BARMAID'S STEEPLECHASE.

+By C.C. Paltridge.+

The story of an exciting race, incidentally giving one a vivid

glimpse of the humours of an Australian bush meeting in the

'seventies.

I have never been a jockey, but I have ridden races under divers

circumstances, having--as is the case with most of us Australians--put

in a considerable time in the saddle one way and another.

[Illustration: THE AUTHOR, MR. C.C. PALTRIDGE. _From a Photograph._]

My people have been mixed up more or less with racing ever since it

started in our State--two uncles and a cousin have been crack amateurs

over the "big sticks," and my brother and myself have each done his

little bit in the same direction, though never attaining to notice in

the cities. My own riding has been confined principally to obscure bush

meetings, and undertaken on the spur of the moment, generally as a

substitute for an absent or "hocussed" jockey.

This was the case at Orroroo, then a newly-surveyed and only

partially-settled district in the north of South Australia, and

the episode took place at the very first meeting held in that now

prosperous and comparatively populous community.

Let me describe the scene, for probably few readers of this magazine

outside Australia have ever beheld anything like it, though many of the

middle-aged and old men "down under" will slap their thighs and say,

"Jove! I've seen it hundreds of times."

Picture to yourself first of all a wide, undulating plain, dotted here

and there with clumps of needle-bush growing in loose reddish sand,

with lignum and ti-tree not altogether absent, while in the distance

could be seen the mingled greens and blues of the salt-bush and

blue-bush. Beyond that, miles away, was a long semi-circular line of

black--the untouched acacia scrub.

In such a scene as this were gathered, one day in 1877, a small crowd

of two or three hundred men, a sprinkling of women and children, and

a multitude of dogs, while horses of every size, shape, and colour,

from the great draught stallion, brought there to advertise his points

to the new settlers, to the slim, clean-limbed thoroughbred, whose

business was to make the sport, were tied to trees or being led up

and down, awaiting their turn to run. Rogues and vagabonds of every

description were among that small crowd--three-card men, purse-trick

men, and all the lower strata of the criminal class, for in those days

the bush race-meeting was a small goldmine to men for whom the cities

and larger towns had become temporarily too warm.

The course was a circle of about a mile and a quarter in

circumference, marked out by flags on either side, the jumps for the

steeplechase--four sets of three stiff panels of post and rail--being

erected just inside the inner flags. The race consisted of three heats

of one mile each, run at intervals during the day, the riders, of

course, weighing out every time.

I will not detail the events on the flat, from the maidens to the

hurry-scurry; they passed off uneventfully amid the usual good-natured

enthusiasm of a crowd of rough men out for a day's fun.

Just as the saddling-bell--a kerosene tin beaten with a stick--rang for

the first heat of the steeplechase, Brady, the owner of a horse called

Barmaid, came up to my uncle, whom I had accompanied to the meeting,

and hurriedly whispered in his ear.

"Never!" cried my uncle, in amazement. "You don't mean it!"

"It is a fact," said Brady; "he's lying out there in the ti-tree,

absolutely helpless. We nearly shook his teeth out, but he didn't move."

"Hocussed, eh?"

"Yes; and if Lean didn't do it I'm a nigger," snapped Brady. "I told

him not to even speak to him, and yet he goes and actually drinks with

him! Confound him!" he added, viciously, as he thought of his lost

chance, for though the horse Lean owned and was to ride, a big, raking

brown gelding called Pawnbroker, was favourite, Brady's little bay mare

was a clever fencer, and had pace enough to lose his rival on the flat.

The stake, too, was twenty-five pounds, quite a respectable sum for so

small a meeting, and Brady had his mare well backed.

Brady was the local publican, and, I believe, an honest man, while Lean

made his living by going from meeting to meeting with his two horses,

generally winning or losing as best suited his book, stopping at

nothing that would make the game pay. At least, that was his reputation.

"What are you going to do?" asked my uncle, presently.

"I don't know," replied Brady; "unless you----"

"Goodness gracious, man!" interrupted my uncle. "With my leg?" He had

recently broken it, and still needed a short stick to assist him in

walking. "Besides," he added, "I am twelve stone, and you only want

nine six." Suddenly he turned abruptly to me. "Do you want a ride,

Charlie?"

"Ain't he too little?" objected Brady. "And can he ride?"

"He can ride if he's game."

I felt a hot flush spread over my face and alternate thrills of heat

and cold run up and down my body as something like fear gave place to

pleasure. At last, in a voice which, I am afraid, was none too steady,

I said, "I _am_ game."

I was promptly hurried away to a bough "humpy," the only edifice of

any kind on the course, constructed of forked uprights supporting a

dozen short cross-pieces, or rafters, surmounted by green gum-boughs

and ti-tree; this served as a drinking-booth (its chief purpose),

weighing-room, stewards' room, clerk's room, and all the other offices

required on a racecourse. An ordinary steelyard, such as butchers

use, dangled from one of the rafters, to which was fixed a stirrup.

I placed my foot in this, having previously donned a blue and yellow

jacket and cap, and clung on until the clerk of the scales said, "Eight

stone two." With a saddle and bridle weighing twelve pounds I had to

carry six pounds of dead weight, made up partly of lead, in the usual

way, and partly by rolling up a big rug and tying it on to the saddle,

swag-fashion.

"It will help to keep you on, my boy," said my uncle as he fixed it.

The crowd jeered good-temperedly at me as I was led out. "Why don't you

tie him on?" said one.

"Going on the wallaby?" (tramping), inquired another.

As we proceeded to the post, Brady addressed me in low tones. "I don't

want to frighten you, sonny," he said; "but that Lean is a bad lot, so

don't let him be too close to you as you go through the needle-bush.

You'll be out of sight there and he might pull you off; run just ahead

of him if you can, but don't have him alongside. When you are going at

the jumps let her pick her own panel. Give her her head and sit tight;

she won't stop and she won't fall. And win this heat if you can; it's

two out of three, you know." A moment later I was among the half-dozen

starters.

In a few minutes we were off, and I felt my heart come up into my

throat as, leading the field, Barmaid took off at the first jump. Being

practically a child--I was only twelve years old--I had not the hands

of an expert, but I managed to steady her a bit between the fences,

and, giving her her head at each obstacle, I won that heat without

being caught, Pawnbroker being a not very close second. Two of the

others fell, and a third was still declining the first fence when we

finished.

In the second heat I was not permitted to have things so much my

own way. Lean caught me at the first fence, and we rose and landed

together. I tried to get in front of him, but he kept Pawnbroker's head

at the mare's shoulder and came on ever faster as I increased the pace,

and we took the next fence at top speed. Lean had evidently thought

I should funk it and pull off; the rest of the field were hopelessly

behind.

Approaching the next fence, I foolishly steadied the mare and dropped

back to his flank. This just suited him. We were racing at the moment

through a small belt of low ti-tree, only our shoulders being visible

to the crowd. The next jump was in the clear, a few yards from the

bushes, and as we approached it--and while we were still almost

concealed--Lean suddenly crossed right under the mare's nose, almost

turning her off the course and throwing her completely out of her

stride. Before she could recover we were upon the fence. She rose at

it, there was a great crash, and I was thrown forward to her neck,

while she floundered with her nose on the ground. I heard the sound of

a great shout as the crowd cried, with one voice, "She's down!" The

next moment, however, the plucky little mare had recovered herself, and

we were sailing after the big brown as fast as bone and muscle could

carry us. Just over the last jump I caught him again, and, sending the

mare for all she was worth, just failed by a neck to beat him; that

made us heat and heat.

[Illustration: "SHE FLOUNDERED WITH HER NOSE TO THE GROUND."]

I, of course, got a great lecture from my uncle for trying to catch him

after the accident.

"There's another heat, you young duffer," he said; "why didn't you keep

the mare for that?"

"I never thought of it," I told him, truthfully enough. In my

excitement, and being so inexperienced, my only thought had been to get

in first.

The crowd, however, were loud in their praises, patting me on the back,

shaking my hand, and loading me with gifts of fruit and sweets.

When we came out for the third and last heat the sun was near setting,

long shadows stretched over the dry grass, and a cool south-westerly

breeze fanned our faces and blew the scraps of paper in which luncheons

had been wrapped hither and thither among the crowd.

Barmaid had been well rubbed down and a couple of buckets of water

poured over her, so that, barring an ugly mark on her stifle where she

had struck, she looked almost as fresh as paint. She was led up to the

humpy and I weighed out for the last time. Lean was not yet ready, and

while we waited for him a man, more than half-tipsy, staggered up to

the booth, leading his horse with a rein hung over his arm. The animal,

evidently unused to a crowd, hung back, and only by dint of much

persuasion was he at last brought close; then his liquor-soaked owner

hooked the rein over the steelyard on which I had just weighed in and

staggered to the counter for a drink.

The horse, already nervous and fidgety, was almost frightened to death

by the noise of popping corks, breaking glass, and the mingled voices

of the now noisy crowd. Suddenly, without warning, he started back,

gave one, two, three desperate tugs at the rein--and down came the

whole humpy, bringing with it, of course, those who had been sitting on

the roof to enjoy the last heat of the steeplechase!

The bridle of stout plaited greenhide held, and after a few wild

plunges the horse went careering madly away over the plain towards the

acacia scrub, the steelyard still dangling from the rein.

The scene that ensued is entirely beyond me to describe. Beneath

the boughs and rafters of the fallen humpy--kicking, cursing, and

shouting--struggled forty or fifty men, fighting wildly to release

themselves.

"Who the dickens done that?" "Get orf my 'ed, whoever you are!"

"Here, pull us out o' this, somebody!"--all sorts of weird cries and

exclamations floated out from the mix-up, until at last, with many

oaths, they emerged one by one from their captivity.

Meanwhile the crowd, whooping excitedly, were trailing over the plain

in the wake of the flying horse. Talk about "two souls with but a

single thought," here were two hundred in similar case. Their thought,

of course, was the scales, without which the steeplechase could not be

decided.

