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“ I cannot be conventional I" be ex- clalmu‘ frowning a little. “ Ihave my owu Ideas about choice of subject and manner of dealing with in, and I shall adppj the ideas of no other man living." “ But your idea. may not please the public." “ If the public cannot understand me, it is their own loss ” “And. meanwhile, you and those he- longing to you may starve." He is silent. looking down at meâ€"at the girl in the long pale gowu who dares to stand there and call not only his own steadfastness of purpose in question, but the principles of his art. “ Truth must conquer in the end," he says at last. “If it is backed up by deliberate, me- chanical. matter-of-fact toil." “I will work for you, Allie, if you will only give me the chance 1" “Will you work for me. Gerard '2" He bends down and kisses my hair- a quick passionate klss§ , _u_ 3.. ._.._ LA:â€" marry 1 (Ya. nu "‘7 You wuiEaiéy me than. A1119?" “ Yea." a. ‘1 . .._.,.\,_. _, __,, .. u. v “ “ Au ‘nug 31 there is Breath in my body, darling.” “ Then I will tell you what I will do.” I say gravely and deliberately. “ On the day that you sell a. picture for one hun- dred pounds, if you come and ask me to 74 1' _nI __.. 77F“ the sake 1f the hundred pounds, Allie ?”â€"smlling a little; ...._ 7;...â€" He is standing close to me, big arms round me, his dark head lowered against my fair one, our two foolish hearfs full of a foolish dream never to be fulfilled. “Allie 1"thay call to me from the other end of the mom. turning their daz- zled even from the plane and Crauford'n long haired friend to peer into 4 ur aba- dowy space of +wilight “ Allie. come and sing ‘ Galla Water.’ ” “I won't; be long painting that pic- ture I" he exclaima boyisHy. “ My dar- ling, do you know how happy you have madame?" “t‘leo.” »lâ€";1-1.sâ€";e;, Vsmiling back again ; "but because it will prove to me that you have begun to work.” “ " "I AL__ LII]- I)" STRONGER THAN LIFE The sentence may be ambiguous ; but aunt-1 Rosa rings not perceive ft. I wove down the room in my long dress a faint white presence wlth no spot of darker co‘nur about it than the bunch of hellotrnpe fnvsfenerl Into the coil of filmy lace about, the throat. and followed by a darker fiszfire which looks film its shadow in the hint perapec‘ive of the long sha- dowv ram“, And I sit down and a'ne them wifh the catch“ gaiatv, Hm danh and imouciance withom wlfich, O‘lve Danna fans me. I shou‘r‘i not be Allie Scott. But all the time I 9m thinking of two shadowy figures camped agatuat a fa'nt. gold-green sky. ofa atnr Hm!" “ flickarpd. intn red and anger-am,” of a voice that Bad said “ And you WI” marrv me. Allie '4’" and of anoth- er voice that had answered “Yes.” Who can have told annt Rosa anything about him? And whats. state nf mind fie muvt have been in before she would dedde to come up to town '1n zuch a hurry l “ Your aunt has come ” Such is Mary Anna’s greeting to me in the ha.“ of Nov 33, Carleton Street. “ My aunt! What. aunt. ‘2” “Your aunt from the countrv, She came about an hour ago. and was that sur- prisnj *0 find vou had gone out !" think it's the whole of it !" 'he maid-obs" work lays, grinning. “ I‘v's all alone of the (‘mmt who be come. I expect. She says Mrs. Wauchnne deceived her about having no lodgers 131.1: the Mines Pryce " “Aunt Ross 1” I exclaim. in a tom: of the most innocent astonishment. “ Mv dear aunt Ron. I am so sorry you arrived while 1 was out." “So am I.” she says. when abs planted a. cold kiss upon my none. “ I 'not think you came up to London to to evmivqparhies." “Not a thing in the world. She says she wrote to tell you she was coming, and to haw a room ready. because she meant to sfav.” “Bumfih! -And hoiv did you come home 2" “ They sent me home in their carriage â€"they always do.” " I wrote to you yesterday. Is there anything the matter with the postal ar- rangmenta 2" “Not that I know of, aunt Rosa." “ Then am I tn conclude that you never open my letters '2” m“ We want you to wing ‘ Gal‘m Water, Allie. and ‘ Lexie n’ Buchan.” “ But Irv-was wi‘h the Rollesbons, aunt â€"p9:fectly respectgbp peopha, " “Sn she Maya She’s '11 the drawing- room unw, «hing it in the mistreu.” “leing her what '2" I an); stupidly. “ A place of her m'nd. she says: but I _ “ I was in a. hurry this mom‘ngâ€"break- fast was late, and I was afraid of being late at Madame Cronhelm’s. I did glance through your letter ; but I must: have overlooked anything