The other slept on unconsciously. The lamps flared and flickered; the babe, partially soothed, sobbed and moaned, and the squalid pair marched on. Begotten in bliss--brought forth in suffering--retired in privation. Suddenly there is a prolonged, shrill shriek in the night, a trampling of many feet, a shouting of discordant voices, and the midnight train is snorting at the platform. Hastily the mother gathers up the sleeping child, and bidding the other cling close to her skirts, hurries out into the night, past the fiery-eyed Polyphemus, on toward the coaches behind. The people that are going somewhere jostle against her in their haste to get into the coaches and secure seats. Mechanically the artist follows. Everybody is going somewhere; he will go, too. The monster ahead begins to puff and grunt, and the bell that is fastened to its back, to ring wildly. The men who are loading baggage shout and swear and hurl coarse jokes at each other, and the midnight train begins to move. The bell still clangs frantically, the demon puffs and grunts faster and faster, and the light from its one fearful eye penetrates farther and farther into the darkness ahead. Faster, and faster, and faster--the sound of the wheels falling into a regular measure, until it has become a weird, rhythmical monotone. "Gentlemen's shoes--Gentlemen's shoes--Gentlemen's shoes." Then there is a momentary flare of light, a final, blood-curdling scream, and the one-eyed demon--the faded and soiled woman--the sobbing baby--the sleeping child--the marching child with the big, round eyes--the people who are going somewhere, and the artist who is going nowhere, are on their way. He has taken a seat facing the faded woman, and is unconsciously studying her face. She is still hushing the babe to rest. On one side the sleeper is huddled up against her. On the other, next to the window and resting upon its knees, the child with the big, round eyes stares out into the darkness. The coach is warm. The heat and the strong liquor are beginning to tell on him. The face before him begins to mingle with all sorts of impossible fancies. The roar of the flying train is in his ears, but it seems the roar of some mighty sea that is about to overwhelm him. The conductor, coming through, shakes his arm to rouse him. "Tickets!" "Oh, yes!"--he forgot. He thrusts a bill into the conductor's hand. "Keep the change, I will ride it out."