There were men riding, men running, men in carts, men in buggies, men

with coats and men without, all laughing, cursing, and calling, while

off in front went the runaway. Away they all sailed helter-skelter,

some spreading out to the right and left to head the horse off before

he reached the scrub.

Fortunately for all of us the fugitive's progress was hampered by the

dangling scales, and so he was ultimately turned back, caught, and led

triumphantly to the scene of the wrecked humpy, where the scales were

hung to the bough of a tree, Lean weighed, and all was once more ready

for the final.

There was more than a suspicion among the crowd that Lean had purposely

arranged this little diversion in order that he might go out without

weighing--an obvious advantage to him, I having already weighed.

One thing he had succeeded in doing--delaying the race until the sun

had set and dusk began to fall, making it almost impossible to see

across the course in the open, much less in the needle-bush.

There were, of course, only Barmaid and Pawnbroker to run, and I felt

none too comfortable as Lean pulled his great brown beast up to my side

and looked the mare over. When the flag fell he went away in the lead,

evidently intending to repeat his crossing trick, but I lay back a good

two lengths behind. After the second fence he slackened pace to let me

creep up, but I touched the mare smartly with the whip and shot away

in front. I did this so suddenly that he, holding his horse as he was

at the moment, was some seconds before he could get going again. Then

we both steadied and took the third jump carefully. Between the third

and last fences was the clump of needle-bush, extending for about three

hundred yards. These trees, as I said, grow in a loose reddish sand,

and the going there was very heavy, while the needle-like foliage was

so dense that I knew nothing could be seen of the race from the point

where the people were. As I approached this point I remembered Brady's

words, "Don't let him be too close to you in the needle-bush."

I felt that I had had enough of it all; a three-mile steeplechase is

no joke for a youngster, and it was my first race. Lean, I knew, was a

very bad man, and would not hesitate to settle me. So, determined to

get my ordeal over, I plied my whip, and we literally flew. Pawnbroker,

however, being the stronger horse, gained on me every stride in the

sand, and it was with a gasp of terror that I presently saw his tan

muzzle at my stirrup. "Barmaid! Barmaid!" I cried, as with tiring arm

I coiled the whalebone round her flanks, but still that brown head and

red, expanded nostril crept along her side. Then I felt a hand snatch

at my shoulder. Grasping the rolled blanket on my saddle with one hand,

I turned and lashed fiercely at my opponent's face.

With a curse of fury he swayed in the saddle and his horse dropped a

little back. Next, grasping his whip, he aimed a blow at me with the

handle which would have answered his purpose had it got home, but it

fell just too short, and striking the mare just behind the saddle

simply served to quicken her pace.

He caught me no more. The last fence I took alone, he coming along

steadily some four or five lengths behind. Fearful and excited,

however, I finished, using the whip as though running a dead-heat with

the Evil One himself.

I told my uncle and Brady what had happened, of course, but, as they

said, it was no use complaining; it would only be my word against his.

And so the matter ended, Brady rewarding me for winning the race with a

silver watch and chain.

Lean, under his proper name, afterwards became a notorious racing

swindler, and was warned off most of the principal courses in

Australia. He ended his days, appropriately enough, as lessee of one of

the lowest "pubs" in Broken Hill.

The Greatest Horse-Race on Record.

+By Alan Gordon, of Denver, Colorado, U.S.A.+

A graphic description of a wonderful six-hundred-miles "endurance

race" which took place recently in Wyoming and Colorado, arousing

extraordinary public excitement. The photographs accompanying the

article were furnished by the "Denver Post," under the auspices of

which enterprising newspaper the contest was held and the prizes

awarded.

Some time ago, while in Denver, Colorado, Mr. Homer Davenport, the

famous American cartoonist, made a statement to the effect that the

Arabian steed could travel farther and quicker than any other breed of

horse extant. To this the owners of the _Denver Post_, as patriotic

Westerners, promptly took exception. For hard, steady going, day after

day, they said, the native Western "broncho" could wear the legs off

anything that goes on four feet. This was what the proprietors of the

_Post_ believed, and so strongly did they feel it that they have since

expended nine thousand dollars in instituting an "endurance race,"

which should demonstrate once and for ever the magnificent "staying"

qualities of the broncho.

[Illustration: THE "DENVER POST" SPECIAL ABOUT TO LEAVE FOR THE

STARTING-POINT WITH PRESS REPRESENTATIVES AND COMPETITORS.

_From a Photograph._]

Prizes were offered ranging in value from a thousand to fifty dollars,

and extraordinary public interest was at once manifested in the

contest. The whole West woke up, and entries simply poured in from

Colorado, Wyoming, South Dakota, Utah, and other neighbouring States.

The race was to be over a course five hundred and ninety-five miles

long--from Evanston, Wyoming, to Denver, Colorado, along the famous

old "Overland Trail." The rules governing the contest were few and

simple. Each competitor was to ride from start to finish on one horse.

He was at liberty to go as he pleased and keep on as long as he

pleased, but at regular intervals there were to be "checking stations,"

where veterinary surgeons would examine the horses and rule out any

animal which was not in a fit state to proceed. In this way cruel

overtaxing of the horses' strength--an unpleasant feature of some of

the military long-distance races on the Continent--would be prevented.

For the rest the rider could use his own discretion as to the best way

of covering the six hundred miles of mountain, desert, and rolling

plain that lay between the start and the winning-post.

[Illustration: THE STARTING-POINT OF THE GREAT RACE AT EVANSTON,

WYOMING.

_From a Photograph._]

Evanston is situated in the extreme southwestern part of Wyoming. The

course followed the Union Pacific Railroad across the entire State

to Cheyenne, in the south-east corner, taking roughly the form of

a crescent, and thence dipped southward to Denver. It was a long,

difficult stretch, for it crossed the "Continental Divide" of the Rocky

Mountains and many a dry, sandy desert forsaken of man and beast.

On this occasion, however, few of the riders found it lonesome, for

automobiles followed them in many places, and casual friendly cow

punchers dropped in and rode a few miles here and there for company

with the boys who were entered to prove the supremacy of the broncho.

From Denver a special train was run to Evanston, taking with it the

horses and riders of the section, and picking up others _en route_ at

little stations in Wyoming and Colorado. Some few of the competitors

rode into Evanston on their cow-ponies. Two of these, Workman and

Holman, actually came a distance of four hundred and fifty miles, at

the rate of sixty-five miles a day, riding the same horses that were

entered for the race! Holman, at least, regretted this afterward, as

he admitted that his steed was not so fresh for the start as it should

have been.

The little town of Evanston was hugely excited, and made a carnival out

of the event. There was a big "barbecue" the day before the start, with

races, bull-riding, a parade, and sundry other attractions, and the

town was noisy with the whoops of the gay young fellows who expected to

start out next day on their long, hard trip "down to Denver."

It was early in the morning when the start was made. The twenty-five

contestants were lined up and ready for the pistol-shot before six

o'clock. One of the judges made a short speech to the riders,

cautioning them to ride fair, remember the rules, and do their level

best. Then he stepped back, the pistol cracked, and one of the most

interesting and important races ever run in the West was "on."

[Illustration: THE PARADE BEFORE THE START.

_From a Photograph._]

The only recent long-distance ride worthy of comparison with this

contest was that between Berlin and Vienna, run between officers of

the Austrian and German armies. The distance between these two cities

is about three hundred and sixty miles, and it was covered--over

perfectly level roads--in seventy-two hours by Count Stahremburg, an

Austrian. Second place was secured by Lieutenant Reitzenstein, a German

officer, who took about two hours longer. These horses carried very

light weights, and both of them were put out of commission for life,

one of them falling exhausted at the post and the other dying next day.

It remained to be seen whether the American broncho could outlast the

thoroughbred steeds of the crack European cavalry regiments.

The race was run with several objects in view. One of them was to

determine the value of the native broncho as a cavalry horse for the

United States army; another was to discover how the bronchos compared

with the standard-bred horses entered in the race. In order to make the

data for comparison as complete as possible each horse was thoroughly

examined and its markings and measurements noted. The weight of the

entrants was about nine hundred pounds on the average, though this

varied as much as one hundred and seventy-five pounds each way. The

load they carried was about a hundred and eighty pounds, including the

rider, saddle, and full equipment.

Charles Workman on Teddy took the lead, followed closely by Smith. An

automobile which paced the riders for a few miles came back presently

to report that these two were already opening quite a gap between them

and the rest of the riders. As the day continued the news indicated

that Teddy's long stride was carrying him farther and farther to the

front, Smith galloping a mile or two behind, with Charlie Trew on

Archie hanging to his flanks. Far behind these three came the rest of

the field, scattered over many miles of dusty road.

At Carter, the first checking station, Workman registered at

ten-thirty, no other racer being in sight. He was still alone when he

passed through Church Buttes, though two other riders were looming up

on the distant skyline. At Granger he was still first in and out, Teddy

clipping the miles off one by one like a machine. But Smith was coming

fast from the rear, and at Smith's heels still hung the game little

thoroughbred stallion Archie. It was dark when Workman rode through

Bryan, and by this time Smith had dropped back beaten, but side by side

with Teddy ran Charlie Trew's Archie. By a great spurt the thoroughbred

passed the broncho Teddy and came in to Green River first. Here Trew

registered, having ridden one hundred and twelve miles the first day,

and as he turned away Workman slipped down from the saddle.

"Halloa, Charlie! Beat me in, eh?" he grinned.

"You bet," came the cheerful answer.

"Your Archie hoss is a great little goer, but Teddy will wear him down

to-morrow," commented the other man.

"Mebbe he will, and mebbe he won't," returned Trew, amiably, as he led

his pony to the stable.

Both riders fed, watered, and rubbed down their horses before taking

any refreshment themselves; then they lay down in the stalls and slept

beside their animals till they were awakened before daylight and set

off again. Although he did not know it, Trew had already won the prize

for the longest single day's travel covered in the least time.

[Illustration: WYKERT AND CANTO ENTERING WAMSUTTER, WYOMING.