you said about com- “ It seems Mrs. Wauchope has no spare room for me. In these clrcumstsncea-" “ My dear aunt Rosa, you can hsve my room. I wlll sleep here on the sofa, and just run ln there to dress. There is a ‘ “ But what has she cBme for? Is any- thing wrong at home?" “ Meant to flay l” I reheat, thinking of thn unnamed letters of the morning. throu overk 1112 to She says Wauchope' know, as w somebody She says nothing to me about: Mrs. Wauchope’s contraband lodger, but I know, as well as if she had told me, that somebody has been cfliclous enough to write and tell her all about him. I sus- pect Mrs Deane; Pub I ask yunt Rosa. no questions. nor does she volunteer any informaticn tonight. CHAPTER i;c;|;,â€"’Gér;§d Baxter, I will say V'sâ€"(CONTINUED ) dreaaing-roomâ€"â€" Indeed perhaps I had better have a shake-down in the dressing- room. if Mrs Wauchope can [132.111ng 1.1:.” “la-Eh;1:1;anaglngibhow. I dofi’t like that; woman, Rosalie. She has a. moat virulent tongue." “Oh, because you just let her do as she pleases I Have you been burning nothing but Scotch coal since you came up to town?” “I have bad very good fires, auntie.” “I am surprised at; it, then. That coal in the grate in nothlrg but rubbish, though I dare any you are pnyi mg the very high- est. price for it. And the tea. she gave me was execrableâ€"parfectly} xecrable 1” “ She hasoalwaya been civil to me, snub Rosa.” “I've done no such thing. You're com- ing home with me to-morrowâ€"there’s been enough and to much of this folly, and your uncle is very sorry he was ever foolishly persuaded l~ to giving his consent 110 lb.” “ To morrow, aunt Rosa. 1” “Not a day later than to-morrow.” “But don’t you want to see somethlng of London, auntie I?" “I want he the last of lb. I'm only sorry I didn’t know what I know now three weeks ago, and your ridiculous freak would have come to an end a. great deal sooner. How your uncle Todhunte- could ever have agreed ‘0 such an egre- gious place of folly passes my comprehen- sion 1” “I'm not much judge of tea, aunt Rosa," I say yawning. “I hope you've brougfit me up some jam from Woodhay, thong . and some of our own butter." Poor aunt Rosal If she only knew the steed was stolen, how much less clat- ter she would have made in looking the doorl In my heart I confess she is right). I have got into mischief here in London or into what she would consider mlschle'. If I had never come up to Mrs. Wan- chope’s furnished lodgings, I should pro- bably never have met “ That landscape-painter Which did win my heavt from me. ’ “ I cannot, poulny go home bo-morrow, aunt Rosa.” I may, laying asTde my squir- rel-lined cloak and the fan which I have been homing in my hand since I came in- to the rrnm. “ 1 must tell Madame Cron helm that: I am leaving town, and I must say lgood-bye to the Rolleston'a. ' .“FYou ca'n write to them bath. A note will dorjnsb as wen." " 1 511.3“ not write. You can go home to-morrow, and I will follow the next day, if yop do 301: car? to stay ln_LqI}dqn." '“I shall not lewe §0u behind me" Rosnfle.” ;‘ Blitz your uncle sent word by me that you yeyefo come home at once." “ Very well, then ; you must stay til the day after tomorrow." “I shall not go to-morrow,” I repeat ohstiuately : and aunt Rosa. ; knowing me of old, thinks lb better not to press the point. A I mut see my boy again. This is the idea uppermost In my mind. ‘ I cannot go away thhout seeing him ; but; how shall I manage it? 1 may not chance to meet him at. the Rolleatona’ to-morrow ; and, if not. rhall I be forced to go away with- out biiding him good-bye? I knew this evening that our time together would not be long, but I did not dream that it would be so short as this. “ I hope vou won't be very uncomfort- able. aunt Rosa. You won’t find the bah- maftreaa as soft: as your feather-bed at home.” Aunt Rees snlfl‘e. sitting bolt upright in the moat uncnmfortable chair In the room. “I think I will go to bed.” she says “That woman has quite tired me out." I light her bed-room candle with elec- rltv, and precede her into the inner room. A little camp-bed has been put up for me ln the dressing-room ; but, before I go to bed. and after I have helped aunt Rose to unpack her night-garments, I creep back to the dying fire in the drawing- room, and, sitting on the rug. lean my chin on my palms. and think of those two figures in that twilit window, and of a fnolleh promise made only to be broken. But if he comes to me, shall I not say “ Yes "7 If he keeps his share of the agreement. shall I not keep mine 7 A foolish happy smile curves my lips in the dying fire-lightâ€" the lips that he has klee- ed by the light of that great solitary even- ing-star. Yes, I will keep my promise, Gerard. But will you keep yours? “I don't expect; to be comfortable. The who‘s place appears to me matched and gbgbby to a. fiegreei’ I go to Madame Cronheim’e in the morning. and after that to the Roller- tons'. The Rollestonu are sorry I am going awayâ€"Ada eaneclnlly. Mr. Baxter in not at Berkeley Screen, nor does any one mention his name. I come back to luncheon at Carleton Street, though the Rollestons try hard to keep me. and have just finished that long-delayed meal when Mary Anne comes in with a. card in her grimy hand, which she profl'ers to “It is 1161: at all $rebched. I assure you And I have imprnvpd sraatly aince I went to Madame Cronhelm’s." “Who is it ’1" aunt Rosa asks auspi- ciously. “Yes,” I answer, laughing. “My leave is stopped !" n A Gerard Baxter bows, aunt Rosa. inclines her head stifliy, her eyes blazing through her spectacles llke the eyes of her own cat Mnfi‘ when he is vexed. “ The gentleman tip-stairs,” Mary Anne answers, with malicious enjoyment in either squinting eye. “ Who 7” aunt Rosa exclaims, l‘ettiug her knitting fall into her lap in the ex- tremity of her amazement). “ Ask Mr. Baxter to walk in." I may quietly. “ Aunb Rosa. this is my friend Mr. Baxter. Mr. Baxterâ€"Miss Her- nck." “ I was sorry to hear that you were go- ing away. Gerard Baxter says, as he sinks into a. chair beside me. Aunt Rom is rather deaf. Unless we speak in a kind of raised, sustained tone, she can hear very little of what we say ; and I do not think it neceasary to do this â€"-all the time. “ I had a great deal of assurance to ven- ture to call on you, hadn’t 1?" Gerard lays: smllli1:g. " I should have been sorry not; ho have wished you goodâ€"bye." “ Allie, mav I write to you sometimes '2" “Oh, no ; I think not I” I answer but- riedly. “ 1 could not answer your let- ters. ” “ But how am I to live wlhhout either seeing or hearing from you "I " “ You must work,” I say. smilling a little ; but there are tears in my eyes. “ I intend to work. I have been wild enough. Allieâ€"you don’t know how much of the Bohemian there is in meâ€" but the thought of you will steady me, darling ; While I love you I shall hate everything I know you would not like." Something in the admission, frank as it 13, saddens me. In his love for me really great enough to wrrk such a change in him as this? If he fox-gen! me, will he not relapse into his old idle ways. and be sorry, and so despalr of ever doing any good 1 “ Gerard, will you promise to let me know the day that you forget me 7" “ Forget you, Allie l" “ If you do forget me, promise to tell me so at once.” “ I do promise ; but that day will nev- er come, darling. I have never loved afiy woman but. you, Allie, and I never a all." “ Good-bye I” he says. holding out his hand to me. having said good-bye to aunt Rosa. “ It in hard that we can’t have anv batter good-bye than this, Allie. isn’t it. 7" My eyes are full of foolish tears, so full that I am afraid they will flow over and attract aunt Ram's attention. But aunt Rosa. is not lnoklnq at me. “ Good-bye l " I echo mechanically. And so he leaves me. and returns to his studio and, his unfinished pictures while I pack away a few fears into my portmauteauâ€"the first I have shed since I was a child. “ Well. Allie. the more I look at you, the more I think you the' moat extraor- dinarv girl in the world I" “ Extraordinary, Olive ‘1” “ To think you con]A have been Emit-fi- ed with those wretched old rooms in Carl- eton Street when you had such a home as this I" Aunt Rosa glowers upon us. speech- less with wrath and lndignation. What are we whispering about, the foreign- lookinq, shabby. unabashed young man and I 2 We make the conversation more general after this ; Ind in about twenty minutes Gerard gets up to gq. “Happy! Because that boy was there"‘ “ And I was not a bit ohllged to your mother-for bringing aunt Rosa. down up- “ BuL mamma did not like your being ‘ here alone,Allie"' “ What nonsense 1 I am mv mm min- tress. Olive. and can do as I like." “ Not till to-morrow, my dear,” Ollve laughs After to-morrow, you can please yoursalf.” “ And I mean to do it. I assure you.” We are walking from the Vicarage to Woodhayâ€"lt is only a few minutes‘ walk through the