hard; the night was cold and still; and now, in the light of the newly-risen moon the general direction I had to follow was clear enough. I intended to break tho record—as the slang phrase goes—no verv difficult matter probably, 1 reflected, as far as a Canadian bicycle record over the snow was concerned. To do it, however, required judgment. It was no use trying to rush the pace for fifteen miles over a track like that. I knew I had the long rise into the forest before me, and I must reserve my strength for that. I wont steadilv on."

I had crossed the level at last, and I knew I had done well. There was plenty of light by which to see the time, but 1 decided to wait till I reached the edge of the forest. It was no use unfastening my fur coat too soon.

I could feel that the rise had begun already. It was no longer quite so easy to keep the machine up to its speed. There was more effort in each pressure on the pedals—a little more sensation in the muscles of the legs as I did so. I looked round. Yes, I had already made a rise- of a good many feet. Far behind, and apparently some ivay below me, 1 could make out the lights of my brother-in-law's house, framed in a kind of rainbow haze. And inside I could see in imagination Bob's face, pale and drawn with anxiety. T turned my face to the hill again and pushed on. I knew that 1 was making good work of it. Here, in the open, indeed, there was little by which I could guage my speed. The same white expanse of snow; the same gently rising slope; an occasional tree left standing in some clearing, gaunt and grim in its ice-bound loneliness; but I was Hearing the forest. Already, farther up the hill, I could make out the shadows of the trees. I was steeringi steadily for the point where I knew the road entered the forest. It .was just where a long tongue ran down the hill, left for some reason when the clearings had encroached on either side. At last! Yes, there were the- few giant stragglers—outposts of the silent pine forest—their dark tops towering up, gray and ice-bound, like solid wedges into the sky; their drooping branches weighed down with their burden of snow, pointing eastward in melancholy repose. I recognised them, and as 1 raced past them insensibly quickened my pace now that I had some landmarks by which to guage my speed. I unbuttoned my great fur coat and drew the watch from my foraging jacket: it was just half-past seven. Half-past seven! Well, so far I had made good time—now to keep it up. It had been a relief to unfasten the coat: I let it remain as it was and pushed on. in another minute or two I had entered the forest.

To right and left the black pine trees closed mo in. The.long, hanging branches, bending under their loud of snow, leant over and cast their heavy shadows on the path. Under tho branches I could see, or fancy I saw, long black vistas that seemed to stretch for miles under the solemn shadows of the forest; but at any rate, the roadway itself was comparatively light. There the white untrodden snow gleamed like silver in the moonlight. The shadows, indeed, lay still and solemn, like ebony inlaid on a silver shield—as dark by contrast, and as sharply cut. The slope was regular and not steep enough to interfere much with my progress. As I went I glanced from side to side, conscious of the oppressive solitude of the forest; but my pace didn't suffer. Once I put my hand to my belt where it touched the handle of .Bob's revolver; then I smiled, as I thought of Bob's question—"What did I want it far?" What indeed? Revolvers are no defence against the terrors of solitude. But was there really nothing else? Nothing more tangible, against which even a revolver might have charms P Yes, now I thought of it, there was. One of the sleighing party I had been with the day before had been talking about wolves. The winter had been an early one, and so far it had been rather severe. He said the wolves had been showing in packs not more than twenty-five miles to the north. As the remembrance came back to me, T glanced from side to side once- more; but now the forest seemed to have a new meaning for me! The snow covered branches no longer concealed a solitude such as had oppressed me only a few minutes before ; now their dark abysses seemed to be full of moving forms. Bab ! T shook myself. T would look ahead, and refuse to bo tricked .by my imagination. I fixed my eyes on the long thread of silver that stretched upwards towards the distant ridge, and pushed forward at ray best speed. There is no stillness on earth like that of a frozen forest. Perhaps the feeling is, after all, at least in part tho effect of the imagination; but for all practical purposes it is a fact. We expect to see some sign of motion when we look at trees. We associate with them swaying tops and moving boughs, rustling leaves, and some motion at Irnst that speaks of life. To see trees that might be-*of iron in their motionless stiffness, with boughs that look as if they had been carved out of the solid rock—this is enough to make

