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1 AT EIN I)A RLLENWYll.---

DOW LAIS FOOTBALLERS WALKI…

ROY AI, W ELSIJ "LA DIES'…

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"SOWING THE \r[XI) ,. A] TJIE…

- IIARROUE LIGHTS" AT TIIE…

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I----,-----ITHE TICKET OF-LEAVE…

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I THE TICKET OF-LEAVE MAN, p.r JOHN K. LEYS. Author 9/ The Ih'lioit Square Tragtd> "A Bird 0$ -fy,' The Mi;s'.erif of l.ourfon L'atll* rfv, [ALL RIC.11T3 !t.K!MT<tT.] CHAPTER T. Till rain poured s'.eadilv down, turning the low lying p'orghed land into quagmire, the pasture into rast wet tpciig^ an 1 ibe lanes into canals of muddy water. The two tramps lurched heaTily onwards, the collar* JIf their ragged coats turned up to theirr ears, and "heir hands p:nnged info their trousers pockp's. care- 1el!ll, apparently, of the fact tliati 1 py were wet to the skin. The great patched boots they wore were sodden, aud the water came ou! of t'uein with ererr rep. as if their wearers had been walking in a brook. .As far «s they could see the road stretched before them, hefwesn bs Ies'.bss ijedges. empty and dreary. e«Tf-red with a layer of lijuid mud. And si ill Iris rain came down pitilessly, in a steady windless pour. What" C'rissn^ss "aid one of the tramps to his i fellow, without turning his bead. Wot a bloom in' r; merry Crissmiss you an' me's a 'avin", mtttr. f'h! Crisruiss be olowed, 1 says. J wisii there warn't no •:eh Ibing. It's a blarsted fraud—thai"s what it is. The beef ar.'turkey ain't for you an" me, Bill, nor the Crissmiss airpe i-t-, nntiier. All we're got to do %ith it is to look at the liiings in the shop-windows, and iissen t' the kid* V.Tiui'——" and t' the Lidt V.Tiui'——" And in a voice raucous wi ll chronic bronchitis and many potations, the ne'er-do-well began to screech ¡ out — ¡ AiA the 'erild angtrls »ing which soon degene- rated into a miserab.e parody of the Christmas liymn. His compaaion to.ik no notice of hini whaterer. f This steady refusal to he social at length at-oitled- not. unnaturally—the resent merit (,f the tramp who had teen singing, lie wa* a short, ihick-gf! man, ¡ with • rillainous type of countenance—a Tery ordi- nary specimen of his e'.ass. If erer Joe (itayton had done an honest <i*j s work in his life, outside a work- f hotise or a prison, it must iiave been a rery long time ago. "Call yersfcif a pal!" he exclaimed in a tone of deepest disgust » chap might as well le pal to an old tombstone Better, by for in that case you'd be stuck (1\0:1, in the churchyard—and that's where 1 wish you vras now But • he oilier man took just as little notice of the fe'iiow's alufe tie lie had done of hi" grumbling or of I¡;. ribtM singing. He stalked on without so mueh I as glancing at (he uuioreh little creature at his side; and presently the abuee died away into half articulate HHi'terir^, and finaily into silence. The f ramp who had rrot-Tefc»»poken was a taller th*n the other—a different, kind of man altogether, lie was tali, and walked wit h a stoop, and also with* certain drag of one Ie £ which his keen-sighted com- rade bad long since recognised. It was the gait 'earned from dragging a hea^y fetter—the mark of an «-contioC Yet his face was not of a debused type. It was thin, gaunt indeed, and of a curious grey pale- ( ness. Grey bait# showed at his temples, Wt a close observer could have told that the man was not nearly so old as he looked. Suffering, not time, had won. t%«*e deep lines on his forehead. His eyes were fixed steadfastly 011 ihe ground, and they burned with a light sucii as that one sometimes seas in the eyes of a patient dying of consumption. The only movement he made with his bands was that he occa- sionally a, bundle which he carried under his coat from one arm to the other. After a time the two men came in eight of a Til- luge tying in the Talley beneath them. Close to them was sk gse, opening into tnhort. ttTenue. which led to a larg*, comforiabie-looking dwelling, half manor- house. half farmhouse, which reared its old-world gables at a little distance. Look 'ere. Dummy," said tbe shorter of the tramps. 'tain't no nse our ca'lin'at that. there 'ouse together. I've got the price of a pint an* a bit o' bread an' cheese on me. I'm goin' ahead to the Red Lion, as should be somewhere 'ereabouts; and you ean go up to the farm, an' take yer chance of gettin. a dinner or being kicked off the prewisee, I'm off. You'il find me pi the Red Lion." He Ion, and he had not gone far when the loud Miking of a wlwlr pack of dogs told him that his comrade was wearing the house. A grin came over his dirty'features, aud he chuckled to himself as be walked on. He knew all about the (ioste-in ) fact.here was not a niembH or the (ramping fra- ternity who came that circuit who did not- know that tramps were not welcome at the Manor Farm. This was his expedient for paying out his companion for bis taciturnity, and a' the same time avoiding the necessity of sharing with him his noonday meal, for he