that the dying man had raised himself in the bed. "Turn to the Third Act-the First Scene. I enter. Listen now, and tell me what effect this has upon you. Listen! "To be, or not to be, that is the question :- For in that sleep of death what dreams may come. "Why do you stare at me? Keep your eyes on the book and not on me. "For in that sleep of death what dreams may come." Then the man stopped. He murmured these words yet again and again; then, turning to the doctor, he told him what he well knew-that he was dying. "Do you know what would be my dream in that long sleep?" he asked wildly and yet plaintively. "I will tell you. My brother! He would mock at me that I was snapped off in the very moment of my triumph. He would point at me and laugh. I, who had refused to hold out a helping hand to him and exert my influence to better his position. Oh! I couldn't bear that! Harry, Harry, old fellow, if I could only see you again, if I could only ask you to forgive me before it is too late; if 1-Doctor," he cried suddenly "I must see my brother Harry! I must see him! You'll find his address in that desk-send for him. Tell him his brother Clem wants to speak to him, and do at last what he has always refused. There, in that desk." The doctor quietly laid the patient's head upon the pillow. Then he told him that which brought a wild smile of gladness to his pallid face. He laughed at the news. His brother Harry was below waiting even then. When the doctor saw that the man was dying, he had asked the servants if their master had any relations living. They only knew of one-a brother he never saw, a brother who only a few days before had knocked at the door, and had gone away unseen. They knew his address, for he had left it. He had come up to London, hoping against hope that still the great actor would endeavour to get him an engagement. So the doctor telegraphed to him, and he had only just that moment come. "Send him to me-now-at once," the dying man said in a voice now weak. "Tell him, before he comes up, that his brother Clem is longing to see him." The doctor went to the door and called; and when he saw Henry Walford ascending the stairs, he started in surprise. How like these two men were; how wonderfully like! But one, though poverty had lined her story upon his face, looked strong and well, the other man was dying fast. Quietly he entered. "Harry, old fellow," one said, lifting a hand out of bed with a last strength. "Clem! Clem!" the other cried, taking the proffered hand, and putting the other arm around his neck, and lifting his head up. Then the two men kissed each other. "Harry, old boy! I'm dying; I know it. I shall have missed to-night, shan't I? but I've found you. Come nearer to me and listen! Harry, I've been cruel to you-you forgive me?" The other clasped his hand. "No, no; say it! Say, 'I forgive you!'" "Clem, my brother; I forgive you, Clem," Henry Walford said, through his tears. "I shan't be able to talk much, so I must say it quickly. A little water-just wet my lips. Thank you-thank you, old fellow. Now, listen earnestly to me. Come very near. Harry, your chance has come at last-and to-night. You can take it in my stead, for I shan't be here. You know the part? Ah! I thought so-you have played it many times. But mine-mine is a daring plot. There is my fur coat on the back of that chair-put it on. Yes; never mind about letting go my hand-put it on, Harry." Henry Walford did so. "Yes-yes-it is myself. Go down to the theatre to-night. Walk in at the stage door without saying a word. They will touch their hats to you and let you pass. Go to my room-it is the first on the left. Make-up-dress-everything is there. Be in readiness-the orchestra will commence, the curtain will rise, and-and-as-you -step on to the stage, the house will ring with applause. Your chance-hascome-at-last. Thank God-I-your brother, Clem-can give it to you. Harry -Harry, old fellow-Harry-hold my hand -I'm-good-bye-put your arms-round me-Harry-Harry-" The man fell back in his brother's arms -dead! That night the theatre was packed. The stage-door keeper touched his hat to the great actor as he passed through without a word. The prompter's bell rang and the curtain rose. Hamlet entered, and the noise was deafening, and when the curtain fell, he who played the Prince was called again and again. On the morrow the newspapers devoted column after column in eulogising a remarkable performance, " onc that would live in the memory of all who had seen it." Then, when the truth came out, the excitement and curiosity were increased twofold. Clement Walford was ever remembered, Henry Walford from that night was never forgotten. His chance had come at last. IF the millions who are wont to travel by rail, how many are cognisant of the heavy and serious responsibility which rests upon those in charge of the train? Even those who understand it do not give the subject a passing thought; familiarity begets indifference, and the tired traveller arrives at his destination unmindful of possible dangers that have been averted by the skill and cool judgment of the driver, the watchfulness of the guard, and by the signalman's strict attention to duty. These indispensable qualifications have brought him safely to his journey's end, after, perchance, a cruel battle with the elements and other conflicting conditions; but, unconscious of all this, he alights from the train, secures his belongings, and looks upon the whole transaction as a matter of course. Only those who have experienced what I am about to describe can fully realise the nature and extent of this responsibility for the safety of human lives, or conceive how great is the continued mental strain to which those in charge of an "Express " are subjected. Having always entertained a strong desire to indulge in the novel sensation of travelling on the footplate of a locomotive, it may readily be imagined with what feelings. of pleasurable anticipation I awaited the realisation of my wish. One fire October morning I left King's Cross by the 11.45 train as an ordinary passenger to Grantham, armed with an "Engine Pass" for the return journey by the 4.27 p.m. Special Scotch Express. I had selected this particular train and route for two reasons-first, because this Scotch Express (significantly named "The Flying Scotchman ") is believed to be the fastest train in the world; and secondly, because this portion of its long journey from the North is performed at the greatest speed, the distance of 105 miles being accomplished without stopping. The engine that conveys me to Grantham will return with the Scotchman to London. It is known by the Company's servants as "No. 774," and was specially attached to this train in order that I might see what could be accomplished in the matter of speed by this particular class of locomotive. It is technically described as an 8-ft. wheel express passenger engine, and was