' silence deadly. It is the sleep of a suspended animation ;, all the more deep because, it is so unnatural, i I don't suppose I thought all this, bnt ; I certainly felt it. It was my first exi perience of a frozen forest without at ! least one companion ; and all the cir- ! cumstances of my position heightened ■ the offect. I listened for some sound involuntarily; my ears seemed to strain themselves to hear something—l ! couldn't- have said u'hat it was. There wasn't a sound but the low crisp crunching of the frozen snow under the wheels of my bicycle; and even that seemed hushed and distant. But what was that? Was it fancy, or did I really hear a distant sound? Something shrill and piercing, though faint, far away on the right? Surely there was something, if it was no more than the wail of the rising wind, moaning among the pines. I bent over the '■ bicycle, and concentrated all my energies on facing the long ascent. There it was again ! The same long, low. I searching note, wild, and yet uncertain —coming from the same quarter, too; hut that was only natural. If it was wind, of course it was coming from the top: tho sight of a swaying branch would have been a relief to me at that moment. But no. Stone columns couldn't have been more immovable,. The pyramids could not have looked more fatally still. I was Hearing the summit of the long ascent at last. 'Thank God for that! Once on level ground again I should feel less handicapped: once there, I should feel that the downward slope was near. I bent to my work with all my energy. I forced the machine over the ground as, I think, I had never done before. As 1. neared the top of the slope I could see what looked like an opening in the forest on tho right, for there the light seemed clearer and less obscured by overhanging treys. It puzzled me for a moment. Then ] remembered that there was a sort of glado that stretched away into the forest on the right, where somebody had begun and then abandoned a clearing. I had scarcely called it to mind when I reached it. " Accustomed as I had grown to the gloom of my overshadowed track, the increased light was a relief. As the clearing opened my eye turned towards it involuntarily, and it was with something like a shudder that I saw it stretch away; its grizzly whiteness contrasted with the deep black shadows of tho forest that hemmed it in so close on every side. I shuddered: and as I did so that sound came again; but louder, shriller, and more piercing than ever. It had a new character now—it sounded hungry. Why does one attach a meaning to sounds? As well ask why the first men began to make words. I could not have told—l cannot explain now—how it was that I recognised that cry as the call of hunger. My first instinct, then, had been right. There was no wail of the northern wind; no swaying of tho frozen branches: it was nature's savage complaint against the pangs of hunger. The sound was by no means a distant one. now. Through the dim recesses .if the dim forest it rose in a long wail—in a long savage cadence it died away amongst the arcades of the frozen pines. Tt was not far off, but it came from beyond the clearing. My eyes peered once more into the grizzly vista of tho glade, and as I looked my sight seemed to grow more clear and piercing. I saw the long stretch of grayish white in the middle—the long black shadows of the eastern forest that chequered it; 1 could even see where, here and there, a ghostly looking stump stood like a pillar clothed in a robe of snow; but beyond this I could see nothing at first. Thank God for that, at least. So far the sound was a sound only—so far it Mas possible that the terrible cry of hunger had nothing to do with me. I turned away once more—l bent to my task again with redoubled energy. The bicycle flew over tho smooth white track, as 1 think few champion riders had ever made one fly before. I had nearly passed the opening—already the track before me was drawing in to its narrow width once more—already the dark shadows of tho trees lay across the path before me as I rushed along: a moment more and I should at least he beyond the risk of being seen. If I were being hunted, I must, in that case, be hunted by scent and not by sight. It was not to be. Involuntarily I turned for one last look. The long oold glade lay, gray and desolato as before, with its livid lights and its ghastly shadows; but just where it readied the forest once more there was something—something that moved—something that stood out against the white ground—something that contrasted straugely with the motionless trees beyond it—wolves! I had known it when that strange sound had swelled into a cry, and the cry had spoken of hunger.' .1 had guessed it then: but the full meaning" of it seemed to come home to me now. For a. moment, ir, seemed to paralyse me; for a moment my brain refused to think. Then sensation came back with a rush. It was life that was at stake, and the stake was one worth playing for. Like a flash Bob's face came before me as I had seen it last. Like a flash his woi-ds came back to me, as if they had been spoken at the moment into my ear—"Jack, mind you hurry up the doctor." I shook "my self together. I was master of myself again. No, please God. Boh shouldn't bo disappointed after all. With that thought iii my mind I leaned forward over the bicycle: with that hope in my mind I plunged into the narrow forest track once more.

