Cinder Path Tales

ATHERTON'S LAST "HALF" 109 He has had me South with him a couple of times, and never goes back without invit­ ing me to dine with him. I always accept, though the pleasure of his society is more than offset by painful recollections. We linger long at the table over my favorite madeira, andwe talk of the olddays, theold contests, and the old boys, grownnow to be stout merchants, lawyers, and I know not what. Some of them have lads who will bring new honor to names already famous on track and field, and some, alas ! have been beaten out by that famous runner and certain final winner, oldDeath himself. Often, as I sit and watch Atherton across the table, there comes into my eyes, not at all accustomed to such a freak, so clear a hint of moisture, thatnothing but a mighty volume of smoke saves me from detection. He is a small man, five feet five or less, and not exceeding eight stone in weight. His closely shaven face is thin and brown, his eyes dark andfull of fire, his mouth firm and sensitive. There is nothing of the de­ spairing or helpless invalid about him; his shoulders are square, and his movements resolute; yet heknows, and I know, that his life hangs by a thread. I know whose fault it is, in part at least, that his days arenum­ bered, that his chest is hollow, and that,