wood. It is J une weatherâ€" exqulslte weather ; all my woods are a mystic tangle of green leaf and shadow and golden-drooping sunshlne. all my meadows are blonmy purple, “ alghiug for the scythe.” Between Woodhny and the Vicarage there runs a little rushing brook, and beyond the brook. on my side of it, a hundred feet of Woodland runs up steeply, with a. wealth of (Wet-hanging ferns and tangled foliage throwing their shadow far across the shadowy combo. It is up this southern nlope that we are winding by a steep path overhung with woodland tangle of woodblne nn'l black- berry bramble, with a. thousand tiny ferns and velvet mosses laughan at us from the erevlce of every lichen-spotted rock. “ I was very happy in Carleton Street, 1 answer dreamilv. “Do you ever think of thah boy of yours, Allie '0" Ollve asks, us we climb the wooded steep together, bathed in el- temate streaks of run and shadow. “ Think of him ’1” I repeat lusnely: “ You used to be great friends, you know, though I think you have forgotten hlm. Jack Rolleston used to chaff him about youâ€"Jack bhought he really cared awfully for \ou. Allie, joklug apart." “ J ack Rolleston 1s a great fool, “ Oh. well, I know Jack hasn't much sense 1 But you know that time Jack came down to Brighton for Poppy's wed- ding, he said Gerard Baxter was working himself into skin and bone, and had grown quite steady. and meant to make a. name for himself.” “ J tick Rolleston Olive ! " “ Yes, no you hold me.” I remark care- lessiy, though remembering all about It) at least as well as Olive does. “But he has fallen off since then,” Olive says, shaking her blond head. “ Poor fellow, I think he met with some disap- pointment about his pictureâ€"he was ob- liged to sell it or something, and they onlv gave him eighty for it, whereas Jack said be valued it at over a. hundred, and it would not have been 9. penny too much.” A little share pain runs through mv heart like a knife. This was what I had dreadedâ€"this reaction after possible dis- appnlnfment. “ I am sure you feel sorry for him, Allie.” Olive says, looking at me. “ We used to call him your handsome sweetheart, you knowâ€"poor boy, he used to follow you about like your shadow l ” “ You speak of him as if he were dead. Olive," I say a little sharply. “I am afraid he is going to the bad, and that is worse,” Olive observes sober- CHAPTER VI 1y. “I met Jack Rolleston the other evening. and he told me he hardly ever saw Gerard Baxter now, that he never came to Berkeley street, and that he was afraid he had got into a. very wild set, and was gring down hill as fast as he could.” Olive ‘a preceding me up the sheep path. and has enough to do to maintain her footing, without; turning her head to look at me. I am glad of it. If she had 1301(- ed at me, she must; have noticed the ex- ceeding whiteness of my face. “ 115415 a. great pity; you know," she went onâ€"Olive like: to hear herself talk. “ He is so young, and so remarkably good-looking! Katie Rolleston told me â€"you know she came down to Brlghton the day before I leftâ€"that he passed her in Regent Street the other day, and it quite made her heart: ache to see how shabby he was. She said she would have spoken to him, even in such a seedy coat ; but. he passed by without looking at her. I suppose he knew he was rather a. dis- reputable-looking figure to be seen speak- ing to any lady in the street.” Tumlng from the glimpse of the lawn and canlage‘drlve, seen between the stem: of the walnut-trees, I open a little gate leading into a. long straight walk wall- ed by tall, green, fragrant hedges of box and yew. ” I do not know. Jack knows very little about: him. He says he doesn’t like to seem as if he were prying into his nfl'sirs, and he is such a. proud fellow, Jack says it: would be as much as his life Is worth to oflerhlm a good luncheon abs restaurant and that. he would be sure to guess it was because he looked half-starv- ed.ll “ Well, helonka very thin," Ollve lays, laughing a. little. “ 1 say, Allie, they are Int‘ing up triumphal arches here ; dld you know that ‘5’: “ I heard *hey intended doing it. We will come round by the garden, Olive. I don’t want them to surround us like a swarm of bees." “ Nob to-day. if I can help it. I shall have enough andtoo much of that to-mor- row." Street 2” “ Don’t you mean to let them see you, Allie ’3” “ My dear you talk as if coming of age were a. grievance I” “ It is a nuisance to me, Olive.” “You will tell me