Most of us go through our lives without crer knowing the extent of empowers. Talk of records! Nobody ever mado a real, final record for nionev; nobody can make one for fame that couldn't be broken by a far inferior man if his life were afc stake. 1 had known myself for one of the best bicycle riders in military circles in India at a timo when nearly every officer was

a bicycle rider; but T bad -never till that hour known what I could really do. The track was level now—level and bard. There was scarcely a perceivable friction on the silent wheels and they spun round with giddy speed. The bare black trees rose, rank beyond rank, grim sentinels on either side of the track, throwing their dim shadows across the way. They passed me like the figures of some ghostly diorama, flitting by in the half-light like unsubstantial things.

On and on we flew. There wasn't a breath of wind to stir the lightest snow-flake on the thinnest branch, yet my hair was thrown, back from my brow, where great drops of sweat now gathered and trickled down my fa.ee. On, and on! Without a thought, but that of pressing forward; without a hope but that of reaching the edge of the forest, and the downward slope of the. track.

I knew that J was being followed. From the dim arcades of the forest on my right there came from time to time a short, gasping howl, cut short in tho moment of utterance by the exertion of the chase. They had seen me, and now they were in full cry; it was a race, for baro life. I leant forward, and threw all the powers 1 possessed into the one effort, to press on. The trees went by me like ghosts; the hanging branches nearly brushed my face as I swept past; the cold air seemed to blowhalf a gale in my face, and caused my heavy fur coat to stream out behind me. And yet my pursccrs didn't seem to lose ground. On # tho contrary, thev seemed to be gaining. . . . Not quickly, nor with a rush; but gradually, foot by foot with a persistency that was deadly and a monotony that was ghastly beyond expression. I could hear them now. There was a short, fierce panting, a dull scuffle of feet over the hard snow, a rustle and a movement among the frozen trees that' told of bodies rubbing against them as they passed. They were coming! Tho temptation to glanco aside was terrible, but I didn't dare to take nry eyes off the track oven for a moment.' On and on! Faster and faster still-- or so it seemed to my senses—the turning wheel swept past the great black trees, and. yet not taster—not so fast, it seomed., "as the dull, scuffling sound of many feet that came nearer and nearer. I clenched my teeth_; I kept my eyes fixed on that small white line that stretched on and on in front, as if it would never end.

