A working-man is seeking a means of reaching his humble home, miles away, overwrought with anxiety for his boy, who has been crushed in an accident. The father, denied elsewhere, makes his appeal at a private house. The owner, touched by the story of suspense, orders out his car, and himself guides the "chariot of fire" in a wild ride through the night. The author has written nothing more appealing and dramatic.
glistened upon his mustache and made him look a gray-haired man, as he emerged from gulfs of darkness and shot by widely scattered dim street lamps. Both men had acquired something of the same expression--the rude face and the finished one; both wore the solemn, elemental look of fatherhood.
The heart of one repeated piteously: "It's Batty."
But the other thought: "What if it were Bert?"
"I'll let her out a little more," repeated Chester. The car throbbed and rocked to the words.
"How do you like my machine?" he added, in a comfortable voice. He felt that the mercury of emotion had mounted too far. "Mrs. Chester has named her," he proceeded. "We call her Aurora."
"We've named the machine Aurora, I said."
"Oh, well, that will do--'Roarer,' if you like. That isn't bad. It's an improvement, perhaps. By-the-way, how did you happen on my place to-night? There are a good many nearer the station; you had quite a walk."
"I see a l
This story is a little too sentimental and emotional for my taste.
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