knew that the tall man had not a pen»y in hit poekeb chap 1 The doge surrounded the tramp, snarling and growling at him, but-he took no notice of the, and, sirauge to say. they did not touch him. He gaTe one knock at the door, aloodolliere, a wretched object, the raindrops dripping steadily down from the hpim of his battered hat. The door opened and a gentleman-farmer appeared -"11. young man, stout, and well-to-do. Over his shoulder peered his wife, and behind her etood half- j a-doren friends, young men and girls, who were stay- ing at tlle Manor Farm for Christmas, and bad beea kept, indoora all day by tLe weather. AYeary of in- i action I hey were glad eTen of the diversion which the advent of lh- I rAil. p afforded lliern. Lome in oct of the rain, man 1" cried the farmer —some people called him farmer, and touie Squire, since he farmed Lis own land. Come in out of the rain. Down. Rover down, sir. Good heavens, man. how wet you are 1 It's no use a«king you to dry your- self. Yon inn ft be wet to the skin. How far have you come To.th.?" He named a town about a dozen miles off, and M he answered the little group drew a e'ep nearer. He did not speak with the whining voice of an ordinary beggar. 'There was even a note of pride in the man's quiet,measured tones. One of the guests, a merry girl of eighteen, whispered to the iady ef the house, who nodded, and in turn whispered to her husband. He laughed, and shook bis head, but said aloud T.ook here, my man, it's against my principles to relieve tramps, for my experience is that honest men rati always find wor" of one sort or another. How- ever. it'; a bad day to look for work in, no doubt, Ind l'iii wiiliug to mnke a bargain with you. The ladies say Ihev feel certain that- a man like you musts [ bare a story to tell, and if you will promise to tell lis how you come to fall info this wretched plight, I'll give you some dry things and a ^ood dinner, and j te&Te to sit by the kitchen lire while you eat it. ts it a bargai The (ramp did not answer at once. He turned his back upon the little party at the door, so that they could nol see his face, and seemed to be considering within himself what reply be should make. N t,, I ca ii'l tell you my own story," be said in a harsh voice, without I inning round, "an(i besides, it wouldn't be worth litit if 1 tell yon the historv of a man I had for 1.1)1\1 a short lime since, perhaps ituduax well. It's more interesting tban anything else I could teil you. vnd tlltn-tt. true. He turned eharp round as he spoke these last word»» and faced his audience half defiantly. "II" his own story lie means to tell tit." said the girl in an undertone. All right, my man," said the farmer. "Go round to tiie back of th* house, and fl] see that you are attended lo." An hour later the farmer and hit rriende entered the kitchen, where they fouud the tramp seated beside a blazing (ire. He rose and bowed- did not carry his hand to his forehead as an ordinary Hum of his class would have done. The farmer (old him to Bit down, wlJile the farmer's wife and his gnosis clustered round to listen, most IIf thein with an indifferent, half-amused air. as if it was preposterous to suppose that an outcast like J the man I hey saw before them could have any story. whether of hi; own or another's, that could be worth listening 10. Tn a few seconds the tramp began, staring into the tire a.5 he sat, and speaking in a low, clear foice. that tuadf them allliaten to bilu, whether they would or 110. "Id&reMy my pal wouldn't like me to give you hit name, though as likely as not he didn't go under hie true name. We'd best call him Markham. This Mari ham was born and brought up at a country village, and in that Tillage there lived a lad called Thomas Cudlip, and these two were friends. I ai wish you to take particular notice that these two were what yon njightcalt close friends. They went to school together, said their lessons together (for they were in the same class", got licked for the same scrapes, went fishing and birdnesling together, and when they grew up they went up to London and got taken on as clerke at the same house. I daresay Markham wouldn't like the name of that firm to be know ii- perliips he didn't give me the right name. Well call them, if you please, Rowbotham and Ross. They vtere both steady lads, and worked so as to give satisfaction. chap 1 "All went well till one Christmas, which they both S]->ent at home. Jt would have beeu a good thing if one or bolh of theiu bad died before he went down to — to Ciieriton that year. "Among the young folks at Cheriton there were two girls, watires of the place, who had left tome time before to learn to be schoolmistresses at some training college. Markham was in lore with one of them before she went awaT--aT, from the time she was seven or eight years old—so he told me. She was the younger of the two siaters. Her name was --I. think be said it was Winifred. Jane WM the elder, and a good girl she waa, and a pretty girl plough, but nuthing to compare with Winnie. Well, naturally, young Markham, seeing his