As I sit hero in my quarters 1 seem t-j hear that ghastly sound again. In my dreams I often hear that gasping sob cf savage eagerness close "to me. Closer yet—almost" at my side. Only a sound, indeed, for as yet I could see nothing; but a sound that seemed to express more than any sight—a sound that brought up a hundred images, each more appalling and ghastly than the last. It had seemed hours, though it could hardly have been more- than minutes, since I passed the clearing. and the strain was beginning to tell on rac now. There was a wild buzzing in my head, a weary fooling was growing in my limbs, while a despairing sense of the utter nselcssness of further exertion was gradually paralysing my energies. Did my efforts slacken in answer to the feeling? I cannot tell; only if ib was the case, 1 was unconscious of it at the time. At any rate it was now for the first time that I saw something of my pursuers. There was a shadow on my right—only a shadow, but no longer the shadow of a tree, such as 1. had seen before, This was a head—a long, sharp muzzle—the mouth open, the lower jaw hanging down, the ears erect. It seemed to creep on ! Little by little—an inch, only an inch at a time, but always an inch more. This | shadow became a terror to me. I longed to exchange- its shadowy horror for something substantial; I felt as if anything would be better than tin's creeping spectre. I knew that by turning only a very little I could see him., but I didn't daro to remove my eyes from the track even lor an instant. Horrible as it was, I waited. The shadow crept on inch by inch. A neck was added to the head;' then the shoulders, with a bristle of mane-like hair, .and two long, galloping fore-legs. Then, little by little, the body—and all the time the sobbing breath of the following pack seemed, to fill my ears. At last! The long, straight track had curved to the right, not sharply, but enough to bring me to closer quarters with my untiring pursuer. lu a moment, as 1 pressed the handles and followed the curve of the track, he was upon me. 'ln a moment the shadow had given place to the. substanceWith a long, panting, snarling growl, a huge wolf was at my side. "He was old, for the moonlight shone on his grey mane. His huge mouth was wide open, allowing a row of formidable teeth, and his long red tongue hung from his slavering lips. Two eyes that burned like red-hot coals gleamed from beneath the matted hair that hung over his face. Thero was a look of exhaustion about him which, for the | moment, I think, increased the horror of his appearance. He sprang at me, and I swerved almost involuntarily. His great jaws came together with a snap not an inch from my knee; but his leap- had cost him something in speed, and he had fallen back quite half his length before he recovered himself.

The sight of him had done me good, too. The savage horror that had looked at me out of his eyes was a change from the ghostly horror of his pursuing shadow, and the change roused me. My hand went instinctively to the handle of Boh's revolver, and the touch seemed to reassure me. I drew it from my belt; I weighed it in my hand, so as to grow accustomed to it. I didn't dare turn in my seat, and yet I felt that I must have a shot at the leader of the pack. For a second or two I slackened my pace insensibly, and the huge head crept up once more to my hind, wheel—to my foot.—a little in front of my foot. Once more he was gathering himself togethor for a spring. His hungry, bloodshot eyes were turned towards me _ as" he kept up his long, leaping gallop. The moment had come. Quick as the thought I had fired, lite bullet- struck him; struck him. I think, on the shoulder—and with one fierce snarl which seemed to express pain, disappointment and terror, .all in one, he rolled, over in n heap, almost touching tho hind wheel of my bicycle as he fell. There was a pause hi the chape. For a few seconds my pursuers had abandoned the pursuit. I glanced backwards over my shoulder and saw that they had stopped where their leader had fallen. Beyond this T could see nothing except a confusion of wildly tossing and struggling bodies glistening in the moonlight, "l shuddered, f could fancy that I saw the end of my shadowy pursuer; for a moment I felt pity for my fierce assailant.

It was not a time for sentiment. however. Once moro \ concentrated every energy o?i the effort to increase the distance between myself and my relentless enemies. The resuito was but a short one, after all. Perhaps I was no longer able to keep up my highest .speed ; possibly the wolves had become still more keen since thev had tasted blood—at any rate it seemed but a very few minutes before J could hear again their panting breath and

