"This is the well," said Philippe; "the well that they were digging when they first came upon the ruins."

The sides of the well were of solid lava, smooth and hard, just as they had been left by the workmen in digging down.

The light which came down through the well shone upon a sort of platform, which, as well as the walls around it, was covered with moss and other green plants, which had been induced to vegetate there by the rain and the sunlight that had come down through the well. Mrs. Gray gathered some of these plants, and put them into her book.

The party then went on down another flight of steps, which led into a series of dark, vaulted chambers, all hewn out of the rock. By holding the candles up to the sides of these chambers, the party could see here and there the remains of old arches, columns, and walls, which had been buried up in the lava, but were now partially disinterred.

These remains were part of an ancient theatre; and after passing through several gloomy passages, the party came to a large chamber, where the whole front of the stage had been brought to view. Before it, in a range, were the seats for the musicians. On each side there was a massive pedestal. The guide said that there were two bronze statues on these pedestals when the place was first excavated, but that they had been taken away, and were now deposited in the museum at Naples.

"We shall see them there, I suppose," said Mr. George, "when we go to visit the museum."

"I shall take great interest in seeing them," said Mrs. Gray.

In some places the old pavement of the theatre had been laid bare, and was plainly to be seen by holding the candles down close to the ground. In other places the painting on the walls had been found, with the colors quite fresh.

"These must be places that the hot lava did not come to," said Rollo.

"I suppose so," said Mr. George.

It was not possible to obtain any information from the guide, for he could speak no language but the Italian, with the exception of a few English words and phrases, which he pronounced in so outlandish a manner, and mingled them up so much with his Neapolitan dialect, that it was very difficult to recognize them.

"Questa vindow; vindow orizhinalle," he would say, meaning that the opening that he was pointing to was one of the original windows of the edifice. And then he would go on with a long sentence in the Neapolitan dialect, which was perfectly unintelligible from beginning to end.

At length the exploration was ended, and the whole party ascended again to the surface of the ground. The guide took the candles from their hands as they came up, and Philippe paid him his fee. Mr. George led the way to the carriage, which was still waiting at the door. It was surrounded, as before, with poor children and beggars, who set up a loud clamor for alms as soon as the party made their appearance.

Mr. George took no notice of them, but opened the door for Mrs. Gray and Rosie to get in. They got in, and Mrs. Gray took her place on the forward seat of the carriage, -- that is, with her back to the horses, -- and Rosie sat down by the side of her.

"The other is your seat, Mrs. Gray," said Mr. George.

"No," said Mrs. Gray; "we are going to ride here now, and let you and the boys have the back seat."

"O, no, Mrs. Gray," said Mr. George; "please take the back seat."

"By and by I will," said Mrs. Gray, "but not now."

So Mr. George and the two boys got in and took the back seat, which was a great deal better than the forward seat, as it afforded so much better opportunity to see.

All this was done in a moment, and Philippe, after shutting the door and mounting the box with the coachman, gave the order to drive on.

"I think you and Rosie ought to have this seat, Mrs. Gray," said Rollo.

"I have had that seat already for an hour," said Mrs. Gray. "There is no reason why I should have it all the time."

"Why, yes," said Rollo; "because you are a lady."

"My being a lady is a very good reason why the gentlemen should always offer me the best seat," said Mrs. Gray; "but it is no reason why I should always take it. Indeed, it is a very good reason why I should not; for it is not at all ladylike to be monopolizing and selfish in respect to good seats and good places when there is any thing to see."

Mr. George did not care a great deal about the difference in the seats, but he was so much pleased with the disinterested and considerate spirit which Mrs. Gray manifested in this case, that he secretly resolved that he would invite her and Rosie to accompany him on every excursion that he made.

The road now left the shore, and soon began to ascend the mountain, winding this way and that in long zigzags, through rich vineyards and groves of mulberry trees, all planted on soil which had been formed during the lapse of ages from the disintegration and decay of the lava which had come down from the volcano above. This land was very fertile; and as both the soil itself and the rocks from which it was formed were of a rich brown color, the country looked even more fertile than it really was. The road was excellent. Indeed, as Philippe had said, it was as hard and smooth as a floor. It was macadamized all the way, being made of lava, broken small, and so compacted together, and worn so hard and smooth by the wheels that had gone over it, and by the feet of the horses and mules, that it seemed one continuous surface of stone.

The views on every side were of course continually enlarging and expanding the higher the carriage ascended, and as, in the long windings and zigzags of the road, the heads of the horses were turning continually into different directions, each person in the carriage, without changing his seat, or even turning his head, had all the different views presented successively before him.

The whole expanse of the Bay of Naples was coming continually more and more fully into view, with the mountainous islands in the offing, which border it towards the sea, and a long line of hamlets, villages, and towns, extending, like a white fringe upon a green mantle, along the curve of the shore. Naples was seen in the distance, with the great Castle of St. Elmo on a rocky summit above it.

Towards the mountain the travellers could see lofty peaks, with immense valleys between them. These valleys were extremely fertile and beautiful, except where recent streams of lava had flowed through them; that is, lava which had issued from the mountain within a few hundred years. From the road where the carriage was now moving, the party could look down upon the beds of these streams, and as the lava had already become partially decomposed, they looked like immense fields of rich brown soil turned up by the plough. These valleys, by which the mountain sides were furrowed, were so large, and the streams of lava in the beds of them were comparatively so small, that Mr. George said he did not wonder that the people in the towns along the sea shore were not more afraid of living so near the mountain.

"There is room enough in these valleys," said he, "to hold the lava of a thousand eruptions, before they would be filled up."

At length the carriage arrived at the Hermitage. The building stood, as Rollo had seen with his opera glass from the balcony of the hotel, at the outer extremity of a spur of the mountain, a mile or two from the foot of the great cone. The road to the foot of the great cone lay along the crest of the ridge. The observatory, which was a larger and handsomer building, stood just above and beyond it, and was surrounded with very pretty gardens.

The grounds around the Hermitage were very fertile, and though they were steep and broken, they were so laid out in vineyards and groves of mulberry trees, and the sun shone upon them so pleasantly, that they presented a very attractive appearance. The Hermitage was a plain, but neat stone building, massive and white, with a broad area before it, where a great many carriages, and also a great many donkeys and mules, all saddled and bridled, were standing. The carriage drove up rapidly, and stopped before the door.

Here followed another noise and uproar, from beggars, musicians, mule and donkey men, guides, and boys, who gathered about the carriage in a crowd as soon as it stopped, all clamoring for money or employment. Mr. George paid no attention to them, but assisting Mrs. Gray and Rosie to descend, he led the way into the house. There was a boy at the door to receive him. The boy led the way up a narrow flight of stone stairs to a sort of hall, surrounded on every side by massive walls of stone. There were two or three desolate-looking rooms opening from this hall. The room doors were open. The floors were all of stone. There were tables set in these rooms, and different parties were seated at them, partaking of refreshments that they had brought up with them in their carriages -- the bags and baskets in which they had brought them up lying at their feet.

These parties were waited upon by the monk, who walked about among the guests, bringing them glasses, knives and forks, bottles of wine, and any thing else that they required. He was dressed in the costume of his order, and looked, as Rosie said, precisely like the pictures of monks which she had seen in books in America.

Philippe came up almost immediately after his party, bringing with him his basket of refreshments. He soon found a table that was unoccupied, and having placed chairs around it, he asked the monk to bring some glasses and some knives and forks.

"And now," said he, addressing Mr. George, "if you will take some refreshment here, I will go and make the preparations for continuing the ascent. I will come up again as soon as we are ready."

So Philippe went away. Mrs. Gray and Rosie sat down at the table, but the boys began to ramble about in the hall and in the rooms, to see what was to be seen, taking care, however, to go now and then to the table to get fresh pieces of bread and butter, and oranges, so as to keep themselves well supplied with provisions all the time.

In about fifteen minutes Philippe came up, and said that the arrangements were made, and then the whole party went down stairs. There were two portantinas at the door, all ready. The men -- an extremely rough-looking set -- stood beside them.

"Now, Rosie," said Mrs. Gray, "you may get into yours first, so that I may see how you do it."

Philippe spread a shawl over the chair which Rosie was to go in, and Rosie took her seat. Four of the men then took hold of the ends of the poles, and first with a lift, and then a gentle toss, they raised it up to their shoulders. Rosie was a little frightened when she found herself going up so high into the air; but when the ends of the poles came down gently upon the men's shoulders and rested there, she felt reassured, and she looked down upon her mother with a smile.

"How do you feel?" asked Mrs. Gray.

"Beautifully," said Rosie.

Mrs. Gray then took her seat in her chair, and the bearers lifted her up upon their shoulders in the same way. Both sets of bearers set off immediately.