old sweet- heart, as he thought her, come back more beautiful than before, fell deeper in lore with her than ever and perhaps it wrfSn't much to be wondered at that Tom Cudlip should fall in love with her as well. Only he should have remembered that the girl as good as belonged to another man. chap I Senr mind that. They were outwardly friends. Markham and Cudlip, but'at heart they were bitter rivals and a3 for Winnie, neither of them had dared to speak to her of what was in his heart, so maybe she was not to blame for cach of the young men thinking that she liked biro best. Thelf holiday was but a short one. too short for things to be set right then, and they had to go back to London with the question unsettled. For some time thev both feit that one of tbeui must so down before the other one would be happy, aud 'be other would have fo auffer —and tLe thought prevented them from feeling to each other in tl;e old wsy..But they were a great deal thrown together in business, and by degrees something like the o!rl friendly feeling came ti eiii, 1 1 can't speak for Cudlip, having the s-'oiy from M '.rkhnm. of Nfark- ham's duty to collect the money ow-'ng to the firm from their customers; and Cudlip also bad that kind of work to do FOiuetimes. Among the people Mark- ham had to collect from w: t a nwn called NTolon- Moxon Rnd T,ilp. he called himself. Mc-xon was a customer of Alarkham's employers. He used to pay monthly, but sometimes be would be a month or two in arrear, and Rowbotham and Ross didn't like that, for they had doubts as to bis solvency. [11 general Aloxon's monthly account would be about thirty or forty pounds; but one mouth it wa« more than usual, nearly sixty puur-df. and by the end of the month it. was still outstanding. I t was Markham'* duty lo collect the money, and he bad felt uncomfortable more llian once during the month when he thought of it. But Muion's place of business was a long way out of his round, and he found it next to impossible to call during business hour*. As the next best- tiling, lie nsked Cudiip. who had to pass near Moxon's office once a week, to call and try to collect the money. Suddenly Ollt day. Air. Rowbotham ordered an inspection of the clerks" accounts. It then came ont 'thILt Moxon', account vras outstanding, and payment was demanded from him. The answer was an indignant letter from Moxon, declaring that he had paid the amount by cheque sometime since, and that he held the flrtn'* receipt, as welias the cheque be had given, which bad been paid by his bankers. WltA'i' A (']J)'IST%IAS." ,All. (,-Ng ()Y Till TRA.Mil TO ins rF.r.r.ow. "There was an investigation, and Moxon produced the cheque he had signed, with itoii-br), I-, a it i's firin's sig- nature—forged of course—on the back of it. He also produced Ihe receipt, signed by Markham in the name ef the firm, and ceriainlv taken from the book of re- ceipt forms which was in Mnrkham's possession. It was as clear a case of embezzlement as everwa* heard of, and thai night Msrkham was arrested. "When the trial came on the case against Mark- ham was made yet stronger by fin 'I'Ipert'qulck would be a better name for them-who swerethat be Relieved the forged endorsement a-id the signature on the receipt were in the same handwriting, and that handwriting NlarklifLit,'F. Ani there was another bit of evidence. One of the banknote* which Moxon s bankers had paid over the counter to the person who cashed the cheque—it was an open cheque, and was cached by a stranger—one of the banknotes, I pay, was traced. And who do you think it waa traced to? To Markham's tailor. And the man swore that Markhaui had paid a bill of bis with a fire-pound note two or three day. before he had paid that note Uito kia awn bank, lie had not taken the number of it., tmt there certainly seemed a strong presumplio* that the note was the same that Markham had paid to him the d&Y before. In short, the case looked as black as possible against Markham. He Lad only one hope, and that was that- Cudlip would speak the truth, and acknow- ledge that Markham had begged him to call for the aioney. But it wa? too much to expect, for. you *ee, it Inv yf'irkhviii antI inHc/' hiiiittlf. One of the two must have got, the cheque from Moxon, cashed it, and kept the eizfv pounds. Yes one of the two and Moxon a cashier would not swear which of them he had given the cheque to. All lie would say was that Markham generally came to collect the ac- counts, and that if be had dealt with any one els*, be was sure lie would Lave remembered it. Markham couldn't help suspecting that: this cashier and Lie false friend Cudlip were in collusion. And yet. when Cudlip came into the wit- ness-box, Markham, poor devil, could not help thinking that surely bo would never send LIB old friend to penal servitude when word would laTe him! JJnt that. vv<rd was never spoken. When Cudlip was asked if Markham had not asked him to call for the money--wbic-h no guilty man could be supposed to do—he said lie had: but when be waa asked again whether this was not l-i'lre the date o. the receipt, be said be could not bemre. No; he could not be sure. But he wae sure that he had never called for the money. There lie lied, for be bad himself told Markham that lie had called, and that Moron was ou!. So bis evidence did Markham 110 good -rather it did him harm, for it made the jury think that the prisoner wag trying to throw the blame on his fellow-clerk. The jury found the prisoner guilty, and the judge Ben, t!iiced ti iiii ti) seyeii eai-t, Pervitiide.' 