Ever since I was old enough to attempt just thinking, I have always had much sympathy for a coward--I suppose because I have been afraid so often myself at moments when heroes are said to feel no trepidation. And do we not all feel keenly with Garshin?--for a man of his temperament, and one finding nothing admirable in war, it must have required genuine courage to go, even while he was repelled and afraid. But this was only one more phase of a contradictory character--as all characters are in whom the inner life and the outer do not coördinate. In “The Signal,” we have a perfectly-wrought short-story with as dramatic a surprise as ever capped a climax. * * * * * While serving in the army, as servant to an officer, the health of Simon Ivanoff had broken down, and all that was left to him was a minor post as linesman on the railway. One day, while walking the tracks, he met for the first time his neighboring linesman, whom he found to be quite repellent in his manner. The simple-minded Simon, however, eventually pressed an acquaintance upon both the linesman, Vassili Stepanich Spiridoff, and his young wife, and found that Vassili had been much embittered by reflecting upon the inequalities of life, and especially those of his own hard position. One day, the traffic inspector came along and forced Vassili to tear up his little garden, merely because he had planted it without permission; and, besides, he reported him for his technical irregularity. Shortly after this, the district chief arrived and showed animosity, evidently founded upon the report against Vassili, and when the man protested, the chief struck him brutally. The next day Simon met Vassili, stick and bundle over his shoulder, and his cheek bound up in a handkerchief. “Where are you off to, Neighbor?” cried Simon. Vassili came close, but was quite pale, white as chalk, and his eyes had a wild look. Almost choking, he muttered, “To the town--to Moscow--to the Head Office.” “Head Office? Ah, you are going, I suppose, to complain. Give it up, Vassili Stepanich. Forget it.” “No, Mate, I will not forget. It is too late. See! He struck me in the face--drew blood. So long as I live, I will not forget.” Simon vainly attempted to dissuade him, and the man at length passed on. On the day following, Simon left his wife at home to meet the six o’clock train, and, taking his knife, started off to the forest to get some reeds out of which to make flutes, which he used to sell for two copecks apiece. As he walked along, he fancied that he heard the clang of iron striking iron. Since there were no repairs going on, he wondered, but as he came out on the fringe of the wood he saw a man squatting on the roadbed, busily engaged in loosening a rail.