The hour for luncheon came.  The Secretary invited the Doctor to lunch with him.  “I shall not leave this office, Mr. Secretary, until I get that order,” was the Doctor’s reply.  The Secretary of the Navy left the office; after an absence of an hour and a half, he returned and found Dr. Talmage still sitting in the same place.  The afternoon passed.  Dinner time came round.  “Dr. Talmage, will you not honour me by coming up to my house to dine, and staying with us over night?” asked the Secretary.  “I shall not leave this office until you write out that order releasing my son, Mr. Secretary,” was the calm, persistent reply.  The Secretary departed.  The building was empty, save for a watchman, to whom the Secretary said in passing, “There is a gentleman in my room.  When he wishes to leave let him out of the building.”

About nine o’clock at night the Secretary became anxious.  Telephones were not common then, so he went down to the office to investigate; and sitting there in the place where he had been all day was Dr. Talmage.  The order was written that night.  This incident was told me by a friend of the Doctor’s.  There can be no doubt that Dr. Talmage was justified in this demand of paternal love and sympathy, since numbers of such concessions had been made by the Secretary and his predecessors.  His daring and his pertinacity were overwhelming forces of his genius.

In the winter months of this year I enjoyed another lecturing tour with him through Canada and the West.  The lecture bureau that arranged his tours must have counted on his herculean strength, for frequently he had to travel twenty-four hours at a stretch to keep his engagements.  Occasionally he was paid in cash at the end of the lecture an amount fixed by the lecture bureau.  I have seen him with perhaps $2,000 in bills and gold stuffed away carelessly in his pocket, as if money were merely some curious specimen of no special value.  Sometimes he would receive his fee in a cheque, and, as happened once in a small Western town, he would have very little money with him.  I remember an occasion of this kind, because it was amusing.  The cheque had been given the Doctor as usual at the end of his lecture.  It was about eleven at night, and we were compelled to take a midnight train out to reach his next place of engagement.  At the hotel where we stayed they did not have money enough to cash the cheque.  We walked up the street to the other hotel, but found there an equal lack of the circulating medium.  It was a bitter cold night.

“Here we are out in the world without a roof over our heads, Eleanor,” said the Doctor, merrily.  “What a cold world it is to the unfortunate.”  Finally Dr. Talmage went to the ticket office of the railroad and explained the situation to the young man in charge.  “I can’t give you tickets, but I will buy them for you, and you can send me the money,” the clerk said promptly.  As we had an all-day ride before us and a drawing