on to it! I c'u'd n' hold 'er, I c'u'd n' speak to 'er, I c'u'd n' see 'er, an' all the divils wuz dead agen' us. An' she wuz gettin' wilder ev'ry minnit. I shook me head up 'n' down, back'urd 'n' for'ard--'t wuz all I c'u'd do. Once agen she begun her screaming 'Oh, I say, the flyin' mail--flyin'--flyin',' an' then I said the biggest thankee I ever said in me life fer bein' blinded in me eyes; fer when her old hair hed swished away, 'n' me eyes wuz free agen, I wuz hangin' on alone, 'n' the wheels hed carried me far away from where the old gal wuz lyin'. I c'u'dn't help it, Cig--no, I c'u'dn't; 'n' you mus' tell the other blokes that I done my best, but 't wa'n't no use--I done my best." The tremor of the tone, the terror lest I should think he had not been faithful to his awful trust, told better than words that his tale was true, and that he had done his best to save the poor wrecked life so confidingly placed in his care. But the end was not unfitting. The "flyin' mail," the cramped and painful ride, the pelting storm, the dust and gravel, the homeless goal--what could be more symbolic of Old Mary's career! And on the wings of steam and wind her Gipsy spirit went flying--flying. [Illustration: OLD BOSTON MARY.] II JAMIE THE KID It was my last night in San Francisco, and I could not leave without saying good-by to Old Slim. His place was almost empty when I strolled in, and he was standing behind his greasy bar counting the day's winnings. The _adios_ was soon said, and I started for the street again. I had hardly left the bar when the door suddenly squeaked on its rickety hinges, and a one-armed man came in with a handsome kid. He was evidently dying of consumption, and as he shuffled clumsily across the floor, with the boy following solemnly at his heels, I fancied that he wanted Slim to help him into a hospital. He called for his drinks, and asked Slim if he knew of any one "bound East" the next day. "W'y, yes," Slim replied; "that young feller right back o' ye leaves ter-morrer: ain't that right, Cigarette?" The man turned and looked at me. Grabbing my hand, he exclaimed: "Well, I'll be jiggered! Where d' y'u come from? Don't remember me, eh! Wy, you little beggar, have you forgotten the time we nearly croaked in that box-car jus' out of Austin--have you forgotten that?" and he pinched my fingers as if to punish me. I scrutinized him closely, trying to trace in his withered and sickened face the familiar countenance of my old friend Denver Red. "Yes, that's right, guy me!" he retorted nervously. "I've changed a little, I know. But look at this arm,"--pushing back his sleeve from the emaciated hand,--"that crucifix ain't changed, is it? Now d' you know me?" There was no longer any reason for doubt, for down in Texas I had seen New Orleans Fatty put that same piece on his lonely arm. But how changed he was! The last time we met he was one of the healthiest hoboes on the "Santa Fé," and now he could just barely move about.