"Hope they'll get through all right, now," he simply said:

"Yes, likely. Two shots don't 'most always go in the same hole." Then he
went to the telegraph instrument. In a few minutes he could have told a
story as wild as a Norse _saga_, but what he said, when Denver had
responded, was only--

_"No. 17, fifty-five minutes late."_




THE MISFORTUNES OF BRO' THOMAS WHEATLEY.

By LINA REDWOOD FAIRFAX.


He is our office-boy and messenger, and, my senior tells me, has been
employed by the firm in this capacity for about thirty years. He is a
negro, about sixty years old, rather short and stout, with a mincing,
noiseless gait, broad African features, beautiful teeth, and small,
round, twinkling eyes, the movements of which are accompanied by little
abrupt, sidewise turns of the head, like a bird. His manner is a curious
mixture of deference and self-importance, his voice a soft, sibilant
whisper, and as he was born and bred in Alexandria, Virginia, it seems
almost superfluous to add that he and the letter "r" are not on speaking
terms.

He has a prominent characteristic, which always attracts attention at