_From a Photograph._]

The rest of the twenty-five starters were scattered along forty miles

of road to the rear. Most of them slept at Granger the first night,

and one or two dropped out of the race at that point, it being already

plain that their horses were overmatched. Most of the riders, however,

accepted philosophically the fact that Teddy and Archie had so long a

lead.

"It's a long trip to Denver, and I reckon we'll see them boys again

before we drop in there," they told each other cheerfully.

The leaders reached Rock Springs about breakfast time. Teddy was

still jogging along easily with long strides, but Archie was already

labouring a little to hold his own. All along the route were veterinary

surgeons to examine the condition of the horses and put them out of the

race if necessary. Those looking over the couple now were of opinion

that they were setting too hot a pace to last.

"If I were a betting man I would put my money on one of those horses

back with the bunch," said one of the examiners confidently.

The next stretch led to Point of Rocks, over a road which had a good

deal of sand. Teddy's steady trot ploughed right through it, and Archie

had to break into occasional lopes to stay with the big broncho. After

Point of Rocks came more sand, and still more. The Red Desert tried the

horses, for at every step they sank down into the loose, thick sand,

and Archie began to fall back, unable to stand the punishment of the

gruelling pace. At Bitter Creek Workman was riding alone, and he was

still alone when he rode into Wamsutter close on eleven o'clock, having

covered a hundred and ninety-two miles in two days. Considering the

heavy roads, his mount had done wonders. All over Wyoming people threw

up their hats for the local horse when the news was flashed over the

wires that Teddy led by a good many miles. But the veterinaries were

still shaking their heads.

"Too fast! Too fast! Teddy will blow up like the Archie horse," they

predicted, sagely.

It was an hour past noon when Charlie Workman rode into Rawlins next

day, fifty miles nearer the end of his journey. He was followed a few

hours later by "Old Man" Kern, on Dex. Kern was a man over fifty and

the oldest in the race, but as hardy a pioneer as one would meet in a

long day's journey. He was an ex-cow-puncher, ex-sheriff, ex-ranchman,

and what he didn't know about horses was not worth knowing. After Kern

came "Wild Jim" Edwards, a miner, from Diamondville, Wyoming, followed

by Means and McClelland, both of Colorado. Trew was sixth, and after

Trew came Casto, though some of these did not get in till next morning.

Meanwhile Workman and his horse were eighteen miles farther on the

road, in spite of the fact that they had been caught in a driving

sleet storm and had lost the way. He put up for the night at Fort

Steele, having made an average of ninety miles a day, and crossed the

"Continental Divide" of the Rockies into the bargain. It was agreed on

every hand that the wiry little man from Cody had a remarkable animal.

The horse, however, was irritable, ate badly, and appeared to be

nervous.

On the other hand, the steeds of some of the riders in the rear were

still fresh. Jay Bird, Sam, Dex, Sorrel Clipper, Cannonball, and Buck,

ridden respectively by Rolla Means, "Dode" Wykert, Kern, Edwards, Lee,

and Wilcox, all showed up well. A good many were looking for Means's

thoroughbred, Jay Bird, to romp home a winner. Others noticed that

Wykert and Lee, though they were fifty miles behind the pacemaker, came

in each night as fresh as if they had merely been out for an exercise

canter.

[Illustration: WORKMAN, ON HIS POWERFUL HORSE TEDDY, ARRIVING AT

MEDICINE BOW.

_From a Photograph._]

Teddy got as far as Medicine Bow that night, and he was followed two

hours later by "Old Man" Kern on his big bay, Dex. Means and Edwards

also registered at that station for the night. By constant hard riding

three of his competitors had caught the leader after four days' travel,

Teddy having let down very considerably during the day. The rest of

the riders were scattered between that town and Rawlins, a full day's

journey behind. Lee, Wilcox, and Doling were among those close to

Rawlins; Wykert was not far ahead of them; and Casto, on Blue Bell, was

near the front.

From this point the best of the rear-guard began to close in on the

leaders. Steadily the four horses of the vanguard--Teddy, Jay Bird,

Sorrel Clipper, and Dex--pushed forward over the rolling hills towards

the little city of Laramie, and just as steadily those behind jogged

forward in their effort to overhaul them. By nightfall the four were in

Laramie. Soon the horses were groomed, fed, and examined by the judges.

The riders ate their beefsteaks and lay down beside the ponies. Some

time in the small hours after midnight a solitary, dusty traveller rode

into the town and dismounted stiffly from his tired horse. The man was

Wykert and the horse Sam. By long night rides and continual going they

had wiped out the distance between them and the vanguard, and were now

ready to be in at the finish.

[Illustration: WYKERT LEADING INTO CHEYENNE.

_From a Photograph._]

When the riders moved out of Laramie toward Cheyenne the next morning,

there were five of them instead of four. Wykert, with a grin, nodded

greeting to his fellows.

"Mornin', boys."

"Mornin'. Where did you drop from?" asked Kern, nonchalantly.

"Me? Oh, I just happened along to be in at the finish."

"I'll tell them you're coming," laughed Means.

Wykert eyed the horse, Jay Bird, carefully.

"Well, I reckon you'll have to 'phone the news to Denver, then," he

returned, casually.

For Jay Bird, game thoroughbred though he was, showed the effects of

travel very plainly, and though Means might still jest about the

result he was already beginning to suspect that the native bronchos

against which he was pitted would wear him down before the remaining

one hundred and seventy-five miles of the race were covered.

At Granite Canyon "Old Man" Kern and his Dex were in the lead, with

Teddy second, but the five horses kept well bunched, and it was Wykert

who rode first into Cheyenne, the capital of Wyoming, that afternoon.

Eight minutes later Edwards and Workman rode in together. Means and the

thoroughbred were fourth, and the "Old Man" last.

[Illustration: THE SCENE AT THE WINNING-POST, OUTSIDE THE OFFICES OF

THE "DENVER POST." WHEN, AFTER THE SIX-HUNDRED-MILES RACE, WYKERT

AND WORKMAN FINISHED IN A DEAD-HEAT, THE EXCITEMENT OF THE CROWD WAS

INDESCRIBABLE.

_From a Photograph._]

Cheyenne gave the riders a great reception. The Governor of the State,

a former governor, and a retired army general were among those who

went out in automobiles to escort the boys into the city. Everybody

cheered for one or another of the horses, and though the Wyoming ones

were naturally the favourites the Colorado horses got a good round of

applause as well.

It had been the intention of the riders to get a few hours' much-needed

sleep at Cheyenne, but they had scarcely lain down in their stalls

beside the ponies before word came to the others that Workman had

slipped out and was on the road to Denver.

Tired as they were, the others were on their feet in an instant,

slapping on their saddles and making ready to follow. It came cruelly

hard on both mounts and riders, for all of them certainly deserved a

good rest. Instead, they faced a long ride through the night, plodding

on hour after hour in the darkness, persevering doggedly in spite of

fatigue and the craving for sleep. They could not "quit" so long as it

was in their horses to keep on going.

They were now on the final lap, the last hundred miles. The pace was

hot, for each was hoping to wear out the others. Mile after mile they

galloped through the night, the _Denver Post_ automobile at their

heels. At Carr the rest of the five caught up with Workman and Teddy.

After half an hour's rest here two new pacemakers swung out to show the

tired riders the road to Greeley. It was a "Texas jog" at first, then

it quickened to a trot and grew faster, until Dex could no longer keep

the pace. "Old Man" Kern drew to one side.

"It's too fast for me," he said, and let the motor-car pass him.

Jim Edwards was the next to fall back, and after him Rolla Means.

Workman on Teddy and Wykert on Sam were left to fight it out alone.

[Illustration: WORKMAN AND WYKERT, WHO DIVIDED THE FIRST AND SECOND

PRIZES IN THE GREAT "ENDURANCE RACE."

_From a Photograph._]

Three times the big Wyoming horse pulled out in front, but "Dode"

Wykert's roan hung steadily to his heels. Greeley was left behind, and

then Fort Lupton, first one horse and then the other being ahead. At

Brighton they were even, Sam being plainly in the better condition of

the two, but unable to get ahead of Teddy. At last the outskirts of

Denver showed in the distance. Automobiles and horsemen by hundreds had

come out to escort them in. Still the two horses were neck and neck,

and down in the heart of the city, where they passed between two living

walls of excited humanity, they were still abreast. And so, under the

finishing wire, in front of the offices of the _Denver Post_, the two

plucky ponies made their last spurt in the great six-hundred-mile race

with not an inch to choose between them. It had been a dead heat!

The first and second prizes were divided between the two men, but the

"condition prize" of three hundred dollars was awarded to Wykert's Sam

by a unanimous decision of the judges, for there was not the least

doubt that Sam was comparatively fresh, while Teddy was very, very

tired indeed.

Sorrel Clipper, with Edwards up, finished third some five hours later,

and received the two hundred dollars prize. Kern came in shortly

after, and six hours after him Casto, on Blue Bell, crossed the line.

It was nearly twelve hours after this that Lee, on Cannonball, ambled

leisurely down Champa Street and claimed the sixth and last prize.

It was a great race, pluckily run, and every horse that came in for

prize-money was of the broncho breed. Rolla Means's Jay Bird, which

had made so strong a bid for the first place, had given out entirely

about Greeley, some sixty miles from the finish. This was the last of

the standard-bred horses to stay with the leaders. For speed, wind, and

"bottom" the bronchos had come through the test splendidly.

It was a great triumph for the game little broncho. Not pretty to look

at, he is the best in the world for the conditions which prevail on

the plains and in the Rockies. For other surroundings, perhaps, other

types of horse are best, but for rough-and-ready going in all kinds of

weather, with no feed except what it can pick up, the broncho asks odds

of none.

The Promotion of Petroff.

+By Maxime Schottland, Doctor Juris.+

The amazing experience which befell a drunken old Russian

bootmaker. "The events described occurred within my own cognizance

while living in St. Petersburg," writes the author. "The episode

could only have happened in Russia, unless there is any other

country where the military caste is held in such veneration among

civilians."

