The record-union., 1894-11-03
THE FACE IN THE INKSTAND.

copyrighted. 1894 by Edgar L. Wakeman.
All rights reserYed.l
Our Ten Travellers had for some time
been comfortably seated in their favorite
hooks and lounging places. Through the
influence of some chance remark the de-
sultory conversation had drifted into our
recalling various unaccountable mental
impressions and phenomena with their
curious and often startling results, and
the Student Traveller. who had listened
attentively throughout, after bit OF ge-
nial banter at his unaccustomed silence,
began the relation OF the following pleas
ant tale:
1t is a very short and simple story.
without single thread of tragedy in it,
though it has an odd beginning and an
agreeable ending for those who are not
averse to occasionally hearing of the
humble heart-dramas among lowly folk
and lives.
My own part in it was almost an invol-
UNFAIRLY one-something as when scene
shifter, half in dream and half from
habit, might return to a deserted and
setting or that until, all unintentional
with himself, real players have fitted
themselves into this half phantom per-
Torrance, and at the end he realizes he
has almost unconsciousIy been play
wright, manager, prompter and audi
ence, all III one.
1t began in the comfortable room of my
inn, over against Covent Garden in Lon
don, i'll which l bad shut myself from
friends and acqualntanceS In order to Det-
ter accomplish some important literary
work.
had been engaged to write a series of
tales illustrative OF iowly London life Tor
a famous London periodical. The labor
had proven strangely sad pleasure, but
had proceeded with extreme success and
qualification, when l suddenly came 10
point where il seemed impossible for me
10 coherently pen another sentence.
1t could not be accounted Tor on the
ground OF overwork or lack OF material
L was in splendid physical conditlon-in
a mood OF superb mental citation. But
there remained a stubborn, insurmounta-
ble fact that l could not write.
Tins almost literary syucope had Shut
down upon me now for TWO days. The
first sheets Of my manuscript were due
ia the printers haudS at the eEd or TWO
days more. SO much was at stake from
promptness or failure that the sudden re-
aliZatlon OF all this affected me still more
disastrously. l challenged my powers
OF creation and composition in every
manner possible to ordinary mastery OF
such situation, but 1t was or no avail.
was as helpless to perform my allotted
task as the scullery maid i'll the dark
kitchen below.
IN this unpleasant straight thought of
Chelsea Hospital for British army PEN
sioners. FASTENED to the fine old place,
fife with historic associations, happy lii
the thought that, among its grim ana war
SCARED inmates. / could no doubt find
some quaint ODD character around whom
Il tender romance could be woven.
| had no more than reached the grounds
when l found burial squad just ready
TO set out with dead comrade on that
last sad march the British pensioner ever
lakes TO the slum berous shades of Bromp-
ton.
1t was headed by a firing party of
twelve in old black waist belts with
worn cartouche boxes III front and an
cent bayonets dangling behind. Next
them stood the tiny old Chelsea tifer,
Little Joe," and the grave and pompous
drummer, Harry McDuh.
These were succeeded by the coffin
now resting on the graveled walk coy-
cred with a dlngy black pail on which
was laid the single military trophy of the
dead, Il worn, three-cornered hat of Will
lam the Thirds day-and the rear tile of
pensioners comprising Jew ancient in
mates OF the dead soldiers ward.
1t was not large squad, but il was an
unaccountably CHEEKY enc. The Old boys
were merrily taunting each other with
portentouS prophecies of who should next
I'LL the "box" that should be thus carried
out Brompton way, but L could see their
bravado had in it pitifui undertone OF
doIor and despair.
Gathered about the halted procession
were an hundred orso more of these vet
erau paupers, some leaning listlesSly
against the sunny facades OF the build
ing; some gathered III fussy knots dis
cussing the merits of the departed; some
idly gazing at the little cortege with va
cant stony faces, and others with canes
and cruIches pothering up and down the
line minghug their cracked old voices in
rough Ald unseemly badinage.
But tue ancient pensioner sergeant in
charge of the squad was now coming
from the Governors rooms with the
burial permit. Premonitory notes upon
Little Joe's" tite accompanied by drum
mutterings could be heard. The old tel-
lows were falling into line as the sergeant
took his place behind the rearInosL file,
and the six veterans who were TO bear
the coffin upon their shoulders were
about to lift il from the ground
Just then there appeared in the door
leading TO the corridors of the great hail
a most ancient pensioner. He raised his
hand tlutIerIngly and screeched out the
one word.
Halt"
It's old Billyp' BILLY and Mike
hadn't made up afore Mike croakedv'
anu wait bit, Sergeant, fur oP BilIyw
We're among the expressions L heard run
ming along The line.
he came pulling, wheeling, whimper-
ing down the broad staircase and terrace.
lie pushed this one and that one aside
petuiantly. When he had reached the
side OF the coffin he tumbled down beside
it, and, fumbling the pail and the hat
upon ii distractedly, blurted out as the
tears rolled down his hard old face:
''Mike-Mike! toird th' last ye didn't
play fair stealin' my baccy an grub an
things in Ward 10, but l can't see ye goin'
away T. th' Brompton trenches 'thout
sayin' it's all rlght-all right now,
Miker
Then old Billy kissed the pail and the
hat, sobbed a little, scram bled upon his
teeI. glared upon his comrades deflantiy
Tor his weakness and emotion, and then,
stumping along TO the Sergeant III charge,
remarked sententiously:
Plant i'm as soon as ye likes now, Ser
geant. Mike WAS 'ard un. was Mike.
But I've made my peace wi i'm, an th'
sooner ee's under cover th' better fur all
in Chelsy"