Rollo and Josie then mounted two donkeys, which Philippe had provided for them, while Mr. George set out on foot. In this order the party moved in quite a long procession from the area before the Hermitage, and began to follow the winding path which led along the crest of the ridge towards the foot of the cone. There were in all nearly thirty persons, thus: -- 

Travellers,                     5 Portantina bearers, 8 to each chair,        16 Donkey drivers,                   2 Strapmen,                      2 Refreshment man,                  1 Guide,                       1 27

The refreshment man carried the provisions, which he hoped to sell to the party by the way, in a basket poised upon his head.

The procession moved on in this order, along a rough and narrow mule path, for nearly an hour. In some parts of the way the road was pretty nearly level; in others it was extremely broken and steep, where it passed across old streams of lava. Before them the travellers could see, all the way, the immense cone, which formed the summit of the mountain, rising into the sky. They saw that they were gradually drawing nearer and nearer to the foot of it, and on looking up they could see another party, which had preceded them in making the ascent, slowly toiling their way up the rocky steep, while, at a little distance on one side, another party were seen descending by a different path, which was seen winding down circuitously at a part of the mountain where the slope was formed of sand.

At length Rollo saw at a distance before him a level place among the trees, very near the foot of the great cone. This he knew at once must be the halting place.

"Uncle George," said he, "we are coming to the end of our ride."

"Are we?" asked Mr. George.

"Yes," said Rollo. "Do you see all those mules and donkeys there, standing together among the rocks and trees? That must be the halting place at the foot of the cone."

Rollo was right. As soon as he and Josie arrived at this place, the donkey boys stopped the donkeys, and held them by the head for the riders to dismount. The bearers of the portantinas stopped too, to change hands.

Mrs. Gray got out of her chair as soon as the men put it down, and went to Rosie's chair to ask Rosie how she had got along.

"Very well indeed," said Rosie. "I like it very much."

"Does your courage hold out to go up the cone?" asked Mrs. Gray.

"O, yes, mother," said Rosie; "and I wish you would go up too."

"No," replied Mrs. Gray; "I will go back to the Hermitage, and wait there until you come down. But you may go up if you wish, and if Mr. George is willing to take you."

Mr. George said that he should like to have Rosie go very much, and he promised to take special care of her. So the new bearers lifted her up upon their shoulders again, and the strapmen that Philippe had provided came with their straps to Rollo and Josie. Mr. George took a cane which one of the boys provided him with, and thus the party began the ascent of the cone.

Rollo found, after a while, that he did not need the strapmen; so he let Josie have them both. Josie put his staff through the loops of the straps, and took hold of the ends of it, while the men walked before him, and pulled him up the rocks.

Rollo kept ahead. He climbed faster than the rest of the train, but he stopped now and then on some projecting mass of lava to wait for them to come up. Next to Rollo came Josie, with the two strapmen pulling him up by their straps. Then the refreshment man, with his basket of provisions on his head. Last of all came the bearers of the portantina, with Rosie in the chair. Mr. George followed immediately after. He kept close to Rosie all the way, for he thought she would be afraid to be left alone with such wild and rough-looking men.

Indeed, she doubtless would have been afraid, for the men were rough and wild in their demeanor, as well as in their looks. They made a great deal of noise, shouting and scolding all the way. Every now and then they would stop to rest, and then they would clamor for buono manos, sometimes begging for the money in very earnest and noisy, but suppliant tones, and sometimes demanding it in a very loud and threatening manner. Mr. George, however, paid no heed to these requests, but steadily refused to give the men any money, saying simply that Philippe would pay. At length the men, finding that Mr. George was cool and collected, and that he did not seem to be at all intimidated by their violent and boisterous demeanor, became quiet, and performed their duty in a more steady and orderly manner.

The party went on climbing in this way for nearly an hour, and finally reached the summit.



Chapter VII.

The Summit.


On coming out upon the brow of the mountain, Rollo saw at a short distance before him an immense column of dense white vapor pouring up into the air. His first impulse was to run forward up the sandy slope that still remained between the place where he stood and the margin of the crater; but he checked himself, and stopped where he was, to wait for the rest of the party. As soon as the portantina bearers reached the place where he stood, they set down the chair, and immediately the whole set crowded around Mr. George, and again demanded buono manos.

"Philippe payera," said Mr. George, pointing down the mountain to the Hermitage -- "Philippe payera, là bas," which means, "Philippe will pay when you go down."

Mr. George said this in a very quiet manner, and then proceeded to help Rosie out of her chair. The guide who had come up the mountain with them then led the way, and Mr. George, Rollo, Rosie and Josie followed, towards the crater.

And here I must stop a moment in my story to explain a little what a crater is, and how it is formed. A crater is a great circular pit or depression in the top of a volcano, formed by the sinking of the ground in that part. This sinking of the ground is caused apparently by the cooling and shrinking of the melted matter below, after a time when it has been unusually heated.

Most boys have observed an effect similar to this in casting lead. When you attempt to cast any thing of lead, -- a cannon, for example, or anchor, or even a bullet, -- you will observe that as the lead cools, the portion of it which comes at the top of the mould shrinks and falls in, forming a little pit or depression, which you have to fill up by pouring in a little more lead. The reason is, that lead, as well as most other melted substances, shrinks when it cools. In the case of the bullet, for instance, all the lead which forms the mass of the bullet within the mould shrinks. The effect of this would be to collapse the sides, were it not that the sides have already become solid by contact with the cold mould. But the lead at the top, having been poured in last, is still fluid; and so that settles down as the lead cools below, and forms the little pit or depression, which the boy presently fills up by pouring in a little more lead.

It is much the same with a volcano. For some reason or other, -- no one as yet knows what it is, -- the interior of a volcano changes its temperature very much at different times. Sometimes for a period of several months, or years, it seems to be all the time growing hotter and hotter. The substances below become more and more melted, and formed into lava. The water, which is all the time filtering in through the crevices and openings, in the rocks around the sides of the mountain, is forced down under this molten mass by the immense pressure given to it by the height of the mountain. There it is turned into steam. For a time it is kept down by the vast weight of the lava which is over it, but after a time the elastic force of it gets so great that a bubble of it bursts up, and comes out at the top of the mountain in a great, thundering puff, bringing up some portion of the melted lava with it, and throwing it high into the air.

The lava thus thrown up falls down again, and when there is no wind it falls down close around the opening. Some of it falls into the opening, where it is melted again. The rest falls on the sides, and in process of time it begins to build up a small hill, as it were, all around the opening, though the puffs and explosions of steam that are continually coming out keep a mouth open at the top.

Things go on in this way for some time, until at length, for some mysterious reason which nobody understands, the interior of the mountain begins to moderate its heat, and finally to grow cool -- not entirely cool, but cooler than it has been. The puffs and explosions gradually cease. The lava within the bowels of the mountain shrinks as it cools. The sides of the mountain being firm and solid, do not collapse; but the top, being still more or less soft, falls in, not suddenly, but by a slow and gradual motion, corresponding with the progress of the cooling below. So slow, indeed, is this progress, that sometimes the ground continues sinking slowly in this way for several years before the crater is fully formed.

All this time, although the puffs and explosions have in a great measure ceased, the steam continues to blow out, more or less steadily, from a great many small openings, some of them in the bottom of the crater, and some, perhaps, in the sides. This steam is changed into visible vapor when it comes out where the air is cool, and the several streams, mingling together as they rise into the air, form a cloudy column, which is often called smoke. Strictly speaking, however, it is not smoke. It is almost entirely composed of steam.

After continuing in this state for some time, the interior of the mountain begins to grow hot again. Then the steam and hot lava begin to puff out at some one or other of the vents in the bottom of the crater. If the heating goes on, the lava comes out hotter and hotter from the opening, and by melting away the sides of it and blowing it out, it gradually enlarges it. The lava that is blown out, too, falls down all around the hole, and gradually builds up a mound around it, like a little dome, while the successive blasts keep the outlet open all the time at the top. This small cone, rising up gradually thus, in the bottom of the crater formed by the sinking in of the mountain before, and the chimney opening up through the centre of it, gives vent to all the steam from below, while a great many of the other orifices are stopped up by the lava which comes up out of the great opening falling into them. After a time, the lava that is thrown out spreads over the whole floor of the crater in a mass of black, corrugated slag, with the small cone rising from the centre of it, and the opening at the top glowing like the mouth of a fiery furnace, and bursting out every now and then, with explosions of steam, and red-hot stones, and melted lava.

This was precisely the condition of Vesuvius at the time that Rollo visited it. The top of the mountain had fallen in, in two places, some time before, on account of the cooling below, and two great craters had been formed. Now, the furnace had been for some time heating up again, and in each crater a black cone, with a fiery mouth open at the apex of it, was gradually growing up, and covering the whole floor of the crater with the black and molten matter which it was ejecting.

It was to the edge of one of these craters that the party now advanced, and the engraving will give you some idea of the view which it presented.

