In this they were successful, and the two poor misguided wretches were soon screaming and clawing like cats on the floor. The men and women, howling and jibbering, formed a ring about this couple of unsexed beings. When the men were fighting the desire of every man in the room was to assist in parting them, but when two members of that sex, who are supposed to arouse in man all that is self-sacrificing and gallant, came to disgrace their claim to womanhood, these wolves not only stood by, but cheered them on to worse and worse shame.

“Come, my men,” said a spectator, thinking to appeal to the better nature of some of the beings present, “stop this disgraceful scene.”

But he was taken hold of and hurled against the wall with oaths. Bound not to witness what he could not remedy he made his way outside with a lower opinion of humanity than ever he had in his life before.

“I tell you,” said a friend the other day after the conclusion of the six days walk, “a man has more endurance than any animal.”

“Yes,” said the spectator of the McQuarry dance, “and he can be more brutal and more ferocious.”

CHAPTER XXI.
DOWN AT THE UNION STATION.

I never could understand what attracts people to the railway station. Go there when you will, morning, noon, or night, there are the same or similar lollers on the waiting-room benches, the careworn women, the crying children, the same sleepy-looking men, not forgetting the half-devoured buns, the rinds of oranges, and the peanut shells which litter the floor. Buns, oranges and peanuts, seem to have many admirers among those who go away in trains. Motion is the law of life, and nowhere does this universal decree of nature find a more striking exposition than at the railway station. I have seen many partings there, many warm handshakes, many tears, as I have seen many joyous meetings. I have seen men depart, with as much baggage as would fill an express wagon, depart amid the cheers of their friends, and I have seen the same men return poor in health and pocket, without a hand to welcome them or a cheery word to make them glad. I have seen men sneak up to the ticket-seller, purchase second-class tickets,

HIDE THEMSELVES

away in second-class cars, and go away unobserved. And I have seen the same men come back in a parlor car, rich in raiment and with many smiling, cringing friends to meet them. The railway station is the place to study people, from the tramp who rides in astride of the draw-heads of a freight, to the gentleman who occupies a section in the rearmost Pullman; from that bride over there surrounded by gushing, kissing, hugging friends, to that other party following long black box as it is wheeled away along the platform. The other night when I was there I saw a great, rough, but still kind-faced man sitting by the radiator, holding a sleeping child in his arms. She was wrapped in a red cloak, the close-fitting hood of which could not confine two tiny straggling curls. It was little Red Riding Hood taken from the picture, and in the grasp of a shaggy bear. With her head nestled upon the broad breast of the man and supported by a large, powerful-looking hairy hand, she looked out of place. Oh, where did such a man get such a child? He