“Down come my pictures from the walls of my apartments on the second floor; into my trunks go my books and souvenirs; my clothes are hastily collected, some half-washed, some from the clothes-line half-dry, and after a couple of hours of hasty hard work my portmanteaus are strapped up and labelled for Paris. “The express train leaves Madrid for Hendaye at 3 P. M. I have yet time to say farewell to my friends. I have one at No. 6 Calle Goya, fourth floor, who happens to be a contributor to several London dailies. He has several children in whom I have taken a warm interest. Little Charlie and Willie are fast friends of mine; they love to hear of my adventures, and it has been a pleasure to me to talk to them. But now I must say farewell. “Then I have friends at the American Legation whose conversation I admire. There has come a sudden ending of it all. ‘I hope you will write to us. We shall always be glad to hear of your welfare.’ How often have I not during my feverish life as a flying journalist heard the very same words, and how often have I not suffered the same pang at parting from friends just as warm as these. “But a journalist in my position must needs suffer. Like a gladiator in the arena, he must be prepared for the combat. Any flinching, any cowardice, and he is lost. The gladiator meets the sword that is sharpened for his bosom--the flying journalist or roving correspondent meets the command that may send him to his doom. To the battle or the banquet it is ever the same--‘Get ready and go.’ “At 3 P. M. I was on my way, and being obliged to stop at Bayonne a few hours, did not arrive at Paris until the following night. I went straight to the Grand Hotel, and knocked at the door of Mr. Bennett’s room. “‘Come in,’ I heard a voice say. “Entering, I found Mr. Bennett in bed. “‘Who are you?’ he asked. “‘My name is Stanley,’ I answered. “‘Ah, yes; sit down. I have important business on hand for you.’” After throwing over his shoulders his robe-de-chambre, Mr. Bennett proceeded to ask Stanley, “Where do you think Livingstone is?” “I really do not know, sir,” answered Stanley. “Do you think he is alive?” continued Bennett. “He may be, and he may not be,” replied Stanley. “Well, I think he is alive, and that he can be found, and I am going to send you to find him,” was Bennett’s rejoinder. “What!” said Stanley. “Do you really think I can find Dr. Livingstone? Do you mean me to go to Central Africa?” “Yes; I mean that you shall go and find him, wherever you may hear that he is, and to get what news you can of him, and perhaps”--delivering himself thoughtfully and deliberately--“the old man may be in want. Take enough with you to help him, should he require it. Of course you will act according to your own plans, and do what you think best--BUT FIND LIVINGSTONE!”