Leaving the door wide open behind her, Maggie took the two steps that brought her to the telephone, and rapidly turned the handle. Then she faced about swiftly to see what the man would do. The first thing he did was to bob his head suddenly under the bar, disappearing wholly. Then he slowly raised his face above the edge of the bar, and Maggie found herself staring into the shifty eyes of Jim McDermott. "Hello, Maggie!" he said, as he stood up. "Is that you?" She saw that he had a revolver in his right hand. But she put up her hand again and repeated the telephone call. "Drop that!" he cried, as he raised the revolver. "You try to squeal and I'll shoot--see?" "Where did you steal that pistol, Jim McDermott?" was all she answered. "None o' your business where I got it," he retorted. "I got it good and ready for you now. I kin use it too, and don't you forget it! You quit that telephone or you'll see how quick I can shoot. You hear me?" She did not reply. She was waiting for the central office to acknowledge her call. She looked Jim McDermott square in the eyes, and it was he who was uncomfortable and not she. Then the bell of the telephone rang, and she turned and spoke into the instrument clearly and rapidly and yet without flurry. "This is 31 Chatham. There's a burglar here. It's Jim McDermott. Send the police quick." This was her message; and then she faced about sharply and cried to him, "Now shoot, and be damned!" He took her at her word, and fired. The bullet bored a hole in the wooden box of the telephone. Maggie laughed tauntingly, and slipped swiftly out of the door, but not swiftly enough to avoid the second bullet. Five minutes later when the police arrived, just as the day was beginning to break, they found Jim McDermott fled, the window open, the safe uninjured, and Maggie O'Donnell lying in the passageway at the foot of the stairs, her night-gown stained with blood from a flesh wound in her arm. (1893.) A MIDSUMMER MIDNIGHT After three years' service at sea on the flag-ship of the White Squadron, Lieutenant John Stone had a long leave of absence. It was late in the afternoon of one of the hottest days of August when he left the navy-yard and took the ferry to New York. The street-car in which he rode across town crawled along, the horses seeming to be exhausted by the wearing weather of the preceding fortnight, and the driver had no energy to keep them up to their work.