The tramp knew the way to the cemetery. But first he found the house where he had lived as a boy. It looked painfully rickety and surprisingly small. So he hastened from before it and went up by a back street across the town creek and up a hill, where at last he stood before the cemetery gate. It was locked; so he climbed over the wall. He went still further up the hill, past tombstones that looked very white, and trees that looked very green in the moonlight. At the top of the hill he found his father's grave. Beside it was another mound, and at the head of this, a plain little pillar. The moon was high now and the tramp was used to seeing in the night. Word by word he could slowly read upon the marble this inscription: “William Albert, beloved son of the late Thomas Kershaw and his wife Rachel; born in Brickville, August 2, 1862; drowned in the Allegheny River near Pittsburg, July 27, 1877, while heroically endeavouring to save the life of a child.” The tramp laughed, and then uttered a sigh. “I wonder,” he said, aloud, “what poor bloke it is that's doin' duty for me under the ground here.” And at the thought that he owed an excellent posthumous reputation to the unknown who had happened to resemble him fifteen years before, he laughed louder. Having no one near to share his mirth, he looked up at the amiable moon, and nodded knowingly thereat, as if to say: “This is a fine joke we're enjoying between ourselves, isn't it?” And by and by he remembered that he was being waited for, and he strode from the grave and from the cemetery. By the railroad the short tramp, having smoked all the refuse tobacco in his possession, was growing impatient. Already the expected coal-train had heralded its advent by whistle and puff and roar when his associate had joined him. “Found out all you wanted to know?” queried the stout little vagabond, starting down the embankment to mount the train. “Yep,” answered the tall vagrant, contentedly. The small man grasped the iron rod attached to the side of one of the moving coal-cars and swung his foot into the iron stirrup beneath. His companion mounted the next car in the same way. “Are you all right, Kersh?” shouted back the small tramp, standing safe above the “bumpers.” “All right,” replied the tall tramp, climbing upon the end of a car. “But don't ever call me Kersh any more. After this I'm always Bill the Bum. Bill Kershaw's dead--” and he added to himself, “and decently buried on the hill over there under the moon.” XI. -- UNDER AN AWNING For ten minutes we had been standing under the awning, driven there at two o'clock at night by a shower that had arisen suddenly. “A pocket umbrella is one of the unsupplied necessities of the age,” said my companion. “Yes, and the peculiarity of the age is that while such luxuries as the phonograph and the kinetograph multiply day by day, important necessities remain unsupplied.”