refused by Schoonmaker's Magazine, a good story, too, and that
always gives me a sinking feeling--to think that after all these
years I am still on the borderland of failure, and can never be
sure of acceptance, even by the second-class periodicals for which
I write. However, in a day or two, I managed to unload "The Case
against Phillpots" on somebody else, and off I started for the New
Jersey coast with a hundred and fifty dollars in my pocket, and no
end of plans for a long autumn holiday.

I never gave another thought to Grossensteck until one morning, as
I was sitting on the veranda of my boarding-house, the postman
appeared and requested me to sign for a registered package. I
opened it with some trepidation, for I had caught that fateful
name written crosswise in the corner and began at once to
apprehend the worst. I think I have as much assurance as any man,
but it took all I had and more, too, when I unwrapped a gold medal
the thickness and shape of an enormous checker, and deciphered the
following inscription:

Presented to Hugo Dundonald Esquire for having
With signal heroism, gallantry and presence of mind
rescued On the night of June third, 1900
the life of Hermann Grossensteck from
The dark and treacherous waters of the East River.

The thing was as thick as two silver dollars, laid the one on the
other, and gold--solid, ringing, massy gold--all the way through;
and it was associated with a blue satin ribbon, besides, which was
to serve for sporting it on my manly bosom. I set it on the rail
and laughed--laughed till the tears ran down my cheeks--while