There were several persons, both ladies and gentlemen, standing on the margin of the crater when our party arrived. Mr. George led Rosie to the place, and looked down with her into the abyss. The sides of it were formed of precipitous cliffs of rocks and sand, all beautifully colored, in every shade of red and yellow, by the deposits of sulphur which had accumulated upon them from the fumes of the volcano. The floor of the crater was black as jet, being covered by the molten lava, which had gradually spread over it. The surface of this lava lay in wave-like corrugations, like the hide of a rhinoceros, showing that it was or had been semi-fluid. In the centre rose a great, black, rounded cone, like the cupola of an immense blast furnace. This cone was about fifty feet high, and there was an opening at the top eight or ten feet in diameter, which glowed with a furious heat, and emitted quietly, but continually, a red-hot breath of sulphurous vapor.

After remaining thus quiet for a few moments, suddenly it would give a gasp, and immediately afterwards there would burst forth a thundering explosion, which seemed to come up from a great depth below, and threw into the air a shower of stones and scraps of molten lava, which, after ascending to a great height, came down again, and fell, with a dripping sound, upon and around the cone. Similar explosions occurred at intervals of a few minutes, all the time that the party remained.

Rosie was at first very much afraid of these explosions, and she wished to go back. Mr. George himself was also afraid at first to stand very near the edge of the crater; but it was not on account of the explosions, but for fear that the cliff might cave in. Indeed, the cliffs all around were cracked off, and in some places leaning over, apparently ready to fall; and even at the spot where the spectators stood looking into the crater, there was a fissure running along parallel to the cliff, some feet behind them. At first Mr. George was afraid to step over this crack.

"How do they know," said he to himself, "but that the whole mass will fall and carry them all down into the gulf below?"

He found, however, after waiting a little while, that it did not fall, and there were besides other masses a little farther along, as seen in the engraving, which had become separated entirely from the cliff behind them, leaving a chasm open two or three feet wide; and yet they did not fall. So Mr. George gradually acquired more confidence, and at length went cautiously forward, and looked over the brink.

Rosie, however, hung back. She was alarmed to see Rollo and Josie go so near.

"Come back, Josie," said she; "come back. You must not go so near."

So Mr. George called the boys back, and they obeyed.

The walls of this crater were on every side almost perpendicular. As the central part had gradually sunk, the sides had caved off and fallen in, and then afterwards the lava that had been thrown up had spread over the floor, and covered it with a bed of a half-fluid looking substance, that was as black as pitch, and which, though it was really now pretty hard, looked as if a stone thrown down upon it would sink immediately into it, out of sight.

The crater seemed to be four or five hundred feet across, and the walls of it were eighty or a hundred feet high.

After Mr. George and the children had been standing upon the brink of this abyss some time, watching the explosions, the guide who had come up with them from the Hermitage beckoned to Mr. George, and saying something at the same time in Italian, made signs as if he wished the party to go with him to some other place.

"Come, boys," said Mr. George; "he wants us to go with him."

"Where does he want us to go?" asked Rollo.

"I don't know," said Mr. George. "I cannot understand what he says; but let us go and see."

So the whole party followed the guide, Mr. George leading Rosie by the hand. The guide conducted them along a narrow path through the sand, which led away from the crater behind a hill which formed one of the sides of it at a place where it was so steep below the path down the mountain side, that Rosie was almost afraid to go. Mr. George, however, held her firmly by the hand, and he charged Rollo and Josie to follow very carefully. After going on in this way for some distance, they came to another crater very similar to the first, only the sides of it, instead of being formed, like the first, of perpendicular cliffs, consisted of steep, sloping banks of volcanic sand and gravel. There was, however, the same pitchy bed of lava spread out all over the bottom of it below, and in the centre a black cone thirty feet high, with a fiery furnace mouth at the top, glowing with heat, and throwing out continually the same thundering puffs of steam, and projecting the same masses of melted lava and hot stones into the air.

"Ah, here is another crater!" said Mr. George.

"Yes," said Rollo; "only it is smaller than the first. I like the first the best."

While they were standing on the narrow ridge which formed the brink of the crater, looking down, their guide by their side, another guide came by, conducting two young men; and they, instead of stopping on the brink, as Mr. George and his party had done, began at once to go down. There was a sort of track in the sand down the slope, and in this track the young men, half walking, half sliding, descended.

"Why, uncle George!" exclaimed Rollo, "they are going down into the crater. Let Josie and me go too."

Mr. George saw by a glance that the descent into the crater must be safe, for the young men were led by one of the regular mountain guides; and besides, there was a track in the sand, showing that other parties had gone down before. So he said that Rollo and Josie might go.

"You may go down with this party," said Mr. George, "and then you can come up and take care of Rosie while I go down with our guide."

So Rollo and Josie followed the two young men down. Mr. George watched them from above. They went down very easily, for the sand was soft, and the track turned this way and that, so as to avoid the steepest places. The black lava covered the whole floor of the crater, and Mr. George and Rosie supposed that those who had gone down would be able only to go to the edge of it; but, to their great surprise, they found that the guide, as soon as he reached it, stepped upon it, and walked boldly out, followed by the young men and by Rollo and Josie, like a party of boys walking out upon the ice on a pond.

"Why, uncle George!" exclaimed Rosie, "they are walking over the lava. Why don't they sink in?"

"I cannot imagine," said Mr. George. "I supposed it was soft."

In fact, it was soft; that is, it was soft enough to flow if it had been on a slope, but yet it was hard enough to walk upon. A current of lava, when it is coming down the mountain side, can often be walked upon while it is still in motion. Its fluidity at the best is very imperfect, and its motion is very slow. The lava which Rollo was upon in the floor of the crater, though pretty nearly cool and hard on the surface, was hot below. Rollo could see the redness of the heat in the holes and crevices. Probably, if a heavy stone were laid upon the bed of lava, it would gradually have sunk into it. And yet persons could walk over it without any difficulty.

Rollo and Josie followed the young men over the lava until they came so near the cone in the centre that if they were to advance farther they would be in danger of having the lava which was thrown up from it fall upon their heads. Here they found some boys, who belonged to the mountain, engaged in getting out small pieces of the lava, where it was hot and soft, and pressing coins into it, to sell to the people above. Rollo and Josie bought some of these specimens of the boys, and put them hot in their pockets.

While the boys were thus near the cone in the centre of the crater, they were sometimes lost to view from Mr. George and Rosie, on account of the puffs of vapor which the wind blew over them. Rosie was very much afraid whenever this happened. She thought that Josie and Rollo were lost; but Mr. George assured her that there was no danger.

"I should think there would be a great deal of danger," said she.

"So should I," said Mr. George, "of my own judgment. But I do not go by my own judgment in such cases."

"Whose judgment do you go by?" asked Rosie.

"By the guides'," replied Mr. George. "The guides know all about the mountain. They are up here every day. They have been watching it for years, and they can tell where it is safe to go, and where it is dangerous, better than any stranger. So I give up my judgment entirely, and go altogether by theirs. You will see Rollo and Josie coming back out of the smoke pretty soon, as safe as they went in."

This prediction proved to be true. In a few minutes, on account of some change in the gusts of wind, the masses of vapor in the crater broke into openings, and rolled off towards the other side, and in the openings Rosie could see the boys coming back over the black surface of the lava, their footsteps making a curious sound upon it, as if they were walking over clinkers. Very soon they reached the side, and then came toiling up the path which ascended the slope of sand.

Rollo and Josie were both full of enthusiasm in describing what they had seen at the bottom of the crater, and near the cone, and they strongly recommended to Rosie to go down too.

"I'll go with you, Rosie," said Josie, "and show you the way."

But Rosie declined the adventure, and Mr. George told her that she did right to do so.

"Why, what is there to be afraid of?" asked Josie. "There is no danger -- not the least in the world."

"True," said Mr. George; "but going into such places does not give so much pleasure to young ladies as it does to such courageous young gentlemen as you. But I wish to go down myself, and I will leave Rosie under your care here while I am gone."

Pretty near where the party stood while engaged in this conversation, several persons were gathered about what seemed to be a fire. A sort of smoke came up from the ground in the centre of the group, and by the side of it were one or two baskets containing eggs, bread, bottles of wine, and other refreshments. Mr. George led the way to this place, and then he found that what seemed to be a fire was really a jet of hot steam and sulphurous gases that was issuing from a cleft among the rocks. The place was very near the crest of the crater, and the people that stood around it were watching to see men cook in the jets of steam. There was a little level place inside the crevice, just beneath the ground, where they could put eggs and other such things, and after leaving them there a short time, they were found to be nicely cooked. As fast as they were done, the men took them out and sold them to the bystanders.

Mr. George left Rosie and the two boys here while he went down into the crater. The guide went with him to show him the way. In about ten minutes Mr. George returned, and found the three children standing round the cuisine, as the men called the place where they cooked. Rollo had been buying some of the eggs, and he and Josie and Rosie were eating them.

"Mr. George," said Josie, "are these boiled eggs, or baked eggs, or roasted eggs, or what?"

"They seem to be steamed eggs," said Mr. George.

