Half a mile down the pike, and Jem Smith's curiosity could no longer be restrained.
"Well, if you must know," said Jack, finally, "here's the fatal bullet. It just occurred to me to slip it in my rifle-barrel in the hope that it might do some execution if it came to actual hostilities. Of course it was only a bluff to make them think that your guns were really loaded with ball cartridge, and it worked just that way. Of course, when it broke against his leg, and he felt the ink running down—"
"What are you talking about?" said Jem, impatiently; "and what is this little rubber cap, anyhow?"
"All that's left of a brand-new stylographic pen," answered Jack, mournfully.
[A MYSTERY.]
BY CLARA LOUISE ANGEL.
I know of a dry little, sly little man
Who comes o'er our threshold whenever he can;
Though little, he cares for the sunshine and light;
He haunts our big library when it is night.
When papa is reading his paper with care,
And I'm dozing all snug in the cushioned arm-chair,
When mamma looks up from her sewing—"My dear,
Perhaps you don't know that the sand-man's been here."
Then I hunt round the curtain, on top of the books,
'Neath table and sofa, and all sorts of nooks,
And out on the stairway, and down in the hall;
But I can't find the sly little sand-man at all!