By H. G. HAWTREY and DOROTHEA CONYERS. 
Illustrated by N< 
orman 
M 
orrow- 
Sri TH L AU ™1 : “^e strange occurrence here related actually took place. The railway 
was the Milwaukee and Waltham Road, between Pembina and Granite Bluff. The bridge was the trestle 
bridge across the Menominee River. The driver’s real name was William Vanass, and his wife was taken 
ill and died, as here described. "| 
HEN I was stationed in Sierra 
Leone I met and became 
friends with a man called Bill 
Summers, a muscular, flaxen- 
headed Englishman, imbued 
with the roving spirit and 
quick mastery of detail which 
makes it so hard for a man to succeed. If a 
beginner take. a month or more to learn a 
trade thoroughly, he thinks before he, leaves 
it to embark upon something fresh, and, 
consequently, the plodder rises slowly, while 
the man of brilliant brain learns one thing 
and another, and drags his days out in 
spasmodic bursts of prosperity and long 
spurts of want. 
Bill Summers had been everything : 
farmer, sailor, engineer, gold-miner, cook ; 
his lean, nervous hands were as good at 
tossing an omelette as they were light upon 
the most intricate machinery. Now he was 
taking a rest, having found a fair seam in the 
gold-mines, and was trying his hand at 
exploiting the vegetable wealth of Africa. 
41. 
He did well, too, but he got tired of it in 
two years, and flitted off as engineer again. 
Pie was a born wanderer. He had made a 
pleasant little place of his bungalow, cleared 
rigorously all round, so that what air there 
was came freshly ; and he had furnished the 
house quite luxuriously. 
Bill had asked me up for a week, and as I 
looked round his room I saw a large moth 
beautifully mounted in a sandal-wood case, 
hanging over his writing-table. 
It was fine, but white, a common species, 
and, strolling over to look at it, I wondered 
why he kept it. 
“ Wondering at that?” he said, as he 
puffed at his pipe. “ I never go about 
without it, Grey. It’s got a waterproof case 
when Em aboard ship— it’s to be buried with 
me when I die.” His voice sounded strangely 
sad. 
“ Yes ? ” I said, full of curiosity. “ Yes ? ” 
But he made no answer. “Ever hear,” I 
went on, looking at the moth, whose wings 
were singed in places, “ of what the natives 