"I suppose," said Rollo, "that by digging about here in the sand, we might find a place where it would be just warm enough to hatch eggs."

"No doubt," said Mr. George.

Just then Rollo observed that the two young men whom he and Josie had followed down into the crater were standing at a little distance, and attentively regarding some sort of instrument which they had in their hands.

"I mean to go and see what they are doing," said Rollo.

So saying, he looked into Mr. George's face, and waited to see if Mr. George had any objection to his going.

"Very well," said Mr. George.

So Rollo went off to the place where the young men were standing, and soon afterwards Mr. George and the others of the party could see that the strangers were showing him the instrument, and apparently explaining it to him. Pretty soon Rollo returned and reported that the two young men were students, and that the instrument which they had was a metallic barometer, and that they were measuring the height of the mountain with it.

This metallic barometer is quite a curious instrument. You will often read, in books, of measuring the height of a mountain, or other lofty place, by the barometer; and to most people this is quite a mystery. The explanation of it is, however, very simple. It is this: The earth is surrounded on all sides by the atmosphere, which, though very light, has a certain weight, and it presses with considerable force upon the ground, and upon every thing that is exposed to it. If, however, you go up from the ground, as, for instance, when you ascend a mountain, the higher you go, the less the pressure is. This is naturally to be expected, for the higher you go in such a case, the less air there is above you to press. Now, a barometer is an instrument to measure the pressure of the air, just as a thermometer measures the heat or coldness of it. A metallic barometer is a new kind, in which the air presses on a curiously contrived ring or band of brass, and according as it presses more or less, it moves an index like the hand of a watch, which is placed on the face of it. It was such an instrument as this that the two students had, on Vesuvius.

The way in which you use such an instrument to measure the height of a mountain is this: You look at the instrument when you are at the bottom of the mountain, before you begin your ascent, and see how it stands. There is a little index like the hour hand of a watch, which is movable. This you set at the point where the other index stands when you are at the foot of the mountain. Then you begin your ascent. You shut up your barometer if you please, and put it in your knapsack, or in the chaise box, or any where else you please. Wherever you put it, the pressure of the air will find it out, and penetrate to it, and as you gradually rise from the surface of the earth, the index, which is connected with the curious brass ring, moves slowly backward as the pressure diminishes. This motion continues as long as you continue ascending. If you come to a level place, it remains stationary as long as the level continues. If you descend, it goes forward a little, and then begins to go back again as soon as you once more begin to ascend. Then, when you get to the top of the mountain, you look at it, and you see at once how much the pressure of the air has diminished. From this, by an easy calculation, you tell at once how high you have come.

Mr. George knew all about the barometer, and the means of measuring heights with it, though he had never seen an instrument of this particular kind. He was accordingly very much interested in Rollo's account of it, and he said he had a great mind to go and see it himself.

"I wish you would," said Rollo. "I told them that I thought you would like to see it, and they said that they should be very happy to show it to you."

Mr. George accordingly went to see the instrument, and the students gave him so cordial a reception, that he formed at once quite an intimate acquaintance with them. Indeed they were quite pleased to find a person on the mountain who sympathized with them in their scientific inquiries and pursuits, and was capable of understanding and appreciating them. They told Mr. George that they were going to remain on the mountain until after dark, in order to see it in its night aspects, and they invited him to remain with them.

"Then to-morrow," said they, "we are going across the mountain down through the back ravines, to study the geological structure of the old lava beds, and so come out at Pompeii."

Mr. George said there could be nothing that he should enjoy more, were it not that he had ladies under his charge, and that he felt bound to accompany them back to Naples.

Rollo, when he heard this invitation, immediately felt a strong desire that Mr. George should go, and that he might go too. He instantly perceived, however, that this was out of the question; but he thought that by cordially falling in with the plan of allowing Mr. George to go, he might, perhaps, be the means of accomplishing it. Many boys, in such a case, when they find that a plan of enjoyment that is proposed is one which they cannot themselves share, do all they can to hinder and oppose it altogether. But Rollo had now travelled about the world so much, and had acquired so much experience, that he was above such folly as this.

"Uncle George," said he, "you can go just as well as not. I can take care of Rosie down the mountain to the Hermitage, and then we shall have nothing to do but to get into the carriage and ride home."

Mr. George saw at once how generous it was in Rollo to make this offer, and he said he would so far accept it as to let Rollo take charge of the party going home from the Hermitage in the carriage; but he felt bound, he said, not to leave Rosie until he had returned her safe to her mother's hands. So he said to the students, -- 

"I will go down the cone with Rosie and the two boys, and accompany them as far as the Hermitage. There I shall find Mrs. Gray and the carriage. If Mrs. Gray seems cordially willing to go home with the children alone, I will come back here and join you; but if I find she does not seem entirely willing, -- if she looks sober about it, -- then I will go back to Naples; though in that case I shall come to Pompeii to-morrow, and shall hope to meet you there."

"I hope the lady will be willing to release you," said one of the students.

"I have but little doubt that she will," said Mr. George.

Accordingly, after rambling about on the margin of the crater a little time longer, and gathering all the specimens which they required, Mr. George and the children commenced their descent. One of the students went down with them, in order to accompany Mr. George back. The descent was very easy, for the path led down a slope, where, instead of being rocky as it was where they came up, there was little else but loose sand, so that at every step they took they slid down a great way, and thus went, very fast and very easily, from the top to the bottom.

When they reached the foot of the slope, they found the mules and donkeys there. Rollo and Josie insisted that Mr. George and the student should ride, because they had got to ascend the cone again.

"Besides," said Rollo, "if you ride you can get there quicker, and arrange the business with Mrs. Gray."

Mr. George was right in anticipating that Mrs. Gray would give her cordial consent to have him leave the party.

"I shall miss your company," said she, "but I feel perfectly safe in going home in the carriage with Philippe and the boys. Besides, I shall want to hear an account of your adventures on the mountain in the night, and in crossing over by the ravines to-morrow. And then if you are willing," she added, "we will all come and meet you at Pompeii to-morrow."

"I should like that very much indeed," said Mr. George. "Philippe will arrange every thing for you."

This being all settled, Mrs. Gray and the children entered the carriage and set out for Naples, while Mr. George and the student turned their faces towards the mountain again.



Chapter VIII.

Pompeii.


On the evening of the day on which the excursion to Vesuvius was made, Rollo came into Mrs. Gray's room, wearing a somewhat disturbed countenance. He told Mrs. Gray that he had got some bad news for her.

"Ah," said Mrs. Gray, "I'm sorry to hear that. What is the bad news?"

"Philippe is engaged for to-morrow," said Rollo, "and so he cannot go with us to Pompeii."

"O, how sorry I am!" said Josie. "What shall we do?"

"How is he engaged?" asked Mrs. Gray.

"He is going with a party to Baie."

"Where is Baie?" asked Josie. "Is it any where near Pompeii?"

"No," said Rollo; "it is exactly in the opposite direction. It is on the sea coast to the west, and Pompeii is on the sea coast to the east."

"What is there to be seen at Baie?" asked Mrs. Gray.

"Nothing but old ruins," said Rollo, contemptuously. "I don't see why people should want to go so far, and take away our guide, just to see old ruins. Besides, there are plenty of old ruins at Pompeii.

"But, Mrs. Gray," continued Rollo, "I don't think we need any guide at all to go to Pompeii. We can go by ourselves."

"Do you think so?" said Mrs. Gray.

"Why, you see I can engage a carriage to take us there myself," said Rollo. "I shall say 'Pompeii!' to the coachman, and point that way. And when we get to Pompeii, we shall find uncle George there, and then we shall get along well enough."

"True," said Mrs. Gray. "But then," she added, after thinking a moment, "perhaps we might miss Mr. George, after all. I don't know how large a place it is. If it is a large place, we might miss him in some of the streets."

Here Rosie opened a guide book which lay upon the table, and turned to a map of Pompeii which she recollected to have seen there. Her hope was to find that there were not many streets, and thus to show that there would not be much danger of missing Mr. George. She found, however, that the plan of the town looked quite complicated. There was a long street, called the Street of the Tombs, leading into it; and then within the walls there were a great many other streets, crossing each other, and running in all directions. So she shut the book, and did not say a word, thinking that the sight of the plan would impede, rather than promote, the acceptance of Rollo's proposal.

"I don't think there are a great many streets," said Rollo. "There were none at all at Herculaneum."

"Ah, but Herculaneum is a very different thing," said Mrs. Gray. "Herculaneum was buried up very deep with solid lava, and only a very small portion of it has been explored, and that you go down into as you would into a cellar or a mine. Pompeii was but just covered, and that only with sand and ashes; and the sand and ashes have all been dug out and carted off from a large part of the city, so as to bring the whole out in the open day."

"Then it will be a great deal pleasanter place to visit," said Rosie.

"Yes," said Mrs. Gray; "and I don't think that there will be much danger in our going by ourselves. If we don't find Mr. George, we can walk about a while, and then come back in the carriage again."