It was the birthday of Petroff, the bootmaker, and he had been

celebrating it in the customary manner. That is to say, he had consumed

so much of his favourite beverage, vodka, that he had now become

hopelessly and helplessly intoxicated. In fact, so drunk was Petroff

that the proprietor of the St. Petersburg inn where he had been soaking

steadily all the afternoon had just turned him out into the street on

the sufficient grounds that he could neither drink nor purchase any

more liquor.

As poor Petroff staggered from the inhospitable doors of the inn,

accompanied by the jeers of the remaining patrons, he fell into the

arms of a couple of stalwart policemen.

"Lemme go," he protested, as the detaining hands tightened on his

wrists. "I tell you I'm not--hic--drunk! I'm all ri'--shober as a

judge, in fact. I want to go home."

The policemen laughed callously.

"You're going to the station with us," remarked the senior, with a grin

at his comrade. "A night in the cells will cool your head, old man.

Now, then, come along. Go quietly, or it will be the worse for you."

Petroff's legs swayed, and he would have fallen had not his escort, who

were accustomed to dealing with such cases, held him tightly in their

grasp.

The spectacle of the tipsy old man being led through the streets in

custody promptly attracted a crowd, who followed the little procession

at a respectful distance. Petroff turned his bleary eyes upon them, in

the vain hope that they might light upon someone who would soften the

hearts of his captors. Then another thought struck him with a chill

feeling of dismay. If--as seemed certain to be his fate--he were locked

up all night his wife would demand an explanation the next time he saw

her. Mme. Petroff was a bit of a virago, and the drunken old reprobate

had a wholesome terror of what might be in store for him if she got

wind of his misbehaviour.

"Lemme go home," he whimpered. "I've a mosh important engagement--hic!

My wife is waiting for me. It's all ri', I tell you."

The crowd laughed uproariously, as though they had just heard an

excellent joke, while the policemen gave their prisoner a push forward.

Petroff wept bitterly. He was just going to burst into an angry

denunciation upon their conduct, when his attention was attracted by

a couple of officers in military uniform, who strode up to him with

outstretched hands.

"My dear fellow," exclaimed the younger of the two, looking at him in

a puzzled fashion, "what on earth is the meaning of all this? It won't

do, you know. We must take care of you."

Petroff's eyes began to blink, and he pinched himself to make certain

he was not dreaming. But no; everything was quite real. Here were two

of the Czar's officers, whom he had no recollection of ever having seen

before, actually claiming his acquaintance! Wonders would never cease!

It was no time, however, for argument. Evidently the strangers meant

him well, and if they were making a mistake he meant to profit by it.

Shaking the speaker's hand, accordingly, he poured out his wrongs in an

eager torrent.

The brilliant uniforms of the two new-comers had a magic effect upon

Petroff's custodians.

"I beg your Excellency's pardon," said one of them, with a deferential

salute, "but we found this--er--gentleman drunk in the streets, and we

thought it best to take him to the station. May I inquire if you know

him?"

The officer nodded.

"Certainly," he returned. "We know him very well indeed. In fact, he's

a neighbour of ours. I'm afraid he's had too much to drink. We'll take

charge of him, though, and see him safely home. Here's something for

your trouble," he added, slipping a couple of roubles into the other's

hand.

"Please call a cab, and we'll take the professor to his rooms,"

observed the second officer, who had not yet spoken.

Petroff smiled affably. It was much pleasanter to be called a professor

than a drunken old man.

"It's all ri'," he exclaimed, delightedly. "These gentlemen

are--hic--old friends of mine. We'll all go home together--see?"

[Illustration: "'MY DEAR FELLOW', EXCLAIMED THE YOUNGER OF THE TWO,

'WHAT ON EARTH IS THE MEANING OF ALL THIS?'"]

The two policemen, their last doubts dissipated by the promptitude with

which the officers claimed their charge's acquaintance, acquiesced

readily enough. A cab was procured and Petroff and his new-found

friends installed therein, while the coachman was directed to drive to

an address in a fashionable neighbourhood.

As the vehicle started off, Petroff looked at his deliverers with fresh

wonder.

"Where have I met you before?" he murmured. "I don't seem to remember.

Did you ever come to my boot-shop? If so, I mush have been drunk!"

The officer thus addressed shook his head gravely. "We had the honour

of meeting your Excellency when you served in the army."

Petroff looked more puzzled than ever.

"The army?" he repeated. "What do you mean? I'm not a soldier. I'm a

bootmaker."

The two officers exchanged glances.

"I beg your pardon for venturing to contradict you, sir, but the Czar

has just been pleased to promote you to major-general in appreciation

of your distinguished services."

Petroff smiled happily.

"It's the first I've heard of it," he murmured.

"I fancied, sir, that you might have been celebrating the appointment

already," was the grave response. "We shall, however, be honoured if

you will join us in a little refreshment. Our house is close at hand."

"Certainly, my friends. I was going to have a drink when those rude

policemen interfered just now."

As the old man spoke the cab drew up at the door of a handsome

building. The next moment Petroff found himself being ushered into a

beautifully-furnished room. Here the first thing upon which his eyes

fell was a sideboard covered with bottles and glasses.

"How perfectly lovely!" he exclaimed, clasping his hands in ecstasy.

"You don't know how thirsty I am. But what house is this?"

"It is your house, general."

The bootmaker's eyes blinked.

"Who's a general?" he demanded, truculently. "I won't have you make fun

of me."

The senior of the two officers bowed deferentially.

"Your Excellency is pleased to jest. Of course you are a general. As,

however, it is only to-day that you were appointed one, it is quite

possible that the fact has escaped your memory."

Petroff's momentary anger evaporated at the speaker's apologetic tone.

After all, it was much better to be a major-general than a bootmaker,

and he was not going to quarrel with his good fortune.

"I did forget it for the moment," he returned, "but I'll remember it

now. If I'm a major-general, though, I must have something to drink,

eh?"

"Certainly, your Excellency," replied the other, as he uncorked a

bottle of vodka and poured out a brimming glass. Petroff sat sipping it

happily, when the second officer came over to his chair and saluted.

"Will your Excellency be pleased to dress now?" he remarked. "It is

time to get into uniform." Then, without waiting for the old man to

recover from the surprise which this announcement created, he brought

forward a richly ornamented tunic, together with the remaining items of

a general's uniform. Petroff gazed at the clothes in awe; he had never

seen so much magnificence in his life.

As his two companions proceeded to make his toilet for him he could

do nothing but murmur, "I'm a general." At last he had repeated the

statement so often that, in his befuddled condition, he almost came to

believe in it.

"I suppose I am _really_ a general?" he remarked, as his companions

assisted him to buckle on his sword.

"There is no doubt of it, your Excellency," replied the senior. "Let me

introduce myself as Major Romanoff, and my colleague here as Captain

Marckovitch. We have been appointed to act as your adjutants, and shall

be pleased to carry out any orders you may give us."

Petroff laughed delightedly. This was a thousand times better than

being a bootmaker and getting locked up for taking too much vodka.

"Very well, then; if I'm a general I must have another drink," he

declared, stretching out his hand towards the table.

The fiery spirit seemed to touch a chord of memory.

"But what about my wife?" he demanded, suddenly. "Does she know I'm

a--hic--general?"

"Certainly, sir. In fact, she has been trying to find you all day."

Petroff's face paled.

"What does she want?" he gasped.

"Merely to offer your Excellency her congratulations."

Here was a new mystery.

"That's very strange. She never wanted to--hic--congratulate me before."

"But she has only just heard of your promotion, sir."

The look of dismay faded from the old man's countenance, and a placid

smile took its place.

"I must buy her a present," he declared.

"Yes, sir. That is why we are going out. Your wife will have to be

presented at His Majesty's next reception, and you must accordingly

order her some suitable jewels. Captain Marckovitch and I will be very

pleased to conduct you to a firm where you can obtain such diamonds and

other articles as will be necessary."

Petroff gulped down another glass of vodka. Under its stimulus his mind

was working rapidly.

"That's all very well, my friends, but how am I going to get the money

to pay for them? I spent my last rouble in the inn where the policemen

found me."

Major Romanoff nodded.

"We have not yet had time to draw any funds from the Treasury on your

behalf. Everything will be all right by to-morrow, though. In the

meantime my colleague and myself will see that you are supplied with

whatever you may be pleased to order at any shop. As the afternoon is

drawing in, I would propose that we set out for a drive at once in your

carriage."

Petroff rubbed his eyes in amazement. It seemed that surprises would

never cease.

"But I haven't got a carriage," he protested.

"Pardon me," said Captain Marckovitch, "but your Excellency's

establishment includes a carriage and pair. It is already waiting at

the door. Will it please you to make a start just now?"

"All right! I suppose I can't say anything better than that, can I?"

Captain Marckovitch bowed.

"Certainly, that will do admirably. In fact, sir, it's the only thing

you need say while you are with us. Perhaps you will graciously pardon

me if I take this opportunity of once more reminding you that, as

your appointment is so--er--recent, it would perhaps be best if you

permitted yourself to be guided by Major Romanoff and myself."

Petroff wagged his grey head with an air of profound wisdom. "Quite so.

You tell me what to say, and I'll say it."

The senior adjutant bowed gravely.

"I was going to suggest that, sir. We are now all going out together

to make some purchases for your Excellency's wife. While we are in the

different shops it will not be necessary for you to say anything but

'All right' whenever your opinion is asked. You see, sir, your previous

experience has almost entirely been gained on the field of battle. In

fact, you have only just returned from a campaign."

"Have I?" interrupted the old man. "'Pon my word, I don't recollect it

very clearly."

"Your Excellency was wounded in action," observed Captain Marckovitch,

suavely. "Your memory may not return for a day or two. Still, you have

only to say 'All right.'"

"Yes, I can remember that."

There was only time for a parting glass of vodka, and as Petroff

drained the last drop in the bottle all his qualms disappeared. He felt

determined to show the whole of St. Petersburg that he was as fine a

major-general as any that the army of the Czar contained. The whole

way down the stairs and out into the courtyard he kept repeating to

himself, "I'm a general. All right."