designed by Mr. Patrick Stirling, the engineer of the Great Northern Railway Company. The first of its class was made in 1869, when there was a prospect of very keen competition for the Scotch traffic, and when speed had to play an important part in the contest. In 1880 one of these engines took a special train with the Lord Mayor from King's Cross to York (a distance of 1881 miles) in a little more than 3 hours, the average speed being nearly 55 miles an hour; and during the so-called "Race to Edinburgh," in the summer of 1888, these engines did very good work, averaging 55 miles per hour. Therefore, engines of this class are principally used for "express" work, the drivers preferring them, to any other. We are timed to reach Grantham at 2.25 p.m., and arrive there punctually to the minute. Here our engine is taken off and shunted into a siding, to await the arrival of the "up" express, the Flying Scotchman, due at 4.22 p.m.; but the two hours' interval does not mean a period of entire rest for the men, for both driver and fireman have important duties to carry out. The former must thoroughly overhaul the engine, examine and lubricate the working parts, while the latter lays in a fresh supply of fuel and water, sufficient for the home journey. When this is satisfactorily accomplished, I introduce myself to the driver as his fellow-traveller to London. A hale, SAMUEL WATSON-DRIVER genial man is Samuel Watson-of medium stature, with iron-grey whiskers, whose ruddy complexion sufficiently indicates that he is none the worse for years of constant exposure to our variable climate. He and his cheerful mate, Harry Collarbone, the fireman, welcome me as, for the first time, I step on the footplate. Here the apparently complicated array of levers, gauges, and pipes attracts my attention, and an explanation of their various uses renders clear what had hitherto been unintelligible to me; then I ask Watson to tell me something about himself, for we learn that the Scotchman will be twenty minutes late, so there is time for a chat. "You want some particulars of my career? Well, sir, I don't know that I have anything important to tell you, for the experience of all engine-drivers is much about the same, although some are unfortunate enough to meet with more accidents than others. I began life as a boy in the lamp-room at Hitchin; then I went into the cleaning-shed at King's Cross, to clean engines at 2s. 6d. a day. After three years I became fireman on a main line passenger train to Peterboro', and in another five years was promoted to the position of driver of a shunting engine in the goods' yard at King's Cross. I was then appointed as driver of local traffic trains, and in due timé became driver of the Cambridge express. During the last five years (on and off) I have worked express trains on the Great Northern main line; but it was my ambition to be driver of the special Scotch express, the fastest train in the world; and during the last twelve months I have been regularly employed in running this very train from London to Grantham and back, three Sundays in four excepted. Only four drivers are engaged for this particular journey. Some drivers don't care for fast running, because they get so much shaking, and the journeys are longer without a stop." I ask Watson whether he has felt any ill effects from so much oscillation. "Well, sir," he replies, with a smile," during my thirty-one years in the Company's service I have only been three weeks on the sick list. I consider it a healthy occupation, providing the constitution is strong and able to stand exposure to all weathers." "What is the worst kind of weather you have to contend with?" I inquire. Fog, sir, is the worst of all. Snow is bad enough, which blocks up the weather 66 "SNOW." glasses, and to see the signals you must. face the blinding storm; but in foggy weather we can't see them until we are on them. We don't depend entirely upon the fog-signals or detonators." In reply to my inquiry whether he had ever been the unfortunate cause of an accident, or ever experienced anything unusually exciting during his twenty-four years' career as driver, Watson says: "I have never been in any accident, such as collisions or running off the track, but I regret to say that it has been my misfortune to be present at seven inquests held over the bodies of persons whom I had unavoidably run over. Some of these were negligent servants of the Company, while others were strangers unlawfully straying on the line. At night it is impossible to see anybody in danger, but in the daytime we keep a sharp look-out, and give a warning whistle when necessary. Only last week I noticed in the distance ahead a small boy mischievously throwing stones at a 'goods' train. He stood in my road, unconscious of danger; I blew the whistle as the train rushed towards him, but he couldn't get away, and fell back on the metals. I knew it was all up with him; and, having quickly stopped the train, I went back to look for the body. I was first on the spot, but only to find that the poor little chap was literally cut to pieces-a horrible sight. We were travelling full speed when the accident occurred, and couldn't pull up in time to save the lad." "Besides these sad cases, have you experienced any sensation of fright from narrow escapes?" "No, sir, except that on thick nights it does give you a bit of a start when you find yourself running with express speed past signals set against you. Then your heart leaps into your mouth, and you put on the brake as quickly as possible. This sort of thing makes you feel queer at the time." Such is the simple record of Watson's life. But a brave heart beats beneath the rugged exterior of such men as he, who are ever ready to do their duty to the public in times of accident, and often risk their very lives for the public good by remaining at their posts when danger is imminent, thereby hoping to avert it. While the train is running the driver's whole soul is in his work, his attention being entirely concentrated upon the engine and the signals ahead. This constant strain upon his faculties during a long journey is excessively great, and he feels acutely the serious responsibility of his position, well knowing that an oversight on his part may cause a terrible disaster. By this time the arrival of the Scotchman is announced, and we steam into the station to be hooked on to the train. With a "Right you are!" from the guard, and a sharp whistle from the engine, off we go on our momentous journey. At Watson's suggestion, I find a convenient post for observation in the corner by the left-hand weather-glass; and, although the view is certainly very much circumscribed, the position is fairly comfortable, being sheltered from wind and smoke, besides which I am out of the way of the men. We are not travelling fast yet, as there is a steady climb of five miles up a steep gradient (or |