"We might go by the railroad if we chose," said Rollo. "There is a railroad that runs along the coast, and passes very near Pompeii."

"I think we had better take a carriage," said Mrs. Gray, "because a carriage will take us and leave us wherever we wish. There will be more changes if we go by the railroad, and we should need to speak more."

It was finally agreed that the party should go, and Rollo and Josie were to have a carriage ready at nine o'clock the next morning. They were all to breakfast at eight o'clock.

Now it happens there is no difficulty in getting a carriage at Naples. The streets are full of them. They are very pretty carriages too, as they are seen standing in pleasant weather, with the tops turned back, showing the soft cushions on the seats that look so inviting. The coachmen who drive these carriages are very eager to get customers. They watch at the doors of the hotels, and every where, indeed, along the streets, and whenever they see a lady and gentleman coming, they drive forward to meet them, and call out to offer them the carriage; and sometimes they go along for some distance by the side of the strangers, trying to induce them to get in.

Some of these carriages have two horses, and contain a front and a back seat. Others have only one horse, and only a back seat; but they all look very nice and tidy, and the price to be paid for them is quite low.

The party all breakfasted together the next morning, and they went down into the dining room for their breakfast, instead of taking it in Mrs. Gray's room. They did this at the request of the boys, who said it was more amusing to go into the public room and see the different parties that came in for early breakfasts, and hear them talk, in various languages, of the different excursions that they are going to make that day.

At about a quarter before nine, Rollo and Josie went out to look for a carriage. Rollo stopped at the office of the hotel in going out, and inquired of the secretary how much ought to be paid for a carriage with two horses to go to Pompeii. The secretary told him three dollars.

He and Josie then went out into the street. There was a long row of carriages, some with two horses and some with one, standing in the middle of the street opposite to the hotel. The coachmen of all these carriages, as soon as they saw the boys come out, began immediately to call out to them, and crack their whips, and make other such demonstrations to attract their attention.

"Now," said Rollo to Josie, "we must walk along carelessly, and not appear to look at the carriages as if we wanted one; for if we do, they will come driving towards us in a body. We will walk along quietly till we come to a nice carriage and a first rate pair of horses, and then we'll go right up to the coachman and engage him."

This the boys did. They sauntered along with a careless air, concealing the desire they had to engage a carriage, until at last they came to one which Rollo thought would do. The instant the boys stopped before this carriage, the coachman jumped down from his box, and began to open the carriage door for them, and at the same time all the other coachmen in the line began cracking their whips, and calling out to the boys again to come and take their carriages. Rollo paid no attention to them, but addressed the coachman of the carriage which he had selected, and said in French, "To Pompeii."

"Si, signore, si, signore," said the coachman, which Rollo knew very well meant "Yes, sir, yes, sir." At the same time the coachman made eager gestures for the boys to get in.

But Rollo would not get in, but waited to make his bargain about the price.

"Quanto?" said he. Quanto is the Italian word for how much. In saying Quanto, Rollo held up the fingers of his right hand, to denote to the coachman that he was to show him by his fingers how many piastres.

The coachman said four, speaking in Italian, and at the same time held up four fingers.

"No," said Rollo, "three." And Rollo held up three fingers.

The coachman seemed to hesitate a moment; but when he saw that the boys were ready to go away and apply for another carriage unless he would take them for the regular and proper price, he said, "Si, signore," again, and once more motioned for the boys to get in. So they got in, and the coachman drove to the hotel door.

Mrs. Gray and Rosie were all ready, and when they came to see the carriage which the boys had chosen for them, they were very much pleased with it.

"I don't see but that you can manage the business, Rollo," said Mrs. Gray, "as well as any courier or valet de place that we could have."

"How could you make him understand what you wanted, without speaking Italian?" asked Rosie.

"I did it partly by signs," said Rollo.

The road to Pompeii, for the first few miles, was the same with the one to Vesuvius, which they had taken the day before. It led first through the busiest part of Naples, along by the docks and the shipping, and then through the series of towns and villages which line the shore of the bay, at the foot of the slopes of Vesuvius. After passing in this manner through one continued street for five or six miles, the road came out more into the open country, where fine views were had of the mountain on one side, and of the bay on the other. The mountain sides were generally extremely fertile, being covered with vineyards and groves, though here and there were to be seen the streams of lava which had come down within a few hundred years, and which had not yet become disintegrated and converted into soil. These streams of lava looked like torrents of brown water suddenly turned into stone, as they came streaming down the mountain side.

In one place, one of these streams of lava passed under a town. That is to say, such was the appearance. The fact was, really, that the lava had destroyed the part of the town that came in its way, and the people had built up their houses again on the top of it. The lava was cut down a little in making the road, so that you could see at the road side a portion of the stream, with the houses upon it.

After riding on in this way two or three hours, the carriage stopped at a very pleasant place, among vineyards and mulberry groves, at the entrance of a pretty lane, which led to the gates of Pompeii.

"Now," said Rosie, "our difficulties are going to begin. I don't see how we are going to know where to look for Mr. George."

"We will see," said Mrs. Gray.

The coachman opened the door, and all the party got out. Just then they saw at a short distance before them, where there was a sort of gate, several men in a species of uniform, which denoted that they were the persons appointed by the government to take charge of the place, and to show it to visitors. One of these men, as soon as he saw the party, seemed to look very much pleased, and he advanced to meet them with a smiling face. At the same time he said something to a boy who was near by, and the boy ran off into the town. The young man in uniform, when he came near to Mrs. Gray, said something which at first she could not understand, but which she soon perceived was an attempt to pronounce the words, Il Signore Holiday.

"Ah! he has seen Mr. George," said Mrs. Gray. "Mr. George has been here, and has told him to watch for us."

This supposition on the part of Mrs. Gray was correct. Mr. George had come early with the students to Pompeii, in order to be ready there to receive Mrs. Gray and her party, and he had stationed this man at the gate to watch for them, with directions to send the boy in for him at an appointed place, as soon as they should arrive. The boy soon found Mr. George, and he came immediately back to the gate. Of course the whole party were very much pleased to see him.

"And yet," said Mrs. Gray, "Rollo has managed so well that I should not have felt any anxiety if we had continued under his sole charge all day."

The party now commenced their exploration of Pompeii. They found it, as they had expected, all open to the day. A great many of the streets, with all the houses bordering them, had been cleared, and all the sand and gravel under which they had been buried had been carted away. Immense heaps of this rubbish were lying outside the entrance, and the party had passed them in the carriage on their approach to the town. They had been lying there so long, however, that they were covered with grass and small trees, and they looked like great railroad embankments.

Indeed, the appearance which Pompeii presents now is that of a large open village of ruined and roofless one-storied houses. Many of the houses were originally two stories high, it is true; but the upper stories have been destroyed or shaken down, and in general it is the lower story only that now remains.

The structure of the houses, in respect to plan and general arrangement, is very different from that of the dwellings built in our towns at the present day. The chief reasons for the difference arise from the absence of windows and chimneys in the houses of the ancients, and of course the leaving out of windows and chimneys in a house makes it necessary to change every thing.

The inhabitants of Pompeii had no chimneys, because the climate there is so mild that they seldom needed a fire; and when they did need one, it was easier to make a small one in an open vessel, and let it stand in the middle of the room, or wherever it was required, than to make a chimney and a fireplace. The open pan in which the fires were made in those days stood on legs, and could be moved about any where. The fire was made of small twigs cut from the trees. The people would let the pan stand in the open air until the twigs were burnt to coal, and then they would carry the pan, with the embers still glowing, into the room which they wished to warm, and place it wherever it was required.

The same contrivance is used at the present day in Naples, and in all the towns of that region. In going along the streets in a cool evening or morning, you will often see one of these brass pans before a door, with a little fire blazing in it, and children or other persons before it, warming their hands. Afterwards, if you watch, you will see that the people take it into the house.

The ancient inhabitants of Pompeii depended entirely on arrangements like these for warming their rooms. There is not a chimney to be found in the whole town.

In respect to windows, the reason why they did not have them was because they had no glass to put into them. They could not make glass in those days well enough and easily enough to use it for windows. Of course they had openings in their houses to admit the air and the light, and these openings might perhaps be called windows. But in order to prevent the wind and rain from coming in, it was necessary to have them placed in sheltered situations, as, for example, under porticos and piazzas. The custom therefore arose of having a great many porticos in the houses, with rooms opening from them; and in order that they might not be too much exposed, they were generally made so as to have the open side of them inwards, towards the centre of the house, where a small, square place was left, without a roof over it, to admit the light and air.

Of course the rain would come in through this open space, and the floor of it was generally formed into a square marble basin, to receive the water. This was called the impluvium. Sometimes there was a fountain in the centre of the impluvium, and all around it were the porticos, within and under which were the doors opening into the different rooms.