I the scuffling sound of their racing feet o-n the snow behind me. By a desperate effort I struggled on. My head swam dizzily with my exertions; my brain reeled with the fierce excitement; my limbs grow heavy and benumbed, with the long and desperate strain. I was growing hopeless, too. _ -My limbs seemed to move mechanically while mv eyes shifted nervously from side to side", expecting every moment to see the first glimpse of the heads of my savage enemies. To my surprise nothing c.'imo in sight. The panting of the" wolves seemed even less distinct, and when I listened I could no longer make out the strange ecutfling sound of their hurrying feet in the snow. What did it mean? With a sudden flash of comprehension the explanation broke upon my mind—l had reached the downward, slope at last. I raised my head and looked before me. Yes. T was going down hill at last. I could Rf:e the- forest track, stretching inv down the gentle slope in the white moonlight. 1 could oven see, or fancy I saw, the river with its bridge in the open country beyond. Thank (led! I was on the downward slope. Thank God! There was a hope of escape after all. The descent made itself quickly tc.K. Even on the level I couldn't have kept up the struggle much longer ; but now verv little exertion was required. —except for the fear of growing too stiff, indeed, no exertion at all was needed. Down 'the, lotisr, smooth descent tho machine rushed at a pace that increased with, every moment. live trees, with their long black shadows, *eemed to flv past us in our headlong course. Already the distant lights of Standish twinkled invitingly among their own trees, and seemed to get nearer everv minute. The wolves had been left behind! J ventured a glance over my shoulder, and saw them some distance away—-a moving black_ stain on the whiteness of the snow—distanced, but hot yet discouraged. At last .1 had cleared the long avenue of the forest and felt, with a gasp, as if tho last dark shadow from the pines had been a load lifted from my heart. Onward we swept. On. over the moonlit snow towards the rushing river. And behind me, staunch, unyielding, terrible, came the sobbing pack. I was Hearing the river, which in its headlong course from' the mountains still .defied the winter to chain it in bands of ice. Already I could hear its roar as it hurled itself beneath, the bridge; T could even see the moonbeams sparkle on the giant icicles that overhung the torrent. I looked behind me again. The wolves were following me still, but they were growing exhausted. They were scattered over perhaps a hundred yards, and the nearest of them was at least two hundred yards behind me now. I dashed at the bridge, laden with snow half-way to the parapet, bearded on either hand with wreaths of snow and bristling icicles that overhung the abyss and the rushing black river below. * T had crossed it, and now the ascent began. I bent over the bicycle, and forced my weary limbs to exert themselves once more. The ascent or the bank for fully fifty yards was steep, and the exertion was terrible. 1 seemed to go slower each moment. The perspiration poured from my face, and my legs and ankles burned as if they had been steeped in liquid fire. I clenched my teeth and gripped the handles as if for baro life, while at eacli slow turn of the wheols I seemed, to hear the sobbing of tho j wolves behind me.

At last I did it, and at the top of the slope I turned and looked bohmd me. Tho moonlight shone white on the leader of tho pack as he leapt upon the bridge, followed closely by two others —the rest were scattered, along the track. Not one seemed even now to havo abandoned the chase. I drew Bob's big revolver from my belt once more and rested the barrel on the bicycle. Ab the leader neared; my end of the bridge I firod my second shot. Luck was on my side; I hit him. With a howl he bounded into the air and fell across the parapet. Then he turned over, and I saw his body gleam white' as he plunged into the river below. I didn't wait for more. As he fell I had seen his companions halt, and once more I made ?«i effort to complete my journey. Would they follow me farther? 1 couldn't tell, but at any rate I knew that I was not far from safety now. Tho road was nearly level, and before me, not half a milo away, the lights of the little town gleamed brightly in the frosty air. I found that, in spite of all, I could make an effort still. I could no longer hear anything of the wolves, but yet they might be following me still. Imagination supplied the placo of my duller senses, and I could fancy I heard them as often as I paused to listen. Suddenly a broad stream of light fell across the road. There was a sound of voices that somehow seemed strangely far away. There were figures of men, though they looked like tho men wo see in dreams. My bicycle swept on, but I could control it no longer. Everything swam before my my limbs refused to move; I felt that I was falling—falling, and I was caught in tho strong arm of Bob's friend, I)r Mackenzie. "You, Saville!" he exclaimed. "You, man? What possessed you to attempt a ride like that?" "You. Doctor," I gasped, breathlessly. "You're wanted at our place. Our horses went lame, so I came to fetch you." "The devil von did!" said the Doctor.