The daily morning journal and courier., 1894-11-03
TALES OF TEN TRAVELLERS.
The Face in the Inkstand.
BY EDGAR [. wAxlxrs.

BX EDGAR L. WAkEAASs
 Copyright. 1894. All rights reserved.l
 Our Ten Travellers had for some time been comfortably seated in their favor ite hooks and lounging-places. Through the influence of some chance remark, the desuitory conversation had drifted into our recalling various unac- countable mental impressions and phe- nomena with their curious and often startling results; and the Student Trav- eier, who had listened attentively throughout. after bit of genial banter at his unaccustomed silence. began the relation of the following pleasant tale.
 It Is a very short and simple story, without single thread of tragedy in 1t, though 1t 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 1t was almost an in- voluntary one; something as when a scene-shifter. half in dream and half from habit, might return to a deserted and darkened theater and roll off and on this setting or that until, all unin- tentional with himself, real players have fitted themselves into this half phantom performance. and at the en6 he realizes he has almost unconsciously been playwright, manager, prompter and audience, all in one.
 It began in the comfortable room of my inn, over against Covent Garden in London, in which had shut myself from friends and acquaintances in or der to better accomplish some impor- tant literary work.
 had been engaged to write a se- ries of tales illustrative of lowly Lon don life for famous London periodi- cal. The labor had proven a strangely bad pleasure. but had proceeded with extreme success and qualification, when suddenly came to point where 1t seemed impossible for me to cohe- rently pen another sentence.
 It could not be accounted for on the ground of overwork or lack of materi- al. I was in splendid physical condi- tion; in mood of superb mental ela- tion. But there remained the stubborn insurmountable fact that could not write. ...,.
 This almost literary syncope had shut down upon me now for two days. The first sheets of my manuscript were due in the printers hands at the end of two days more. So much was at stake from promptness or failure that the sudden realization of all this af- fected me still more disastrously. I challenged my powers of creation and composition in every manner possible to ordinary mastery of such 8 situa- tion; but it was of no avail. was as helpless to perform my allotted task as the sculleFy maid in the dark kitchen below.
 In this unpleasant strait thought of Chelsea Hospital for British army pen sioners. I hastened to the fine old place, rife with historic associations, happy in the thought that, among its grim and war scared inmates, could no doubt find some quaint, odd charac- ter around whom 8 tender romance could be woven.
 I had no more than reached the grounds, when I found a burial squad, just ready to set out with a dead com rade on that last sad march the Brit ish pensioner ever takes to the slum- berous shades of Brompton.
 It was headed by a firing-party of twelve, in the old black waist belts with worn cartouche- boxes in front and ancient bayonets dangling behind. Next them stood the tiny old Chelsea fifer, little Joe." and the grave and pornpous drummer, Harry McDuh.
 These were succeeded by the coffin now resting on the graveled walk cov- red with a dingy black pail on which was laid the single military trophy of the QGaO, 8 WOCIl, JuTee.CUTucISu ut1L OI William the Thirds day-and the rear file of pensioners comprising a few an- cient inmates of the dead soldiers ward.
 It was not a large squad, but 1t was an unaccountably cheery one. The old boys we're merrily taunting each other with portentious prophecies of who should next fill the s'box" that should be thus carried out Brompton way; but I could see their bravado had in it a pitiful undertone of dolor and despair.
 Gathered about the halted procession were an hundred or so more of these veteran paupers, some leaning listless- ly against the sunny facades of the building; some gathered in fussy knots discussing the merits of the departed; some idly gazing at the little cortege with vacant. stony faces, and others with canes and crutches pothering up and down the line, mingling their cracked old voices in the rough and un- seemly badinage.
 But the ancient pensioner sergeant in charge of the squad was now coming from the governors rooms with the , burial permit. Premonftory notes upon Little. Joe's,' fife accompanied by drum mutterings could be heard. The old fellows were falling into line as the sergeant took his place behind the rear- most file; and the six veterans who V. 1e ", < Sf43 y, ,ss,,, J, f,s.l