'I,h:lnk of it jiipt i-f it To be half-starred, and vet forced to work under terror of the black hole. To herd with the lowest and the vilest of the earth, except when you arc shut up in a lonesome cell. To be dead to the world, and know that tbe world in dead to you—that y our nearest and dearest may be dead or dying and you know nothing of it —to know that, it vou ever live to come out you will be a marked man. a gaol-bird, a creature no honest man or decent woman will have anything to do with to have your life ruined, and vet be t.) lire it to be driven to wish for death every hour, aud fear death with voiir vi hole soul on account of the despair that is making a hell within you—that is penal *ervitnde. And if it is ali that and more—a hundred time* mor* —for Ihe guilty, think what it mu*t be for the innocent Yet! I -I always understood Markhaia to say that he was innocent. He told me it WHS not un! il after he had b*en con- demned. when lie vtm being led down below to begin tbe living (leutil that awaited him. thai, happening tt9 look round tho court, he caught sight of the white face of his friend, of Cudiip -.and then, for tbe first time, be understood tbe meaning of the whole thing. It wa* not the money Cudlip wanted when he stole the receipt form and the 'he^ue for sixty pounds or. at any rate, not that chielly-. Jt re 8,t Markham cut I'f'hh >1"(1, It was jealousy— cruel, bitter jealousy, that made him bet-ray his friend. "There was one thing thai proved tbi* to If ark- ham's mind when lie came to think over thematterillo j his cold and quiet cell. Who but Cudlip could have i known that the tailor who paid in one of the traced notes was Marklmm's tailor ? If Markham wa* not I guilt-v, if he did rot himself pass the note—and he assured me be did not—some one who meant to iin- plicate him, (liui vho knee fit had hit dot he* from iiiii%f li.,tve laid tl)at trtl) for Iiiii). And if I anything was wanting to complete the proef of Cud lip's" treachery it was that he succeeded in wln- i ning the <rl for whose sake he bad done tlli. foral crime. Ay Markham heard from an old aequaint- 1 ance, who wrote to him unce a year, that he bad been in Cheriton, and bad happened to bear their banns cried in church, i daresay, if he had known what suffering this bit of news caused his friend, he ] would have kept it to himself. But it was only what might have been expected. It would have been bard for°a man i-o sell his soul to the devil, and get nothing for it. w(.uJdrÙ it -There was silence for & moment or two. and then j someone ast.ed: "What did Markham do when br got out of prison ?" Oh. he didn't tell me exactly, but 1 can very well guess. J bavo no doubt he wandered up and down f.ir a time, trying to ge! work; and then, whenever he got a job, and thought, he vras going to linve some 1 res', the police, to whom lie b;»d to report kinitelf regularly, would iook in at his employer'* ejime day I and sav. Do vou know who that is you have work- ing for Jon ? He's a tiekel-of-leave man 1 That is shameful!" cried the mistres* of the bouw. ] But what 1 wonder is, whether he ever met hi* falaa i friend. Did be tell you whether he bid-*een bin* since bis release or not chip J "lie didn't mention it," said the tramp, quietly. I don't gupnose thev have- met. hat would yon do, sir r lie asked. suddenly turning to the farrntr- What would von do if jou were in that man place, and met liim face to face-the man who had con- demned vou to a torment of five vearg and more, and had not only ruined Tour life, but had robbed you of her vou bad loved uiore than life-what would yon do witli liit)i ?"* Well, supposing the story to be true, I thoulaa t like to (rust myself to meet that man," "Oil menn- T mean that T 1 hint it's more than likely that 1 would shoot him at sight.'1 Ali The mau's eye, shone with & steely light, and the lines about his unshaven Jjp. seemed suddenly to harden. "If Markhaui resembles you," said the youif wife to her husband. "I hope he and the man who did him that terrible injury will never meet." I do not think it is likely that they will," said tbe tramp. "If [ remember correctly, Markhap said be had made inquiries, and found that Cudlip bad left that part of the country." 1h t-.ow aiitl prepared to go. A* "e cro<M<< the threshold the girl who had first deeirtd to hsaf bis story followed him, andatiypad into his hand the result of a collection which she had been quietly making among the audience. The man gate her » gratefu] lcok4 aijd then, taking off hie old bat, wfcicil ( To ll < I'll til'VmJ.)

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