that Woodhay is a nuisance to you next 1 " “ Oh, no : I should not care to give up Woodhay 1 " _ u I .hlmld think not 1 Ollve laughs, a! We pass from the cool secluded green walk, through a tall archway cut in the hedge, and find ourselves in a blaza of sunshine and scarlet geranium, and brown velvet: calceolaria, and blue lobelia, and a hundred other radiant blossoms. “ Allie, when are you coming to live here at Woordhayjll “ To live here 1” I repeat abaently, my eyes on the gilded weather-vane which twinkle: like a star on the point: of my quaint red-brick gablea I “ You have done nothing bub echo me since we left the Vicarage! When are you going to take up your abode here in your own manor of Woodhay 7" m:- “ Does he look like that; ’l" I ask in‘in- ltely#diqtrpaspd._ ' V‘TI don't know. Not tlll finale Tod in too old to do duty, probably. He will never leave the Vlgarage till then." “ But can't you live here without your uncle Tod ?" “ By myself, Olive ‘1" “ You could get: lots of nice elderly ladle: to mme and lwe with you." “ I think one would be enough 1" I say, shrugging my shoulders. “Of course I mean oneâ€"ab a time. Why wouldn't» your aunt Rosa come and live with you here 7' Who the Turkomans Are. The Turkomans are a nomadic people occupying Armenia and the centre of Asia Minor, and our knowledge of them has recently been increased by the narra- tive of a Russian traveller, whose book is published In Sb. Petexsburg. Proverbs are a good index 'm the charac- ter of anation, and that of the Tux-ko- mans, by the light of the following say- ings. is certainly {ormidable : It is needless to add that: people wlth such proverbs are not always agreeable neighbors. The Turkomens have no towns worthy of the name. Even Merv, the Queen of the World, as it is called, ls but a. clonglomeratlon of hats, and is more an agricultural district than what we are usually accustomed to call a town. The inhabitants of these townless steppes live in carts, each cart containing a family, and lead a wandering life some- whab like that of our own gypsies. only incomparably more romantic. Their wo- men are industrious, rpoaaesa much more T‘He who has-seized the hilt ofhiu sword does not wait for a pretext." “A mounted Turkomau knows neither father nor mother.” “Where there is a. town there are no Wolves; where there are Turkomana there is [:3 peace. “Na Persian crosses the Atreck, except with a rope rround his _neck." “The Turkoman needs not the shade of trees not: the prqtpcfiion of la._wa." independence than Mohammedan women of other nations, and wear no veils. The men are not; smart in appearance and their national costume does not approach the splendor of the Circmsslan dress, or even that of the Cossacks. Read by a good light). The light should. come from the aide. Do not read when fatigued or when recovering from illness and do pot read while lying down. Rent the eyes occasionally while using them. Read good print, and do not stoop while reading. Use properglaaues, avoid alcohol Bild tobacco, and bake exercise in the open a r. I: 'he a'till lodging in Carleton (TO BE CONTINUED.) The diamond mines of G long been exhausted and at more than a myth. The mines only furnish the world with dis a of second quality, worth about $250 000 per annum. As nearly awry civilized woman even of ordinary means. ham! diamond, and as it is the cherished ambition and determination of every other civilizad woman who has no dia~ monds to obtain one before she dies. any details concerning tho market which in satisfying female luxurv will be ofin‘orpnk Its location is at Kimberly, in South details concerning the market which i;. satisfying female lnxnrv will be ofin‘oreet Its location is at Kimberly, in South Africa, and how extensively this new town is engaged in supplying these glittering adornments for when it is known that in fifteen years it has export- ed diamonds in the rough to the value of $200,000 000 which, with the cost of cutting,“ setting, and selling, represent $500,000,000 taken from the pockets uf consumers. To produce its annual crop the native population of Kimberly is paid over $6,000 000 in wages. A letter in the London Times from the diamond fields gives us some interesting particulars of the business The discovery of these shining gems reminds one of the Indian in Brazil who first found one of them in the roots of a shrub he had pulled up and took home as a play- thing for his children. A Boer girl In 1876 