President McKinley came to Buffalo early in September to see the fine display and let the people see him, and on the 6th he stood with smiling face while many hundreds of visitors passed by and shook hands with him. In the midst of all this there came a loud, sharp sound. A pistol had been fired. The President staggered back, with pallid face. Men shouted; women screamed; a crowd rushed towards the spot; the man who held the pistol was flung to the floor and hundreds surged forward in fury. "He has shot our President! Kill him! Kill him!" they cried. The guards had a hard fight to keep the murderer from being torn to pieces by the furious throng. The man who had shot the President belonged to a society called Anarchists, who hate all rulers and think it their duty to kill all kings and presidents. Poor, miserable wretch! he suffered the death he deserved. But his shot had reached its mark, and after a week of fear and hope, President McKinley died. He was mourned by all the people as if each of them had lost a member of his or her own family. You probably know that when a President dies the Vice-President takes his place. McKinley's Vice-President was a capable man named Theodore Roosevelt. He was very fond of tramping through the wilds and of hunting wild beasts. At the time we speak of, when the news of the death of President McKinley was sent abroad, Vice-President Roosevelt was off on a long tramp through the Adirondack Mountains of New York, perhaps hoping to shoot a deer, or possibly a bear. When the news came, no one knew where he was, and dozens of the mountain-climbers were sent out to find him. As they spread out and pushed forward, the crack of rifles could be heard on all sides and megaphones were used to send their voices far through the mountain defiles. But hour after hour passed and the shades of evening were at hand, and still no answer came; no sign of Roosevelt and his party could be traced. Finally, when they were near the high top of Mount Marcy, answering shots and shouts were heard, and soon the hunting party came in sight. When Mr. Roosevelt was told the news they brought--that the President was at the point of death--he could hardly believe it; for the last news had said that he was likely to get well. He knew now that he must get to Buffalo as soon as he could, so that the country should not be without a President, and he started back for the clubhouse from which he had set out at a pace that kept the others busy to keep up with him. Night had fallen when he reached the clubhouse, but there was to be no sleep for him that night. A stagecoach, drawn by powerful horses, waited his coming, and in very few minutes he was inside it, the coachman had drawn his reins and cracked his whip, and away went the horses, plunging into the darkness of the woods that overhung the road.