The Queer Side of Things.
THE LEGEND OF BILL ERIE.
Adapted from the French of J. Soudan.
ROM New York to Toronto, and from the Niagara Falls to Cleveland, wherever you travel you may hear from the railway official the story of "Bill Erie"—that noble soul who died rather than disgrace his craft.
Bill got his second name from the Lake Erie Railway, the property of the Vanderbilts, whereon he was employed as porter. He had held the trunk-smashing championship of America for many years. He had broken all the records as well as all the boxes. Ordinarily clever porters smashed their thousands—Bill smashed his tens of thousands. No patent iron-bound trunk had terrors for Bill—he smashed them all; while, as for ordinary portmanteaux and hat-boxes, he just annihilated them collectively in batches. You couldn't get ahead of Bill.
"I guess I could break up that lot with kid gloves on."
It is a sad thing, though, to think that even Bill was beaten at last. Everybody, even the boldest, meets his Waterloo some day. Still one may be pardoned a manly tear for poor Bill Erie. That he should have died, and by the treachery of a fellow porter!
The box that caused all the trouble was a plain-looking, old-fashioned box enough, although pretty stout. Bill Erie smiled to look at it. "I guess I could break up that lot with kid gloves on," he said.
He lifted it, that strong, noble man, as high as the crown of his head. Then he let it fall with a mighty bang.
There was something wrong. A little chip flew out of the concrete platform, but the box lay uninjured. "That's a'mighty queer," said Bill. "Reckon I'll have to boot it." Then he raised his foot—that mighty foot, clad in a boot which would go through a brick wall of its own weight.
"He executed his famous war-sance on the lid."
He kicked. Everybody within hearing jumped a foot high at the shock. There was a slight mark on one side of the box; that was all. Then he kicked again. This time he hurt his big toe. Then he tried all his regular dodges, and even executed his famous war-dance on the lid—that war-dance which had, again and again, burst in a new burglar-proof safe. But he knocked a piece of iron off one boot and hurt his feet on that solid mass. After that he went