found the first diamond, also in the roots of a tree, and human nature having its weak side in that rude section of the world as well as in London, Paris, and New York, she adorned herself with it and made a sensation among the kraals of Boer society. It did not take long for the news to spread. The great grassy plain where the gem was found was soon covered with prospectors, armed with picks and spades, every man for himself. After the yellow surface soil had been exhausted a blue soil was found which was still richer in diamonds. This blue soil was observed to exist in large circular deposits, which geology soon defined as the remnants of mud volcanoes. A regular community began to centre about the locality. and the original land- owners, private individuals, corporations, and even Governments commenced squabbling over the claims, which at last necessitated the organization of com- panies for mutual defence. and now the whole diamond area is worked by these companies with elaborate machinery. The key~note to the constitution of that group of devoted adherents who have come to be designated as the “ Wolseley gang. ” writes Archibald Forbes in Eng- lish Illustrated Magazine for May, I take to be its completeness for the functions which it has to preform as a composite whole. In each of its constituent elements its compounder,â€"if I may use the ex- pression,â€"-has discerned some specific attribute, of which, when the occasion calls it into requisition, he shall take as- tute and purposeful avail. As a whole, then, it is toms, fares alque rotundus, an engine eflectively adapted to a wide range of potential uses. The individual units of that whole do not strike one as by any means, one and all. men of ex- ceptional general military ability. Some of them, indeed, may be called dull men. But never a one of them but has his spe- ciality. One has a. genius for prompt or- ganiution ; another a rare faculty for ad- ministration. A third has a winning manner and a good address, a fourth is the scout of scouts. You may wonder what Wolseley can see in so-and-so that he has them always with him. Watch events long enough, and time will furnish you with the answer. This man, perhaps of no great account for ordinary purposes, has a strange gift, when there is doubt in regard to some line of action, of de- finingr the right course in a single rugged, trenchant, pithy sentence that carries conviction ; him, one may see, Wolseley keeps just to help him to make up his mind. This other man has seemingly no attribute at all, save inertness, a love for gazing on the Wine when it is red, and the cultivation of strong language. But he too has his gift. Arrange for him a plan of attack, set every trying in order, tell him that all is re idy, and that he may go to work. Then you can discern for what Wolseley has enrolled him in the gang. He draws his sword, he lets a roar out of him fit to wake the dead ; he becomes a veritable gun of battleâ€"a lambert thun- derbolt of war ; he radiates from him the mysterious, irresistible magnetism that inspires men to follow him, aye, to use the rough soldier phrase, “throth hell and out at the farther side.” The deed done, the conqueror wipes and sheathes his sword, mops his forehead, sighs for a big drink, and is conspicuous no more till he shall be wanted again. The World's Diamond nkrket. Running Down a Man-Eating Tiger. A railway survey is being carried on through the North Cachar Hills in Assam and among other difficulties it encounters is the number of man-eating tigers which infest the district. A few weeks ago Mr. Ladder, the assistant engineer, was setting out through the Jungie to work in the early morning with a party of nine men when a tiger suddenly sprang for- ward, seized one of the Goorkhas by the throat, and was off in an instant. Mr. Lodder, armed only with a. haicbet, at Loader, armed onlv ‘ once gave chase. three him, and following 3.101 marked by blood'and once gave chase. three of his men jnined him, and following along the trail, plainly marked by blood'and bits of the man’s clothes, they ran the beast so close that after a mile and a half he was compelled to drop his victim. What was left of the dead body was tied to a bamboo, and the little party pushed back with their burden. Every English sportsman shoots tigers nowadays; but there are probably few who, like Mr. Ladder. have run a men- esting tiger down and robbed him of his prey. Soldiers of Fortune.