A splendidly-appointed carriage was in waiting at the doorway. As the

trio entered it, Major Romanoff gave the liveried coachman the address

of a jewellery establishment in the Nevski Prospect. A few minutes'

drive brought them to the door. The moment they alighted the manager

and his assistants, dazzled by the magnificent equipage and uniforms

of the party, came forward to receive their illustrious patrons with

deferential bows.

Major Romanoff went up to Petroff, who had sunk heavily into a chair.

"Shall I explain your Excellency's wishes to Mr. Gorshine?" he inquired.

The manager rubbed his hands briskly. The unknown patron was an

Excellency, then!

"All right," said Petroff.

"Perhaps I might be permitted to show his Excellency a selection from

my stock," suggested Mr. Gorshine.

"Quite so," said Captain Marckovitch, hastily. "You must, however,

please understand that his Excellency does not wish to spend more than

two hundred thousand roubles this afternoon. The general," he added,

sinking his voice a little, "is not feeling very well, so perhaps you

had better make all the arrangements with Major Romanoff and myself."

Mr. Gorshine nodded comprehendingly.

"I understand perfectly, sir. His Excellency shall not be

inconvenienced at all. Now, what can I have the pleasure of showing

you?"

"His Excellency wishes to buy a diamond tiara and other jewellery for

his wife. He would also like some rings and bracelets. Show us the best

that your stock contains."

The manager beamed with delight, and, hastily unlocking a large safe,

produced tray after tray covered with beautiful gems. The two adjutants

inspected their contents hastily, and put aside the finest for a more

detailed examination.

"How will this suit?" inquired Captain Marckovitch, picking up a

magnificent tiara.

Petroff, who was feeling drowsy after his plentiful consumption of

vodka, pushed it away with a lordly gesture.

"All right," he exclaimed.

"Then his Excellency approves of it?" inquired the delighted manager.

"Certainly, Mr. Gorshine; you have just heard him say so," declared

Major Romanoff. "Pack it up."

"I'm feeling very thirsty," murmured Petroff. "Why doesn't somebody

give me a drink?"

The obsequious jeweller rushed forward.

"Pray allow me to send for refreshments," he begged.

Captain Marckovitch nodded meaningly towards the chair where Petroff

was sitting.

"Perhaps I ought to have told you that the general has a little

weakness," he said. "His Excellency has only lately returned from a hot

climate, and--well--you understand, no doubt."

The jeweller bowed.

"Entirely so, sir," he whispered. "In fact, a brother of mine, who is

also in the army, cannot stand the slightest----"

"Besides," interrupted the adjutant, "we must make every allowance

for so distinguished an officer. Apart from his bravery in action, it

is well known that his kindness of heart, his thoughtfulness, and his

generosity are proverbial. All the presents that he is buying now are

intended for his wife."

"Yes, I'm going to give them to my wife," said Petroff, sharply.

"She'll be so pleased that she'll forgive me. Now bring out some more.

It's all right."

Mr. Gorshine wanted nothing better. Here was a customer who showed a

lordly indifference to price, and who approved of everything set before

him. Clearly a profitable afternoon was in store. Accordingly, he

exerted himself to ransack the shelves and show-cases of their finest

gems. These, after being critically inspected by the two adjutants,

were passed over to their companion, who, for his part, contented

himself with drowsily murmuring "All right."

At last, when goods to the estimated value of two hundred thousand

roubles had been set aside, Major Romanoff declared that enough had

been exhibited.

Mr. Gorshine bowed again. He had done a very fine day's work and

nothing was to be gained by being too greedy.

"Might I venture to inquire his Excellency's name?" he hazarded.

Captain Marckovitch looked at him haughtily.

"I am surprised that you do not recognise the general," he remarked.

"This is his Highness the Prince Savanoff, who has just returned

from special service in the Caucasus. He is at present occupying an

appointment at the Imperial Court."

"That's all right," murmured Petroff.

The jeweller was almost overcome with confusion at the slip he had

made. Not to be familiar with the name of Prince Savanoff--the

illustrious soldier whom all Russia was honouring just then on account

of his distinguished services in the Caucasus--indicated a quite

abysmal ignorance.

"Of course, I recognise his Excellency's name," he protested, humbly.

"I had not, however, seen a photograph of the Prince."

Major Romanoff bent his brows.

"The Prince is as modest as he is brave. On this account he has never

permitted his portrait to appear in the papers."

"Ten thousand apologies," exclaimed the contrite Mr. Gorshine. "And

now, sir, is there anything else I can have the honour of showing you?"

"I will inquire," said the other, as he shook Petroff by the shoulder.

"Is your Highness satisfied with what you have already chosen? If

so, perhaps I had better take the jewels to the palace and let her

Highness, your wife, decide which she will retain. Then, when I return,

you can pay Mr. Gorshine for what she wishes to keep."

"All right," muttered Petroff.

The adjutant turned to the smiling jeweller.

"Very well, then. As time presses, I will start at once. His Excellency

and Captain Marckovitch will remain here to await my return. The

carriage is outside, and I can get to the palace and back in less than

half an hour. Please pack everything up very carefully."

"Certainly, sir. If her Highness would like me to change any of these

ornaments for others I shall be only too pleased to do so. Might I also

beg, sir, that you will use your influence with the Prince to secure me

an appointment as jeweller to the Court? Perhaps his Excellency would

sign my application now?"

The major shrugged his shoulders and glanced at the somnolent Petroff.

"I'm really afraid," he answered, in a low tone, "that his Highness is

scarcely in a condition to sign anything at this moment. Still, I will

remember the matter. I should prefer, however, to speak to the Princess

about it first. After all, these jewels are for her, you know."

"Quite so," was the prompt reply. "I will not detain you any longer."

As he spoke the manager picked up the velvet-lined cases and followed

the adjutant to the carriage. When it disappeared from sight he went

back into the shop, full of delight at the excellent stroke of business

he had accomplished.

"A charming afternoon, your Excellency," he remarked.

Petroff gave vent to a long-drawn-out snore and dropped his head on the

counter.

"The Prince is a little fatigued," observed Captain Marckovitch,

apologetically. "He is not used to buying jewels. Perhaps you will

be good enough to make out your bill, and it can be settled when my

brother adjutant returns with her Excellency's decision."

"Certainly, sir. I will see about it at once."

Withdrawing to the counting-house, Mr. Gorshine spent a pleasant

quarter of an hour totalling up the cost of the various articles

which had been selected on approval. A smile of content spread over

his features as he saw the substantial amount to which it came. Even

if Major Romanoff brought back half the goods there would still be a

handsome profit on the transaction. Certainly, Prince Savanoff was the

sort of customer he would like to see in his shop every day in the week.

Presently he returned and handed the itemized account to the adjutant.

Captain Marckovitch cast a cursory glance over it, and then put it down

with a careless gesture.

"I expected it to be a good deal larger," he said, airily.

Mr. Gorshine began to reproach himself for not having added twenty-five

per cent. to every item. The Prince would have paid it, he felt sure.

However, it was no good wasting time on vain regrets. Accordingly, he

began to speculate what would be the best position in his showroom for

displaying the coveted certificate appointing him Court jeweller. A

quarter of an hour passed in this fashion. Mr. Gorshine looked at the

clock pointedly. The evening was coming on, and it would soon be time

to close the premises for the night.

[Illustration: "'THE PRINCE IS A LITTLE FATIGUED,' OBSERVED CAPTAIN

MARCKOVITCH."]

"Major Romanoff is longer than I expected," observed Captain

Marckovitch, taking out his watch.

"Perhaps he has not found her Excellency at home," suggested the other.

"I dare say you're right. It is quite possible, too, that her

Excellency was out shopping when the major reached the palace. In this

case he will naturally have decided to wait until she returns."

"Oh, naturally," agreed the jeweller.

Another twenty minutes went by. Despite all his efforts to appear at

ease Mr. Gorshine began to feel a little disturbed. Several possible

explanations of the delay occurred to him, the most likely one being

that the Princess might have decided to see the general before making

up her mind.

The adjutant interrupted his train of thought.

"I'm afraid it's not very far off your usual closing time," he remarked.

"We generally close at seven, sir."

The captain glanced at his watch again.

"It is now half-past six. If I start at once I can get to the palace

and back by seven. Would you like me to drive there and explain that

his Highness the Prince wishes her Excellency to make an immediate

decision? Then, if by any chance I find she has not arrived, I will

come back with Major Romanoff and the jewels."

Mr. Gorshine felt almost overwhelmed at such condescension.

"I could not think of troubling you, sir," he protested. "I will send

one of my assistants."

"I'm afraid that won't do," returned the other, with a laugh. "You see,

only an officer of the Guards would be admitted to the palace at this

hour, and as I feel that I ought to relieve your very natural anxiety

I will go myself. By the way, on no account disturb his Excellency

during my absence. It would make him very angry, and he might cancel

his order."

"Certainly not, sir."

"Very well, then, I'll start at once. Be good enough to call a cab with

a fast horse."

Secretly overjoyed at having the matter thus settled, but volubly

protesting his disinclination to trouble his illustrious patron, the

jeweller escorted the captain to the door and saw him into a cab. Then

he returned to the showroom, where a group of assistants, with smiling

faces, were watching the still snoring Petroff. As the manager came up

to his chair he opened his eyes sleepily.

"It's all right," he murmured.

Darkness began to fall. It was too late to expect any more customers.

In fact, the usual closing hour had already gone by and the assistants

were beginning to get restless. Mr. Gorshine went to the doorway a

dozen times and peered out into the street. On each occasion, however,

he returned to his desk in disappointment. There was no sign of either

Major Romanoff or Captain Marckovitch.

"What can have happened to his Excellency's adjutants?" he said. "They

ought to have been back here long ago."

The principal assistant blew his nose thoughtfully.

"It's a long way after closing time, sir. I really think we ought to

awaken his Excellency."

