Pawtucket tribune. (Pawtucket, R.I.) 1890-189?, 1894-01-02
FIVE MINUTES ONLY.

The performance was over, the curtain
had descended, and the spectators had dis
persed.
There had been a slight crush at the
doors Of the theater, and with the abrupt
change from the pleasant warmth and light
of the interior TO wie sharp chill of the
night outside Preston shivered, and a sud
den weakness smote him at the joints.
A cab drove up and Preston stepped into
It heavily, glancing drowsily askance at
the driver as he did so.
"Where to, siri" asked a hollow voice.
Preston leaned back wearily. "Home,"
he replied.
1t did not strike him as anything strange
or unusual that the stranger asked no
questions, but drove OFT without a word.
He was very weary, and he wanted To rest.
Preston lay back, weary In every joint,
drowsy numbness settling on his pulse.
He had faith in his driver. lie '.ould
bring him safely home.
Presently they were at one Of the wharves
beside the river. Preston could hear the
gurgle Of the water around the piles.
Not this way had he ever before gone
homeward. lie looked out muslngly on
the swift, black stream.
"Just In time We can 20 down with
the tide" said voice.
Preston would have uttered some pro-
test, but his sluggishness overpowered
him. IL was as IL he could neither lift
hand nor foot. The inertia of indifference
had penetrated into his bones.
Presently he was aware that he had en-
tered barge that lay close against the
wharf, heaving on the tide. And, as If 1t
were piece of the play, the lean old driv-
er, with his dead white face, had the oars
in his hands ana stood quietly facing him,
guiding the dark craft down the stream.
The panorama of the river bank kept
changing and shifting In the most mex
plicable manner, and Preston was aware
of crowd of pictures ever coming and
going before his eyes as If some subtle
magician, standing behind his shoulder,
were projecting for him on the huge black
screen of night the most marvellous display
Of memories he had ever contemplated.
The dear old home, the dear old folksl
Green hills, with the little whitewashed
cottage in a dimple OF them, and In the
foreground the wind fretted plain Of the
sea. The boyish games-marbles and hoop
trundling-and the coming home at dusk
TO the red lighted kitchen, where the moth
er had the tea ready on the table and the
sisters sat at their knitting by the fire.
The dear, dear motherl How his pulse
yearned toward heri There were tears in
his eyes as he thought of her now. Yet
all the same the quiet Of his pulse was
profound.
And there was the familiar scenery of
his daily life-the ink stained desk the
brass rails for the books, the ledgers and
bankbooks and the files against the walls,
and the faces of his fellow clerks, even the
Office boy, depicted here before him to the
very life.
The wind across the water blew chilly in
his face. He shivered, numbness still in
his limbs.
His sweet young wife, so loving and
gentle-how shamefully he had neglected
her, seeking his own pleasure selfshlyl-
there she sat in the familiar chair by the
flreside, with dear little Daisy dancing on
her knee. What quiet, restful interior
1t vast He wondered would they miss
him much II he were deadi
The waving shadows seemed to thicken
around the boat.
And the figure at the oars-how lean
and white 1t was, and yet it seemed a good
kind Of fellow, too, he thought. Preston
watched 1t musingly as the stream bore
almost lulling him to sleep.
Were they sweeping outward, then, to
the unknown scar
It was an unexpected journey, and he
had asked to be taken home
Presently the air grew full Of shapes
shadowy shapes with mournful faces,
shapes that hinted secrets, with threaten
ings in their eyes.
IL mans sins, now, should take to
themselves bodies, would it not be in some
such guise as this they would front and
alright him at dead of night
Preston shivered, sitting there like a
mere numb lump.
How much of his wrongdoing is forgiven
to q man, and how much remembered
against him in the reckoningi
How awful this grewsome isolation was
becomingl
Was it thus man went drifting up to
God'
The figure at the oars was grooming
softly. 1t was like the lullaby his mother
used to sing to him when he was a child.
There was breath OF free air-human-
tty lay behind them-they were alone with
nature on the vast, dim sea.
The numbness crept to the roots Of his
being. He had no hands to lift, he had
no feet to move. His heart grew sluggish.
There was a numbness In his brain.
Death stood upright now in the bow be
fore him, and In the east he was aware Of
a widening breadth of gray.
Would the blackness freshen into per-
feet day for him, or would the night lie
hopelessly on him forever,
The figure drew near and laid its hands
across his eyes.
"Thrown out Of the cab, and the wheels
went over him, sir. He was dead in less
than five minutes, should think"
IL. o.. Il. L..