“You can tell the cocher the address when you get started. Don’t stop him till you get some way off. Go,” she cried to the man, “down by the Rue Auber—don’t waste a minute. Fly!”
The cocher flicked his horse with the whip, and it started. At the window a pale face appeared, and Celia heard the cry: “But your name, your address? I must send the money back.”
“Never mind that,” cried Celia, “it isn’t mine. It’s conscience money.”
The fiacre rolled down the street, and, plunging into the mêlée of vehicles, wound its way through the press to the Rue Auber. A man standing on the sidewalk drew the stares of the passers-by as he gazed blankly this way and that. A woman quietly picked her way across the carrefour, toward the station where one takes the Vaugirard omnibus.
THE JACK-POT
By Charles Dwight Willard
There were five of us in the party—six, counting Long Tom, the guide. After two days’ hard climbing, which the burros endured with exemplary fortitude, we arrived at the little valley high up in the mountains, through which threaded the trout-stream.
“Jest you all go over into the cabin there and make yourself comf’ble, while I ’tend to gettin’ this stuff unpacked,” said Long Tom; “there ain’t no one there. My pardner, he’s down below.”
“The cabin appears to be two cabins,” said the colonel, as we approached it.
“That is for economy in ridge-poles,” said the doctor; “sleeping apartments on one side and kitchen on the other. In the space between, you keep your fishing-tackle and worms.”