Mr. Gorshine, mindful of Captain Marckovitch's injunction, would not

hear of such a thing.

"On no account," he exclaimed. "If we did so, his Highness would be

certain to cancel the order he has given us."

At the end of another half-hour, however, the jeweller decided that it

would perhaps be better to take his assistant's advice after all. There

was just a possibility, too, that the Prince might catch cold. Besides,

he ought to be back in the palace by this time for dinner. Accordingly

he went up to him deferentially and laid a respectful hand upon his

epauletted shoulder.

"I beg your Excellency's pardon," he said, "but your adjutants have not

yet returned, and we wish to close the establishment now. If you will

graciously permit me, I will see you back to the palace."

"All right," muttered Petroff. "I'm a general."

"Certainly, your Highness; but this is closing time."

The vodka mounted to Petroff's brain, and he began to get angry.

"Go to the devil!" he shouted, rising unsteadily to his feet. "I'm a

general, I tell you. I want a drink. If you don't let me have one I'll

put you all in prison!"

"Oh, pray forgive me!" exclaimed the manager, regretting his boldness.

"I did not mean to inconvenience your Excellency. I merely wished to

point out that it is closing time, and that perhaps you would like to

return home."

A gleam of intelligence crept into Petroff's eyes.

"Yes, I want to go home," he murmured. "I want to see my wife."

"Then pray permit me to escort you. I will send for a carriage at once."

"All right," was the sulky response.

Although the keen night air sweeping up the open street sobered him a

little, Petroff was still somewhat unsteady on his feet. Mr. Gorshine

and a couple of assistants, however, managed to get him into a cab.

"Will your Highness have the goodness to give me the address to which

you wish to be driven?" inquired the manager, deferentially, as he took

the opposite seat.

With some little difficulty Petroff remembered the obscure quarter of

the city in which he lived, and repeated the name and number of the

street. Mr. Gorshine heard the answer in amazement, convinced that

there must be some mistake. His companion, however, showed such an

inclination to become argumentative that he finally decided to humour

him, and they set off for the address indicated.

At the end of half an hour's drive the cab stopped in front of a

squalid-looking house in a mean little side-street, far removed from

the fashionable quarter of the city.

"It's all right," declared Petroff, glancing out of the window. "Here

we are. Don't let my wife get angry with me. Tell her it wasn't my

fault."

The jeweller smiled reassuringly, as the other clung to his arm and led

the way up a steep flight of stairs. At the top floor Petroff stopped

and fumbled with his latch-key.

"Don't wake my wife," he whispered.

As he spoke, however, the door was flung suddenly open, and an elderly

woman, brandishing a stick, rushed out into the passage.

"There you are, then, you wicked old drunkard!" she exclaimed, shrilly.

"I'll give you something for stopping out all this time. See if I

don't!"

"Please don't let her hit me," shrieked Petroff, trying to hide behind

his companion.

"Pardon me, madam, but his Highness is unwell," protested the jeweller,

quite at a loss to account for this extraordinary reception.

Mme. Petroff burst into a peal of derisive laughter.

"Unwell, is he?" she retorted. "He'll be worse presently, I can

promise you!" Then her eyes fell on the magnificent uniform her husband

was wearing.

[Illustration: "'PLEASE DON'T LET HER HIT ME,' SHRIEKED PETROFF, TRYING

TO HIDE BEHIND HIS COMPANION."]

"What drunken freak is this?" she cried. "How dare you dress up as an

officer, you silly old guy?"

Mr. Gorshine's face grew suddenly pale.

"I beg you not to be angry with his Highness," he exclaimed. "His

adjutants, Major Romanoff and Captain Marckovitch, will probably be

here directly."

Mme. Petroff snorted indignantly.

"I believe you're drunk, too. Since when, pray, has my husband been a

Highness? He was Petroff, the bootmaker, this morning."

Mr. Gorshine sank into a chair, overwhelmed with horror.

"What?" he gasped, as soon as he found his breath. "Is not this his

Highness Prince Savanoff, the famous general?"

"The famous fiddlestick," returned the other. "He's no more a Highness,

and a Prince, and a general than you are yourself. He's a rascally,

drunken old bootmaker, who disgraces the name of Petroff."

With the angry woman's shrill laughter ringing in his ears the unhappy

jeweller staggered from the room and rushed down the stairs. He could

think of nothing but the loss he had just sustained. By reporting the

matter to the police at once there was a bare chance that some of the

property might yet be recovered.

The superintendent of police, however, to whom he poured out his story,

could not offer him much encouragement. It was clear that he had been

made the victim of a singularly audacious robbery. The only thing that

the authorities could do was to arrest Petroff as an accomplice. As,

however, there was no evidence to connect him with the theft, he was,

after a week's enforced sobriety, permitted to return to his wife.

This was comforting for Petroff, perhaps, but it was anything but

pleasant for the hapless Mr. Gorshine, who never saw his jewels or the

two "adjutants" again.

[Illustration:

The Humours of a Rectorial Election.

+By "One of the Electors."+]

Some of the customs in vogue at American Universities are startling

enough, but it comes as a surprise to learn that the authorities of

an ancient Scottish foundation, aided and abetted by the police,

countenance such extraordinary doings as are chronicled in this

topical article. The writer describes the Glasgow University

Rectorial Election of 1905, in which he took part as an official of

one of the clubs concerned.

On October 24th of this year the students of Glasgow University

will choose for themselves a new Lord Rector. Already announcements

have appeared in the Press that the candidates are Lord Curzon

(Conservative), Mr. Lloyd George (Liberal), and Mr. Keir Hardie

(Socialist).

Triennially the public reads in some obscure corner in its newspapers

that a Rectorial election is in progress in a Scotch University, that

the fighting is fiercer than ever before, and that damage has been

done amounting to hundreds of pounds. The reader, according to his

viewpoint, either swiftly ejaculates a condemnation of such barbarous

practices or grins as he detects what he takes to be newspaper

exaggerations. The real facts behind all this the general public never

learn; they never realize what a strange anachronism a Rectorial

election is.

Fancy carefully-organized fighting, with a hundred or two hundred young

men on either side, ending in the wrecking of the premises of the

losers--to the breaking down the plaster of the walls and the tearing

up of the floor--all countenanced by staid University authorities and

countenanced, too, by the police department of a municipality that

prides itself on being the most up-to-date in the country! Indeed, the

police not only countenance the business but actually assist by sending

forces of men to the scene of operations to ring round the arena, keep

back the crowd, and often to hold up the electric cars and other street

traffic while the rival parties push the claims of their respective

candidates _vi et armis_! In the exigencies of the campaign, moreover,

many deeds are done with perfect impunity by the students which would

be seriously visited on less favoured mortals--for example, the cutting

through of main water-pipes, carrying the supplies of whole blocks of

buildings.

The good people of Glasgow are, for the most part, not at all inclined

to withdraw this licence. They are, on the contrary, rather proud of

the sacrifices they make in order that old customs may be kept up, and

their complacency and good-humoured tolerance are almost inconceivable

to people of non-University towns.

That the readers of +The Wide World Magazine+ may realize what lies

behind the fragmentary reports which they will find in their newspapers

this month I shall relate what I know of Glasgow Rectorial elections,

and particularly of the last election in November, 1905, in which I was

specially concerned.

In most other Universities in these days the Rectorship is a purely

academic distinction, probably conferred unanimously by the students.

In Glasgow, however, it is still decided on political grounds.

In the University there exist two permanent clubs: the Glasgow

University Conservative Club and the Glasgow University Liberal Club,

the constitutional purpose of each of which is to effect the election

of a Lord Rector of its own political colour.

For three years--since the last election--these clubs have been

scraping money together. The election will cost each side from two to

four hundred pounds, and the size of the fight they put up and their

output of election literature will be on the scale of the funds in

hand. Needless to say, most of the money comes from party sources

and private subscriptions outside the University, but owing to the

extraordinary nature of the campaign no accounts are ever made public.

Like Tammany Hall and other efficient political "machines," a despotism

is absolutely necessary. The entire control of the money is vested in

four, or three, or even two students, and no questions are ever asked

as to the uses to which they think best to put it.

At the beginning of the session preceding the election the presidents

of the clubs, with great secrecy, approach various leading men of

their parties, and finally fix on candidates. In the second half of

the session, about February, the candidates are announced, and soon

afterwards the Conservative and Liberal Rectorial Committees are

formed. These committees are large, numbering, perhaps, fifty in

each, though, as I have said, the actual executives are very small.

Each committee is divided into three sections--the canvassing, the

literature, and the physical force.

The conveners of these sub-committees are busy all through the summer

vacation with preparations for the coming fray, forming their plans,

inventing ruses, and intriguing for various advantages.

The campaign commences in earnest as soon as college reassembles in

the third week of October, and continues in a wild whirl of excitement

for a fortnight, until the day of election. Then all the leading men,

haggard and nearly dead with fatigue and the incessant strain, go to

bed and sleep for twenty-four hours. The day after the election the

'Varsity is as quiet and peaceful as the most select young ladies'

seminary.

This is the invariable course of events. On the particular occasion I

am about to describe--the election of 1905--the candidates announced

in the spring were Lord Linlithgow (Conservative) and Mr. Asquith

(Liberal). The Liberals had lost the last election badly, but the

reaction against the Government gave them high hopes of pulling their

man through on this occasion.

The summer, apart from the publishing of one magazine by the Liberals,

was, as usual, a time of public inaction, but secret preparations.

The clubs rented two large shops--almost next door to one another,

by mutual arrangement--in a street near the University. These were

the "committee rooms," and were practically the head-quarters from

which the fighting was done. They were prepared for occupation by (1)

removing all partitions and throwing the shop itself and the rooms

behind into one large, bare apartment. (2) Taking out all fittings,

even to the fire-grates. (3) Taking out the windows and filling their

place with very massive, buttressed barricades, having loopholes

high up. (4) Leading in special water supplies and fitting hydrants

for hoses. In addition, the cellars are stocked with great cases of

pease-meal, made up into paper packets of convenient size for throwing.

