Athos wiped his blade. There were tears upon it as well as blood. “Where is Porthos?” he inquired. Aramis stamped furiously and pointed to the bar. Porthos was drinking bottled beer at the expense of the Haymarket Porthos. “Traitor!” gasped Aramis. “Not so!” said Athos sadly; “he teaches us a lesson. Had we done likewise these good men would not lie where they do.” “Had Monsieur Tree offered me anything to drink----” said D’Artagnan thoughtfully. But at the same moment Grimaud pulled at the sleeve of Athos, and said a few hasty words in the deaf and dumb alphabet of the fingers. “We are surrounded,” said Athos quietly. “Fifty policemen stand between us and safety.” “Porthos!” shouted all the others. “Monsieur Porthos!” cried Mousqueton and Grimaud. The giant drained a third bottle, then, shaking hands with his impersonator, returned to the stage. “Forward!” cried D’Artagnan. An illumination, in some respects resembling summer lightning, flashed along their blades, and police constables fell before them, mowed down like the grass of the field. A groan of despair rattled in the dying throats of 29 B, 44 D, 83 X, 221 Z, and 339 T. Porthos had spitted them like a row of larks on a skewer! The stage-door keeper was the last to fall. Behind them the roar of a maddened audience, deprived of half its money’s worth, sounded like the cry of fiends. They gained the air at last. Their horses awaited them, each with a lackey at the stirrup. “We have done our duty,” said Aramis. “Only half of it,” answered D’Artagnan. “What next?” inquired Athos. “No more blood, my dear D’Artagnan.” “The ‘Garrick,’” answered the young Gascon, his eyes aflame. Porthos laughed joyously. “This beer of England is good,” he said. THE GAME OF LIFE In the spirit I saw a strange pastime not long ago; but I did not know or guess the nature of the entertainment. At first it seemed no more than a big cricket-match, with all the world looking on and humanity playing against its enemies. But as I looked again, I perceived that the audience was a thing of shadows, a mighty, misty crowd of ghosts--those who had played each their innings, and now watched the Game of Life and the living play it. ’Twas a single-wicket game, and a mighty balcony overlooked the field of play. Recording Angels scored, Time umpired, Death bowled tirelessly and unchanged through the ages occupied by the Game of Life; but the fielders moved and came and went like a demon-dance. Vile red and black things were they, the very outcome of delirium as it seemed; and now one rose into hideous prominence, and Cholera or Small-pox snapped ten thousand players, and sent men, women, children to the shades; and now another showed deadly activity, as War or Sudden Death made havoc with the batsmen. A hideous crew they were, all tentacles and hydra-heads; they thronged the earth and the air around each player, and no stroke seemed safely out of their reach.