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 month of their tour. He ran so fast and so furiously for a time that people stopped to look after him, and soon this freak of his nearly cost him his life.

He had reached the outskirts of the city, when, as he turned a corner, he ran almost between the legs of a policeman who was out on a stray dog hunt.

He noticed the Airedale was without collar or master, and, being a dog-hater, he whipped out his revolver and fired at the unsuspecting Pierre.

There was something sinister in the sharp crack of the revolver, and in the whistling bullet that kicked up a shower of sand, so Pierre sprang through an open gateway which happened to be placed just right and disappeared before the policeman could fire again.

It was a narrow escape. Perhaps after