were some way of telephoning to the police station! He knew that a sergeant sat there all night. Men slept upstairs. But there was no telephone. Now a thought came to him that almost made him shout for joy. In ten seconds he had jumped into his sweater and knickerbockers, and was lacing on his rubber-soled bicycling shoes. He did not wait for a hat or stockings. He peered anxiously over the edge of the porch roof into the backyard. No, there was no one watching there. Noiselessly the boy lowered himself over the edge, and climbed down one of the pillars, crushing the honeysuckle vine as he went. He found his bicycle leaning against the house, where he had left it that afternoon after the race.

He picked up the wheel and walked on tiptoe across the grass at the rear of the house. He threaded his way between the rows of corn-stalks in the kitchen-garden. He made a long circuit, and at last came out in the road. Then he mounted his bicycle and wheeled away at a pace that would have astonished his friends. Going down hill he was very cautious. He back pedalled. There must be no falling; therefore no coasting. Again on the level road, he shot forward like a racer. He knew that if the burglars got his father into the bank they would try to make him open the safe in which $70,000 had been deposited that day. His father would resist, he knew. He remembered what had happened to other bank cashiers who resisted. The thought choked him. He bent over his handle bar, and the wheels seemed to fly. The pale, sinking moon, the silent road that stretched its white length before him, the tall trees, mysterious in their own dark shadows, the grass shining with dew, all made a picture that he never forgot. Above all, a scene stood out that he could not shut from his mind, try as he might—his father in the hands of the two ruffians, resolutely defying them in face of awful danger.

The sergeant nodding in his chair in the police station at one o'clock in the morning was startled by the vision of a bareheaded, white-faced boy.

"Hurry!" the boy exclaimed. "The Traders' Bank! Robbers!" In less than a minute the sergeant and two of his men were on their way to the bank. Arthur followed them closely. He hid with them in the dark vestibule of the bank. It seemed to the boy as if years passed before he at last heard footsteps in the silent street. Then the minutes were hours long. At last the two robbers and their victim arrived at the outer door. They pushed him in and told him to be lively about unlocking that door. At that instant the policemen jumped forward and presented their pistols at the heads of the burglars. They made no resistance. They were too surprised. Arthur and his father walked home side by side, Arthur pushing his bicycle by the handle bar. For a long time they had nothing to say to each other, for each was busy with his thoughts.

"Arthur," said his father at length, "I'm glad there is a scorcher in the family, but I—"

"Yes, sir," interrupted the boy, eagerly; "but I want to tell you I'm sorry I went into the road race to-day."

"Perhaps I was too hasty," said Mr. Clark. "But the bicycle has done one good thing. It has shown me that my son is as quick-witted as he is brave."

GREAT MEN'S SONS.

THE SON OF CHARLEMAGNE.

BY ELBRIDGE S. BROOKS.