The guide, who conducted Mr. George and his party, led them into several of these houses, and every one was much interested in examining the arrangement of the rooms, and in imagining how the people looked in going in and out, and in living in them. The bed rooms were extremely small. The walls of some of them were beautifully painted, but the rooms themselves were often not much bigger than a state room in a steamship. The bedstead was a sort of berth, formed upon a marble shelf built across from wall to wall.

In some of the houses there were more rooms than could be arranged around one court; and in such cases there were two, and sometimes three courts. In one case, the third court was a garden, with a beautiful portico formed of ornamental columns all around it. Beneath this portico the ladies of the house, in rainy weather, could walk at their ease, and see the flowers growing in the garden, just as well as if the weather were fair.

Under this portico, all around, was a subterranean chamber, which seemed to be used as a sort of cellar. And yet it was very neatly finished, and the walls of it were ornamented in such a way as to lead people to suppose that it might have been used as a cool walk in warm weather. This passage way was first discovered by means of the steps leading down to it. It was almost full of earth, which earth consisted of volcanic sand and ashes, which had flowed into it in the form of mud.

On one side of this subterranean passage way, near the entrance, there were a number of skeletons found. These skeletons were in a standing position against the wall, where the persons had been stopped and buried up by the mud as it flowed in. The marks left by the bodies against the wall remain to this day, and Rollo and all the party saw them.

One of the skeletons was that of a female, and there were a great many rings on the fingers of the hands, and bracelets, necklaces, and other ornaments on the other bones. From this circumstance it is supposed that this person was the wife of the owner of the house, and that in trying to save herself and her jewelry upon her, she had fled with the servants to this cellar, and there had been overwhelmed.

There were very few skeletons found in the houses of Pompeii; from which circumstance it is supposed that the inhabitants generally had time to escape. There was, however, one remarkable case. It was that of a sentinel in his sentry box, at the gate of the city. He would not leave his post, as it would seem, and so perished at the station where he had been placed. His head, with the helmet still upon it, was carried to the museum at Naples, where it is now seen by all the world, and every one who sees it utters some expression of praise for the courage and fidelity which the poor fellow displayed in fulfilling his trust.

The streets of the town were narrow, but they were paved substantially with large and solid stones, flat at the top. Along these streets there were a great many very curious shops, such as barbers' shops, painters' shops, wine shops, and the like. The wine shops were furnished with deep jars set in a sort of stone counter. The jars were open-mouthed, and the men who kept the shops were accustomed apparently to dip the wine out of them, in selling to their customers.

After passing through a number of these streets, the party came at length to a great public square called the Forum. This square was surrounded with the ruins of temples, and other great public edifices. The columns and porticos which bordered the square are all now more or less in ruins; but there are still so many of them standing as to show exactly what the forms of the buildings must have been when they were complete, and how the square must have appeared.

In another part of the town were the remains of two theatres, and outside the walls an immense amphitheatre, where were exhibited the combats of wild beasts, and those of the gladiators. There are a great many ruins of amphitheatres like this scattered over Italy. They are of an oval form, and the seats extend all around. The place where the combats took place was a level spot in the centre, called the arena.

In viewing these various ruins, Mr. George and the two students seemed most interested in the theatres, and temples, and other great public edifices, while Mrs. Gray and the children seemed to think a great deal more of the houses and the shops. There was one baker's shop with the oven entire, and three stone hand mills, in which the baker used to grind his corn. There were a great many curious utensils and implements found in this shop, when it was first excavated; but Mr. George said that they had all been removed.

"I wish they had let them stay here," said Rollo.

"It would be a great deal more interesting to us to see them here," said Mr. George, "but they would not have been safe. The government has therefore built an immense museum at Naples, and every thing that is movable has been carried there. So we come here first to see the town and the remains of the shops and the houses, and then afterwards we go to the museum at Naples to see the things that were found in them."

*    *    *    *    *

After rambling about in Pompeii for several hours, the party went out by another gate, where they found the carriage waiting for them, and so returned home.



Chapter IX.

The Museum.


The great museum at Naples is one of the most wonderful collections of curiosities in the world. It is contained in an immense building, which is divided into numerous galleries and halls, each of which is devoted to some special department of art.

It was the plan of our party to go and see the museum on the day after their visit to Pompeii, -- or rather to begin to see it; for it requires a great deal more than one day even to walk cursorily through the rooms.

On the morning of the day in question, Mrs. Gray said to Mr. George, at breakfast, that she had a plan to propose.

"What is it?" asked Mr. George.

"I am afraid that you will not think it very polite in me to propose it," said Mrs. Gray, "but it is this: that when we get into the museum, we should divide into two parties. Let Rollo go with me and the children, while you join your friends the students, and accompany them. Then we can go through the rooms in our way, and you can go in yours."

Mr. George hesitated. For a moment he seemed not to know what to reply to this proposal.

"The reason is," said Mrs. Gray, "that the objects which you and the students will have in view in the visit, may very likely be different from ours. You will want to study the antiquities, and the old Latin and Greek inscriptions, and the monuments illustrating ancient history; but we should not understand such things. We shall be interested in the paintings, and the rings, and jewels, and ornaments found in Pompeii, and in the household implements and utensils."

"But we shall want to see all those things, too," said Mr. George.

"True," replied Mrs. Gray; "but you will not wish to devote so great a portion of time to them. You will wish to devote most of your time to the learned things, and will pass rapidly over the pretty things and the curious things, while with us it will be just the other way."

"Yes, uncle George," said Rollo, "that will be the best plan. Josie and I can take care of Mrs. Gray, and you can go where you please."

Mr. George seemed at first quite unwilling to accept this proposal. He said he would go with Mrs. Gray to any part of the museum that she pleased, and remain there with her as long as she desired; and that, far from being any inconvenience to him to do so, it would be a pleasure. But Mrs. Gray said that it was on her account more than on his, that she made the proposal.

"Because," said she, "if you are with us I shall be thinking all the time that perhaps it would be better for you to be somewhere else; whereas, with Rollo and the children, I can stroll about wherever I please."

In this view of the case, Mr. George consented to her proposal. Accordingly, after breakfast, he left Rollo to engage a carriage and take Mrs. Gray and the others to the museum, while he went to find his two friends, the students, at another hotel, where they were lodging. They were all to meet in the hall of the museum at ten o'clock.

At half past nine Rollo had a nice carriage at the door. Josie sat in the carriage while Rollo went up to Mrs. Gray's room to tell her that it was ready. Rosie, who was still far from being strong, leaned on Rollo's arm coming down stairs.

"I am very glad that you are going to have the care of us to-day, instead of Mr. George," said she.

"So am I," said Rollo. "I am very glad indeed."

"I don't care any thing at all about his old learned inscriptions," said Rosie.

"Nor do I much," said Rollo. "Still they are very curious, when once we understand them."

"Perhaps they may be," said Rosie, "but I don't care about them. What I want is, to see the pretty things."

"Yes," said Rollo, "and I will show you all the pretty things I can find."

Rollo assisted the two ladies into the carriage, and then, after getting in himself, he ordered the coachman to drive to the museum. The way lay first through one or two open squares, bordered with churches, porticos, and palaces, and then through a long, straight street, called the Toledo. This is the principal street of shops in Naples, and is said to be the most populous and crowded street in Europe. It was so thronged with people every where, in the middle of the street as well as upon the sidewalks, that the carriage could scarcely pass along.

At length, however, it arrived at the museum. There was a spacious stone platform before the building, with a broad flight of stone steps ascending to it. Rollo assisted his party to descend from the carriage, and then he stopped to pay the coachman, while they went up the steps. Rollo joined them on the platform.

The doors of the museum building, which were immensely large, were open, but they were guarded by a soldier, who walked back and forth before the entrance, carrying his gun with the bayonet set. Rollo paid no attention to him, but walked directly in. Josie walked by his side, and Mrs. Gray and Rosie followed them.

"Now," said Rollo, "we must wait here until uncle George comes."

The hall into which they had entered was very large and very lofty, and the columns and staircases that were to be seen here and there adorning it were very grand. On different sides were various passages, with doors leading to the several apartments and ranges of apartments of the museum. These doors were all open, but the entrance to each was closed by an iron gate, and each gate had a man standing near it to guard it. Over each of these doors was an inscription containing the name of the particular department of the museum to which it led.

By the side of the great door of entrance was a small room in a corner, kept by two men in uniform. This was the place for the visitors to deposit their canes and umbrellas in. It is not safe to allow people in general to take such things into cabinets of curiosities, for there are many who have so little discretion, that, in pointing to the objects around them, they would often touch them with the iron end of the umbrella or the cane, and so scratch or otherwise injure them.

Rollo took Mrs. Gray's parasol from her hand and gave it to one of the men. The man put a strap around it. The strap had a ticket with the number 49 upon it. He gave another ticket, also marked 49, to Rollo, and Rollo put it in his pocket.

At this moment Rollo saw Mr. George and the two students coming in at the door. The three gentlemen deposited their canes at the little office just as Mrs. Gray had done with her parasol, and then the whole party advanced into the great hall.