A piano was also placed in each of the committee rooms.

[Illustration: GIBSON STREET, GLASGOW, WHERE BOTH COMMITTEE-ROOMS ARE

INVARIABLY SITUATED--IN THE LAST ELECTION THE CONSERVATIVES USED THE

PREMISES OF THE LAUNDRY SHOWN AT THE RIGHT OF THE PHOTOGRAPH, WHILE THE

INTERNAL ROOMS WERE TWO SHOPS HIGHER UP THE STREET.

_From a Photograph._]

About the 20th of October students rattled back to their Alma Mater

from all parts of the country with an eager lust for the coming fray.

For myself I can solemnly say that the ensuing fortnight was the

happiest time I have ever had. The abandon, the madness of it; the

fiercest possible fighting and raiding, with a minimum of serious

injury; and behind it all, on both sides, the greatest good-humour--all

these are impossible to describe. Only students, I imagine, could fight

such wild, lunatic fights with never a lost temper.

+----------------------------------+

| |

| _The Glasgow University |

| Conservative and Liberal Clubs |

| hereby agree to the following |

| arrangements for the conduct |

| of the Rectorial Election._ |

| |

| * * * * *|

| |

| 1. The Rooms of the Clubs shall |

| be used for Fighting on and |

| after October 25th, with the |

| exceptions hereafter mentioned.|

| |

| 2. Pianos shall be held |

| inviolable. |

| |

| 3. There shall be no Battering |

| Rams used or similar appliances|

| whose use is dangerous. |

| |

| 4. Matriculation and Class |

| Tickets shall not be taken. |

| |

| 5. Fighting shall be with "open |

| doors," i.e., no insuperable |

| obstacles shall be placed in |

| the doorway. |

| |

| 6. Gas fittings shall be |

| inviolable. |

| |

| 7. Canvassers and Canvass |

| Sheets shall be inviolable. |

| |

| 8. The evenings on which |

| Smokers are held by either |

| Club shall be truces. |

| |

| 9. Truces shall exist till |

| half-an-hour after all other |

| meetings. |

| |

| JOSEPH DAVIDSON, |

| _Hon. Secy._, |

| G.U. Conservative Club. |

| |

| J. C. WATSON, |

| _Hon. Secy._, |

| G.U. Liberal Club. |

| |

+----------------------------------+

THE "ARTICLES OF WAR," PUBLISHED BY

BOTH CLUBS IN THESE MAGAZINES.

The atmosphere was something different from the rest of life; it

was like a slice out of the Middle Ages. Up all night and sleeping

during the day, life became for us a complicated mass of plottings

and intrigues, ambushes, wild chases in cabs, men spying on other men

and in turn being shadowed themselves. Last, but by no means least,

there was the unholy but very real joy that comes of the unlicensed

destruction of property. A Rectorial election is the shortest road to

romance in this prosaic modern life that I know of.

The canvass, though very efficient, is comparatively routine work, and

naturally neither particularly novel nor interesting. I shall pass it

over and deal mainly with the fighting. There were four chief features

in the fighting--"painting raids," "regular battles," "magazine

captures," and "bus fights."

At this election some attempt was made for the first time to restrain

and organize the fighting. It was thought that it would be better to

have something in the way of fixed battles by mutual agreement rather

than or in addition to the constant running fight. Consequently truces

were frequently arranged, except at the times fixed on for battles.

These truces, however, were technically held not to inhibit painting

raids.

The front of each of the committee-rooms was, of course, loudly

painted with the party colour--red for the Liberals, blue for the

Conservatives. A painting raid meant stealing out at dead of night,

with paint-buckets and brushes, and daubing the enemy's rooms your own

colour.

Our opponents, however, sometimes received information beforehand

in some mysterious way. The painters would be softly busy, with a

whish-whish of brushes, chuckling to one another, when suddenly,

without a whisper of warning, two deadly streams of water would pour

an irresistible cross-fire from the loopholes and sweep painters,

chairs, and ladders to the ground in a confused, dripping mass. Then

there was much spluttering and vociferation, and, if possible, the

contents of the paint-buckets were made to shoot through the loopholes.

The barricades, however, were invulnerable, and the hoses could not

be withstood. If the enemy are prepared for a painting raid there is

little to do but retire.

In this sort of work it was pretty well give-and-take; both sides

painted and were painted. The raids, however, ceased once the regular

fighting commenced.

This happened a few days later, when the "articles of war," here

reproduced, were published by both clubs in their magazines.

The "open doors" article was new. It came of past experience. If the

massive doors of a committee-room were closed, obviously the only way

of getting at those inside was with axes and heavy rams, with results

and risks, in excited hands, rather more serious than the clubs were

prepared to face. It turned out a wise step, for it had the effect

of making the fights more physical and good-humoured, and in all

probability prevented a great deal of serious injury and wounding.

The article about pianos was, strangely enough, strictly kept. It was

a striking sight at the end of a "wrecking" to see the piano standing

unhurt and immaculate amid a chaos of torn flooring and broken plaster.

The matriculation and class tickets of a student are what make him

eligible to vote, and would cost at least four guineas to replace. To

make war on these would be a shabby way of winning an election.

Though it was the "open season," so to speak, after October 25th very

little fighting was done by the rank and file except at the battles.

The clubs concentrated all their energies on these. The occasions were

arranged beforehand, and there were four altogether.

On the evening of the first battle students arrived in the oldest rags

they could lay hands on. A great crowd of spectators also turned up,

the time of the engagement having leaked out. The crowd was kept back

by a force of policemen. Inside the rooms busy preparations were going

on. Boxes of pease-meal bags were hauled up from the cellar and served

out to all hands--if you were clever you might manage to carry ten of

these most effective missiles. The hoses were fixed up and tested,

while men who were not willing to submit even the worst clothes they

had to the combined effect of pease-meal and water stripped until they

were clad only in the sparsest of underwear.

The Liberals--of whom I may as well confess at once I was one--divided

their force. About two-thirds were detailed for attack, and the

remainder had to stay by the rooms and defend them in case of need.

This boldness was because we had been assured by our scouts that we

were largely in the majority. The Conservatives, realizing their

weakness, only threw perhaps a quarter of their number outside.

A few minutes before the hour the attacking forces lined up opposite

their doors, facing one another. They looked a queer lot, in most

grotesque attire--the first pease-meal bag ready in each man's right

hand, their figures bulging with the remainder. In the rooms the

defending forces were massed at the open doors, while at each loophole

were two men controlling the nozzle of a hose. These waited anxiously,

for the result of the collision of the outside forces determined whose

rooms were to be attacked.

On this occasion, however, there was little doubt. The odds were so

clearly against the Conservatives that, unless they had some stratagem

up their sleeve (which was always very possible), it was decidedly to

be the Liberals' night.

The good-natured and even sympathetic police-inspector in charge capped

the official sanction by consenting to blow his whistle to start us. He

stood, watch in hand, with the whistle between his lips and his eyes on

the minute-hand. Dead silence prevailed all around.

Suddenly the whistle shrilled out, the crowd shouted, and the two

forces rushed at one another, the narrowing space between them netted

with the parabolas of pease-meal bags, which burst like shells where

they struck. The concussion of the adversaries took place somewhere in

the midst of a dense cloud of fine yellow dust. But out of that cloud,

in the direction of the Blue rooms, there emerged a writhing bulk of

men. It was body to body now; there was throwing only on the outskirts.

The Liberals were as three to one, and the Blues were crumpled up and

driven before us. Our advance was irresistible; there was no stand or

halt until they had retreated right into their rooms. In less than

thirty seconds from the whistle we were in the Conservative doorway.

But there we stopped, for all their defence was opposed to us. In that

doorway there was a tight, breathless jam--as severe an experience as I

ever want to have. Our own men from the outside and the Tories from the

back poured in a steady fusillade of pease-meal, of which the doorway

was the focus. The pease-meal bag does not injure, but if it explodes

in the face it fills mouth, nose, ears, and lungs with its nauseous,

choking dust. Here there were hundreds bursting within a few square

feet. The atmosphere was unimaginable.

With eyes tightly shut--one could not see an eighth of an inch if they

were open--jammed off one's feet, and with a roaring in the ears, we

remained there, unable even to think, but possessed with one insensate

idea--to shove, shove, shove, whenever we could get the slightest

purchase.

And presently the hoses were at it. The enemy had brought them away

from the loopholes (where they were useless) and taken them back into

the room. From there they played relentlessly on the jam in the door,

the solid jets striking like rods of iron.

Behind us there were gusts of charging that shook our wedged mass.

Parties of half-a-dozen would run back ten yards and then hurl

themselves in a solid body at the pack. But still the Tories defended

their citadel most pluckily, holding on to the doorway with desperate

tenacity.

But steps were being taken to help us. In the Liberal rooms a small

party of trusted men descended to the cellar. There, by crawling

through holes and breaking down brick partitions, they arrived at

length at the foundations of the block of buildings. Here they

found a network of water-pipes, but to fix on the one which led to

the Conservative rooms was a difficult job. While they were still

hesitating, word came down to them that their men in the street above

were having an awful time with the hoses. A big main pipe was obvious,

and one of the band, equipped with an axe, speedily severed it.

[Illustration: "IN THAT DOORWAY THERE WAS A TIGHT, BREATHLESS JAM."]

Meanwhile, up above, the streams of water were playing splendidly. They

could not break the jam, but they prevented and smashed up any attempt

at organized effort on the outskirts of the attack. Suddenly, however,

they stuttered, leapt out high, and then fell to the merest dribble.

From our packed ranks there rose a muffled growl, which was meant for

a cheer. With the chief obstacle removed--it is wonderful how a hose

deters men--we began steadily to gain.

That terrible jam had lasted for nearly half an hour. The men in the

forefront of the attack had long ago become exhausted, but unlimited

energy came from behind. I felt myself scrape along the wall. Suddenly

the resistance in front gave way and we staggered forward, our mass

opening out like a fan. In another instant we were all inside.

