Argosy, Vol. 1 (December 9, 1882) — page 204: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

THE QUEEN’S BODY GUARD. 197 “You seem surprised,” remarked the other, with exasperating coolness. “ Has no one ever told you that before? ” “No one ever has and lived!” cried the lieutenant, livid with passion, and the next instant he had struck Cottrell full in the face. Now, if Cottrell had been a French officer he would have known that that blow was a challenge to a duel, but being simply an American, and finding himself hit, he hit back, and with such effect that the heutenant’s cranium went crashing against the panel of the door and he lay insensible upon the floor. Luckily for him the lock was a stout one, or he might have been pitched out of the railway carriage to certain death. As Cottrell gazed upon the prostrate form of his late antagonist, he felt that he was in what the Yankees call “a pickle.” Knowing, as he did, the almost absolute power exerted in France by the army and how sacred is the person of =:n officer, he realized that he might expect small mercy at the hands of those in authority if he did not make good his escape before the lieutenant came to, or the railroad officials discovered his condition. The offense would mean at least a year’s imprisonment at hard labor for assault. His chances of ever reaching his destination had grown suddenly slim, But like all Americans he was quick to think and quick to act. He picked up the limp body of the Frenchman and propped it up in a corner, pulling his visored cap down over his eyes, so as to hide as much of the ghastly face as possible. Spreading a newspaper in the man’s lap, Cot- trell surveyed his work, and gave a nod of satisfaction. To all appearances the man was simply taking a little nap. Suddenly above the roar of the train he heard a shrill whistle and the slamming of the door of a compartment somewhere ahead. “ The conductor on his rounds,” thought he, and like a flash he darted at _the officer and searched through his pockets with eager fingers, till he found the man’s ticket. And none too soon, for there at the door was the ruddy bearded face of the official standing on the guard step. “ Billets, messieurs,” he called out cheerily, poking in his head, and he glanced inquisitively at the motionless officer. Cottrell handed him both tickets, remarking as he did so: “ My friend here is taking a nap. A little too much good cheer, I’m afraid, before he Started.” The conductor laughed good naturedly and started to pass on. “ What’s the next stop?” called out Cottrell. ‘“Turonne, monsieur,” was the reply. Cottrell felt a thrill of hope at that. His destination was at hand, and he knew by the other’s ticket that his stopping place was the next station beyond Turonne. “If he only continues unconscious till we arrive I may yet escape,” thought the American, as he watched with feverish impatience for the slack- ening up of the train. CORNICE OO UN ceo