Mr. George and the students went with Mrs. Gray and the children into the first room, but they soon left them, and after that Rollo was the sole guide.

Each department of the museum was contained in a separate suit of apartments, at the entrance to which, as I have already said, there was a small iron gate across the doorway. This little gate was kept shut and locked; but there was a man who stood by it, inside, always ready to open it whenever he saw any visitors coming. He always shut and locked the door again when the visitors went in. Then, finally, when they were ready to come out, he unlocked the gate for them, and it was then that they were expected to pay the fee for visiting that part of the museum. Rollo had taken care to inquire about this beforehand, and he had provided himself with a sufficient number of pieces of money of the right value, so as not to have any trouble in making change.

In most of the rooms there were men who had pictures for sale, illustrating the objects contained there, for visitors to buy, in order to carry them home as souvenirs of their visit, and to show to their friends at home. Mrs. Gray bought quite a number of these pictures, and Rollo himself bought several.

The rooms that interested the young persons most were those which contained the tools and household implements, and the various utensils found at Pompeii. In general these things were much more similar to the corresponding articles of the present day than one would have expected to find. But yet there were many differences, both of form and structure, which made them extremely curious to see.

For instance, there was a bell found in one of the houses; but instead of being hollow, and having a clapper inside, as is the custom at the present day, it consisted simply of a large, flat ring, like a plate, with a hole through the centre of it. This ring was hung up by means of a short chain, and by the side of it there was hung a sort of hammer. To ring the bell it was necessary to strike it with this hammer. An attendant in the room did this while Mrs. Gray and Rollo were there, to let them hear how the bell sounded.

"It sounds very well indeed," said Rollo.

"Yes," replied Rosie; "but I don't think it is quite so musical as one of our bells."

There were several pairs of steelyards in the room, too, which were very much like the steelyards of the present day, only they were made of a more ornamental form. The weights were quite pretty little pieces of sculpture and statuary.

There were some very curious and pretty little cooking fireplaces, one of which, in particular, the young people admired very much indeed. Rosie said that she should have liked it very much herself, when she was a child, to play with. In the centre was a sort of pan for the coals, or embers, and all around was a raised border, made double, with a space between to contain water. In one corner there was a raised part, with an opening to pour in the water, and in front, below, there was a small faucet for the purpose of drawing the water out. Of course the embers or coals in the centre of the pan kept the water in the reservoir around it always warm.

There was also a little place on one side where a kettle or a saucepan could stand on two supports, with an opening below to put the coals under.

A great many of the floors in Pompeii were found to be in mosaic; that is, they were formed of various colored stones, arranged together in a sort of bed of cement, in such a manner as to show a picture, or some other ornamental design. In many cases there were only two kinds of stones used, black and white; and these were arranged so as to form borders, scrolls, and pattern work, -- as it is called, -- of various kinds. In some places a border was formed around the room, and the figure of some animal was placed in the centre. In other cases groups of animals, or of men, were represented, in a very perfect manner. It has always been considered wonderful that such spirited and beautiful designs could be so well represented by a method apparently so rude as the arrangement on a floor of bits of different colored stones.

The best of these mosaics were taken up and removed to the museum. You would think at first that it would be impossible to remove them in any other way than by taking them all to pieces and putting them together again, each little stone in its proper place, on the floor of the museum, where the mosaic was intended to go. But the artists contrived a way to take them up without all this labor, and thus several of the best ones have been removed without disturbing the arrangement of the stones, and have been laid down on the floors of the museum.

One of the most curious of these mosaics is a representation of a dog, which was placed just within the entrance of a house, and just at the entrance were the words, also in mosaic, CAVE CANEM, which is the Latin for LOOK OUT FOR THE DOG. On the preceding page is a representation of this mosaic.

This mosaic was curious rather than wonderful; but in another house there was one which has always been considered a most marvellous production, on account of the complicated character of the design, and the immense number of stones composing it. It represents a battle scene, and contains a great number of men and horses, all mingled together in great confusion on the field of battle. The number of pieces of stone used in making this mosaic is almost incalculable.

Although it was originally made as part of a floor, it is now very carefully guarded, and no one is allowed to walk upon it. It is surrounded by a railing, and along one side of it there is a raised platform for visitors to stand upon in order to see it to advantage.

There were one or two large rooms that were filled with beautifully-formed jars and vases, of a brownish color, and ornamented upon the outside with figures and devices of all kinds. These devices represented all sorts of scenes, and they are considered extremely valuable on account of the light they throw on the manners and customs, and the modes of life, which prevailed in those ancient days. Some of these vases are of very great value. They are very large, and to enable the visitor to see them on all sides, without danger of breaking them, a great many of them are mounted in the museum on stands fitted with a revolving top, so that they can be turned round, and made to present all the sides successively to the spectator. In addition to this, some of the finest specimens are protected by a large glass bell placed over them.

Mrs. Gray and the children found Mr. George and the two students in this room, when they first came into it. Mr. George said that they were going to stay there nearly all that day. They wished to examine the drawings on the vases in detail. Rollo looked at a few of them, but he could not understand them very well.

"You will understand them better," said Mr. George, "when you have learned more about the ancient mythology."

"But then I shall not be here to see them," rejoined Rollo.

"True," replied Mr. George, "but they have all been copied and engraved, and you will find them exactly reproduced in books in all the great libraries of the world. All that you can do now is to take a general view of them, and of the room containing them, and to examine one or two in detail, and then, by and by, when you wish to study them more particularly, you must do it from the drawings. You will find that the interest that you will take in the drawings will be greatly increased by your having had this opportunity to see the originals."

Mr. George conducted Mrs. Gray and Rosie to one of the vases which stood near a window, on one of the revolving stands; and while an attendant turned it slowly round, so as to exhibit the successive sides to view, he explained to them the meaning of the figures, and showed them what the different people were doing.

After remaining a short time in this department, Rollo and his party went on, leaving Mr. George and the two students still there.

But the room which interested Mrs. Gray and Rosie most, was what is called the Gem Room. It contains all the gems and jewelry, and other personal ornaments, that were found at Herculaneum and Pompeii, as well as a great many other very curious things. There were rings, bracelets, and necklaces, made of gold, and adorned with precious stones; and there were a great many signets and other gems engraved in the most delicate and exquisite manner. These things were all arranged in glass cases, so that they could be seen to great advantage, but they could not be touched. There were a great many other curious things in this room; and there were also a great many other very curious rooms, all of which Mrs. Gray and the children walked through, though there were so many things to be seen in them, that, in the end, they became quite bewildered. In the mean time the hours passed away, and at length Mrs. Gray, looking at her watch, said it was nearly four o'clock, which was the hour for the museum to be closed. So they did not go into any more rooms, but concluded to go home. They went down the great staircase, towards the entrance door, and then, after stopping to get Mrs. Gray's parasol, they took a carriage and drove home. Mrs. Gray said that she had seen the museum, but not the things that were in it.

"We have scarcely seen one in a thousand of them," said she.



Chapter X.

The Streets.


Mr. George continued for many days wholly engrossed with his studies in the museum, so that Rollo saw very little of him, and had no help from him in respect to finding occupation and amusement.

"Indeed," said Rollo to Rosie one evening, "I have lost the use of him altogether."

Rollo was, however, not at all at a loss for the means of spending his time. It was an endless amusement for him and Josie to ramble about the streets, and observe the countless variety of scenes and incidents which were going on there. It is the custom at Naples, among all the lower classes of the people, to do every thing in the street, and all the sidewalks and open spaces, especially along the quays, were occupied by hundreds of families, engaged in every species of trade and manufacture, and in all sorts of domestic occupations. Here, in a wide place by the side of the street, cabinet makers would be at work, polishing tables, or making veneers, or putting together the frames of bureaus. A little farther on, a large space would be occupied with the manufacture of iron bedsteads, with all the operations of forging, filing, polishing, and gilding going on in the open air. Next, a turner would be seen, either out upon the sidewalk, or close to his door, turning with a bow lathe; and next a range of families all along the street, the women knitting or sewing, or spinning yarn, and the children playing about on the pavements near. Perhaps one of the oldest of the children would be tending the baby, either holding it in her arms, or rocking it to sleep in a round-bottomed basket on the pavement. These round-bottomed baskets were all the cradles they seemed to have.

But what pleased Rollo and Josie most was to stroll along a street in a part of the town where the sailors lived. It was at a place where there was a wide beach, which was entirely covered with fishing boats, that had been drawn up there on the sand. Between the boats and the street there was a level place, where the fishermen's families had established themselves. Some were making or mending nets. Some were frying fish in the open air. Some were gathered around a big stone with a flat top, which they were using for a table, and were eating their breakfast or their dinner there. Some were lying stretched out upon the ground, or curled up in corners, fast asleep.