Personally, I was content to lie on the floor in a corner; my eyes

were bloodshot, and my nose bleeding from inhaled pease-meal. But

fresher men set about the wrecking of the premises, and presently I,

too, joined them with zest, while the defeated Conservatives looked on

indifferently or jokingly proffered assistance.

The unsophisticated reader may think there is little to destroy in a

room with bare walls and floor, but we found quite a lot. There was the

woodwork to tear off, the plaster of walls and ceiling to be broken

and poked down. The doors were detached and thrown in the Kelvin, a

very convenient river, along with much other stuff. The gas-pipes for

obvious reasons were inviolable, but much of the water-piping was

destroyed, and in addition two hoses, a large supply of pease-meal, and

a storming platform were captured and transferred to the Liberal rooms.

Thereafter a joint smoking-concert was held in the Liberal rooms, as

being in their present state more comfortable, and both sides had

a very jolly and friendly time, not at all disturbed by a party of

policemen and plumbers, who came round with some strange story of a

burst pipe they had to locate.

Two days later the second fight took place. The Reds were again in a

large majority, and forced the Tory rooms in less than twenty minutes.

Very little had been done in the way of repairing damages, and there

was, consequently, not much scope for the wreckers. Nevertheless,

there were some who were not discouraged, but did their best under the

circumstances. If a barrel of dynamite had been exploded in the rooms

they could not have looked more forlorn and dislocated than they did

after this second visitation.

The third fight took place very late in the evening, because it

followed a Liberal meeting in the St. Andrew's Hall, addressed by Mr.

Lloyd George.

The Conservatives acted on the defensive all through this fight,

and never left their rooms. For over an hour we tried to effect an

entrance, but all in vain. We were baffled by a clever system of

railing, rigged up to lead from each side of the door into the middle

of the room. Almost across this passage was a platform. To enter the

room one had to traverse this nine or ten feet of narrow gangway with

the enemy massed behind the railing on each side, and dead in the face

of a powerful hose which was stationed on the platform and had a clear

sweep down the passage. Moreover, a special, inaccessible water-pipe,

which our underground scouts were unable to discover, had been led into

the building.

It was an impossible task. After many weary efforts we gave it up, and

this fight was declared a draw.

The fourth was the last fight. We had so far had all the advantage. The

enemy's rooms had been twice wrecked; ours were untouched. In this last

fight the Tories made a big effort to equalize, while, for our part, we

were rather slack.

The result was that for the first time they outnumbered us. At the

very start we were swept off our feet and beaten back to our rooms.

Our water supply was cut off, leaving only a feeble trickle, which was

refreshing rather than otherwise. For an hour and a quarter we held

them out; then we broke, and five minutes later the interiors of the

two committee-rooms were as like each other as--well, as they were like

anything.

In addition to these fixed battles there were constantly little

skirmishes in which half-a-dozen or fewer might be engaged on each

side. These mostly centred round attempts to capture the literature of

one party or the other.

The literature was inviolable at the printers' and inviolable when

it was up at college and being distributed, but it was liable to be

seized at any point in transit. The respective printers are, of course,

pledged to secrecy, and, to do them justice, for staid commercial men

they enter into the spirit of the thing with uncommon zest. So much

so, that on one occasion two genuine young Liberals, who had been sent

for some printed matter with insufficient credentials, were suspected

by our wily printers of being Tory spies, and were accordingly decoyed

into a room, locked up for an hour or so, and finally unceremoniously

bundled downstairs.

But, though the firm may be thus zealous, there are always employés in

a large works who are approachable, and, having unstinted money for

bribing, the enemy often get secret information as to when a magazine

may be expected to come out.

During this campaign, however, though there were many exciting cab

chases and encounters, the prize always escaped with its rightful

owners. There was no single delivery of magazines or bills captured

from either side. Once our magazine was only saved by a ruse. Just at

the time of dispatch a party of Tories was observed in waiting. The

convoy was not strong enough to run any risks, and had to use their

wits to save the precious publications. A large number of cabs was

promptly summoned by telephone from the nearest cab office. They all

gathered round the printers' door. Into one of the cabs the magazine

was carried and hidden. All the vehicles then drove off simultaneously

in different directions. Of course, the right cab escaped.

The literature of the campaign, I may mention here, is delightful when

one is "in the know." Unrestrained personalities are bandied backwards

and forwards in elegant Billingsgate with quite remarkable freedom, but

for the most part with perfect good-humour.

[Illustration: GLASGOW UNIVERSITY--IT IS ON THE TERRACE IN FRONT THAT

THE FINAL BATTLE RAGES ON ELECTION DAY.

_From a Photograph._]

The Liberals, being in funds, published eight full magazines during the

campaign, the Conservatives not so many. Only professional journalists

will appreciate the strain on amateurs of putting forth a series of

eight or twelve-paged magazines at intervals of a couple of days.

I have all the magazines before me now. They are full of cleverness

both in writing and caricature, but they are so essentially topical and

personal that it is difficult to make extracts that would be understood

by the non-University reader.

At length the final day of the struggle came round. The election took

place on the first Saturday in November. At an unearthly hour of the

morning parties of Reds and Blues were out pasting their bills all

over the town, on whatever flat surface they could find. These parties

met sometimes, and bills were captured or lost and paste used as an

offensive and defensive weapon.

An hour or two later began the last feature of the campaign--the bus

fights.

Between seven and eight in the morning each club sends anything from

a dozen to twenty buses to outlying parts of the city and to all the

principal railway stations. Nominally, and probably originally, these

buses were meant to collect voters. Now their chief mission is to hunt

and destroy one another.

Each bus is manned by about a dozen men. It carries also a few boxes

of pease-meal, but not many. There is a new weapon to-day, in abundant

rows of cardboard boxes--rotten eggs. Up to the day of election it is

considered bad form to throw anything but pease-meal. But on election

day everything is permitted--soot, red and blue ochre, and, above all,

rotten eggs.

When two hostile buses sight one another--and that is no very rare

occurrence, since they are dispatched to the same districts--the crews

descend and fight in the streets, unless the crew of one bus sees

itself outmanned, when it may fly and be chased at breakneck speed,

to the consternation and dislocation of the regular street traffic.

Otherwise the crews fight in the street until one of the parties is

beaten and forced back into its bus. They must defend this, whip

up the horses, and try to escape. On the other hand, the assailants

endeavour to cover the approach of one of their number who carries a

long sharp knife. It is his business to cut the traces and prevent the

enemy's escape.

[Illustration: "WE SURGED ROUND THE 'FRONT' IN A PERPETUAL RUGBY

'SCRUM.'"]

If they are successful in doing this they put the vanquished bus _hors

de combat_ altogether by cutting the harness to pieces and sending

the grinning driver back to the stables with the horses. The bus on

which I was had the good fortune to win its first fight. The combat

was long and doubtful, and, incidentally, it took place in one of the

busiest streets in Glasgow. All the time it lasted policemen held up

the traffic on either side. When we had finished there were rows of

electric cars packed behind one another, up the street and down; half

Glasgow seemed to be waiting patiently while a score of young men

exchanged hostilities.

When the battle was over we gave the policemen a hand to drag the

dismantled bus of our enemy up a side-street. After that we were

joined by a crew of Liberals who had been dispossessed in a similar

manner. Thus brought to double strength, we soon scored another easy

victory. Then we had a long stern chase after a fugitive bus. It ended

fruitlessly, because we were overloaded.

Finally we made our way to the University, where polling was in

progress all the forenoon.

[Illustration: THE MAIN ENTRANCE TO GLASGOW UNIVERSITY--FROM THE

BALCONY ABOVE THE RESULT OF THE POLL IS DECLARED.

_From a photograph._]

A pease-mealy, egg-plastered crowd we were, as we surged round the

"Front" in a perpetual Rugby "scrum." The game here was to get

possession of the doors and pass only your own men in. The Liberals

succeeded in doing this for a time, but out came the Clerk of Senate

and announced that unless the formation were broken the election would

cease. As we had only sporting reasons for this policy--we knew we were

going to win; the canvass had shown that--we dropped it, and, apart

from a few local centres of disturbance, and the perpetual pease-meal,

soot, and rotten eggs, we became quite pastorally happy and peaceful.

The election goes by a majority of "nations." There are four of these

nations--Glottiana, Rothesiana, Transforthiana, and Loudoniana.

Every student belongs to and votes in one of these, according to his

birthplace. Thus it is possible for a majority of votes to lose the

election if they happened to be massed in one nation.

The result is announced about one o'clock from the balcony. The "Front"

is packed with buses and carriages swarming with students. Long rows of

hansoms contain the "Q.M.'s"--our girl students. They vote as well, but

at their own college. I have not said anything about them during the

campaign because all they do is to canvass and make rosettes.

Presently the white-bearded figure appeared on the balcony. For five

minutes it was hopeless for him to attempt to speak. Then his lips

moved and his beard wagged, and instantly there began a gradual,

slow-swelling yell of terrific volume. Those near who had heard his

words shouted them to those far off: "Asquith is in in four nations!"

Then the buses careered wildly round the town for an hour or two and

the good folk of Glasgow grinned tolerantly, as is their way. Last of

all we went home. It was finished, and we were dying for a long, long

sleep.

In conclusion, for those who wish to follow the Rectorial campaign

at present in progress in Glasgow, I would point out that by a

rearrangement which has just come into force the session now begins on

October 9th, and the election will take place on October 24th, instead

of in November as heretofore.

[Illustration:

The Adventures of "Wide World" Artists.

+By J. Sydney Boot.+]

It has always been our rule, in order to obtain accurate pictures,

to entrust the illustration of our stories only to artists who have

actually visited or lived in the various countries referred to, and

are consequently familiar with the conditions of life prevailing

there. The result of this custom is that our artistic staff is

composed of men who have travelled extensively, roughing it in

many remote parts of the world. In the course of their journeyings

our illustrators have themselves met with exciting and unusual

experiences, some of the most interesting of which are here given,

each artist depicting his own adventure.