pillow and slept until a tap on the shoulder awoke him, and he rushed out to make another speech, generally differing in form from any made that day or any previous day, though the substance of all was, of course, largely the same. Once, as the train was screaming along between stations Mr. Bryan called the writer to his state-room, where he lay at rest. He raised his head from the pillow as I entered, and started to speak. What words of suggestion or advice were on his tongue I shall never know, for, in the middle of his first sentence the tired head fell back, the lustrous eyes were closed, and his heavy breathing alone told that life remained in the man’s worn and exhausted frame as he lay there fast asleep. Late in the afternoon of that same day Mr. Bryan’s dinner was brought him on the train, and he ate—as he slept—between stations. His traveling companions, it may be observed, had eaten hearty meals at a town long passed, dining in leisure while Mr. Bryan, standing with bared head on a wind-swept platform, with a scorching sun beating down upon him, addressed five thousand or more wildly cheering people. As he sat in his little compartment, hastily munching his food, there were with him Mr. Joseph A. Altsheler, of the New York _World_, and the writer, representing the Omaha _World-Herald_. One of us chanced to mention some interruption made at the last meeting, where a shrewd Republican partisan had raised a point which Mr. Bryan’s ready repartee had quickly, if not efficiently, disposed of. As soon as the matter was mentioned Mr. Bryan turned from the tray on which were his fried chicken, cold slaw, and coffee. And there, his eyes glowing like lakes of molten metal, his expressive features all in play, in the voice of one who addressed a multitude, he took up that Republican’s sophism and analyzed it for the benefit of us twain. Such was the concentrated and awful intensity of the man that it thrilled me to the core, and, under that burning gaze and vibrant, moving voice, in such an unusual entourage, I trembled with an emotion I could not name. It was near midnight of that day when the train reached Benkelman, in far western Nebraska, where the last speech was to be delivered. The warm day had been succeeded by a night that was almost bitter cold, and, as we alighted from the train, tired, sleepy, and hungry, the cold, fierce wind from the mountains swooped down on us, and pierced us through and through. At that late hour, and in that semi-arid, scantily populated country, there were patiently waiting, wrapped in their great coats, nearly fifteen hundred people, most of whom had driven from twenty to one hundred miles “to hear Bryan speak.” In the course of that day Mr. Bryan had already spoken sixteen times. To do this he had risen before five o’clock in the morning and had traveled over two hundred miles. At Benkelman, it was agreed, he should speak not longer than fifteen minutes, and go to bed.