It was a very curious sight to see, and it would have been a very pretty one, had it not been that almost all these people were clothed in rags, and looked like so many beggars. Indeed, there were a great many real beggars every where about, -- so many, in fact, that no lady could have any peace at all in walking about the streets of Naples, on account of their importunity. Mrs. Gray and Rosie would have liked very much to have walked about with Rollo and Josie, in the excursions which they made in this way; but they could not do it, for every where they went, such a number of poor, diseased, crippled, and wretched-looking objects came up to them, and gathered around them, as to destroy all the pleasure.

There is no need of this at all; for Naples is a very thrifty place, and the people that live in it are abundantly able to take care of their poor. They have, in fact, built hospitals and endowed them, and the poor people who have no friends to take care of them might go to the hospitals if they chose. But as the climate in that country is mild, and they can live well enough in the open air, they prefer to ramble about the streets and beg, and there are enough inconsiderate people among the visitors always at Naples, from foreign countries, to give them money sufficient to keep up the system.

Thus every person among the lower classes in Naples, who has any disease, or infirmity, or malformation of any kind, considers it a treasure, and comes out into the street to exhibit it to all beholders, as a means of gaining money. No imagination can conceive more shocking and disgusting spectacles than those which the police of Naples allow to be brought up right before every lady or gentleman who attempts to take a walk in the streets. These sights meet you at every turn. Even if you take a carriage, you do not escape from them; for the beggars crowd around the carriage when you get into it, at the door of the hotel, and watch for it there when you come back. And when you stop on the way to go into a shop, all that are in that street at the time gather up and wait at the door till you come out; and while you are getting into the carriage, and the coachman is shutting the door and mounting upon his box, they implore, and moan, and beg, and entreat you to give them a little money. They are so wretched, they say, they are dying of hunger.

A great many of these people are really poor, no doubt; but they have no right thus to force their poverty and their diseases upon the attention of the public, when other modes, and far better modes, are provided for their relief. A great many of them, however, are impostors. Indeed, one of the greatest objections to the system of allowing the poor to get their living by begging in the streets, is the direct tendency of it to encourage and train impostors. No one can possibly know from hearing the complaint of a poor person by the wayside, or from the appearance which he presents, either how much he needs help, or how much help he may have already received; and of course, by this mode of dispensing charity, the best possible facilities are afforded for every species of deceit and imposture.

Mrs. Gray understood all this, and she saw that if every body would firmly and perseveringly refuse to give money to applicants in the public streets, the system of making an ostentatious parade of misery, real and counterfeited, that now prevails in Naples, would soon come to an end. She accordingly never gave any thing, neither did Mr. George or Rollo. Indeed Rollo and Josie were seldom molested when they were walking by themselves, for the beggars -- considering them as only two boys -- did not expect to get any thing from them.

"The only beggar that I ever gave any thing to in Naples," said Rollo, "was a poor black dog. I gave him half of a fried cake that I bought at a stall. He swallowed it in an instant. I call him a beggar because he looked up into my face so piteously, though he did not ask for any thing. He did not speak a word."

"And what did he do after you gave him the cake?" asked Rosie.

"He looked up a moment to see if I was going to give him any more," said Rollo, "and then he walked away."



Chapter XI.

An Excursion.


"Uncle George," said Rollo one morning, while he and Mr. George were eating their breakfast in the dining room, or, as they call it in Europe, the salle à manger, of the hotel, "how much longer are you going to be in studying out those things in the museum?"

"Why?" asked Mr. George. "Does your comfort or enjoyment depend in any way on the decision of that question?"

"Only we want you to go about with us, somewhere," said Rollo.

"Why, you don't need me to go about with you," said Mr. George. "Contrive some sort of excursion yourself, and take the ladies out and amuse them. You might take them out to see Pozzuoli and the Solfatara. Besides, you would be doing me a great service if you would go."

"How?" asked Rollo.

"Why, I shall want to go by and by myself," said Mr. George, "and I don't want to have any trouble in finding the way. But you like finding your way about. Now, I wish you would take a carriage, and go and take the ladies on an excursion along the bay to the westward, and show them Virgil's Tomb, and the Grotto of Posilipo, and Pozzuoli, where the apostle Paul landed on his famous journey to Rome, and the temple of Serapis, half under water, and the great amphitheatre, and the Solfatara, which is the crater of a volcano almost extinct. All these things lie pretty near together along the shores of the bay to the westward of Naples, and you can go and see them in one afternoon, they say. If you go first, you will find out all about the excursion, and what we do about guides and custodians at the different places; and then, when I get ready, you can go again and take me, and I shall not have any trouble about it."

"Just give me a list of all those places," said Rollo, eagerly.

As he spoke he handed Mr. George a pencil and a piece of paper, which he took out of his pocket. Mr. George wrote down the list, and Rollo, taking it, went up to Mrs. Gray's room.

Rollo proposed the plan to Mrs. Gray of making the excursion which Mr. George had indicated, and she was very much pleased with it.

"We'll study it all out in the guide books this evening," said Rollo, "and then to-morrow we will go."

Mrs. Gray approved of this plan, and so Rollo looked out in the guide book the account which was given there of the several places and objects of interest on Mr. George's list, and read the passages aloud to the whole party. Rosie sat beside him on the sofa, and helped him find the places, and also looked over him while he read. The account which was given of the places was very interesting indeed.

The next morning, about ten o'clock, after Mr. George had gone to the museum, Rollo and Josie went out to find a carriage. They inquired at the hotel, before they went, how much they ought to pay. When they reached the stand, they looked along the line, and finally chose one with a nice and pretty blue lining, and two jet black horses. They made their bargain with the coachman, and then drove to the door.

Mrs. Gray and Rosie were ready, and soon the party were driving rapidly along on their way out of town, passing by the gates of the public gardens, which lie in a beautiful situation along the shore, in the western part of the city. You have a view of these gardens in the engraving; and in the distance, over the tops of the houses, you see a long ridge of high land running down towards the sea. It was through this ridge of high land that the famous subterranean passage way, called the Grotto of Posilipo, was cut, to open a way for the road into the country without going over the hill.

After driving along the street which lies between the gardens and the houses on the right, as seen in the engraving, the carriage turned into another street, which runs behind the houses, and thence gradually ascended towards the entrance to the grotto. Just before reaching the entrance, the land seemed to rise to a very lofty height before and on each side of the road; and it was so built up in terraces, and garden walls, and platforms, and staircases of villas, that there seemed to be no way out. Rosie could not imagine, she said, where they could possibly be going, until at length, at a sudden turn between two lofty walls, they saw the immense mouth of the grotto opening before them.

The grotto was wide enough for two carriages to pass, and very high. It was lighted with lamps, and was full of people and of carriages going and coming. Here and there along the walls of rock on each side, near the entrance, there were a great many curious structures to be seen, and openings cut in the rock. On one side was a chapel excavated in the rock, with an iron railing in front of it, to separate it from the road. Within this railing there was an altar, with lamps burning before it, and a priest begging money of the people passing by. On the other side was an ancient monument, with a long Latin inscription upon it. Above were a great many different openings cut in the rock.

Rollo had ordered the coachman to stop at the entrance to Virgil's Tomb, and the carriage accordingly drew up before a gate which seemed to be set in the solid wall of rock which formed one side of the entrance to the grotto. There was a man standing at this gate, and as soon as he saw the carriage stop, he unlocked it. They all got out of the carriage, and went in. The way led up a long and narrow, and very steep flight of stone steps, which brought the party out at last into a sort of vineyard, or garden, on the surface of the ground above.

Here there was a path which ascended some distance higher, among grape vines and fruit trees, until at last it came to a place where there was a beautiful view of Naples and Vesuvius, and all the bay. After stopping a little time to admire this view, the party went on, following the path, which now began to descend again, and to go back towards the mouth of the grotto. Here, after climbing up and down among a great number of caverns and excavations of all kinds cut in the rock, they came down to a place just over the top of the mouth of the great grotto, where the structure which is called Virgil's Tomb is situated. It was a very strange place. Rosie said that it was the strangest place that ever she was in. Far beneath them they could hear the sound of the carriages, and the voices of men who were going in and coming out, at the mouth of the great grotto below.

After remaining here a few minutes, the party all went back down the path through the vineyard to the carriage again.

The coachman then drove on through the grotto. It was full of carts, carriages, loaded donkeys, and foot passengers, all going to or returning from Naples. The floor of it was paved with stone, and at different distances up the sides could be seen the marks made by the hubs of wheels in former ages, when the roadway was at a higher level than it is now. The natural rock is so soft that the wheel hubs cut into it very easily. This is the reason why the floor is paved too, for the rock itself would not stand the wear.

After passing through the grotto, the party emerged into a wide and open country, which presented beautiful views on every side. The road was excellent, being as hard and smooth as a floor, and the coachman drove on at great speed.

The party came at length in sight of a town, which stood on a promontory jutting out into the sea, at a short distance before them. This was the town called in ancient times Puteoli. It was in those days the great seaport of the whole bay, for Naples had not then been built. It was also the nearest good port to Rome, in coming from the south, and it was accordingly here that the apostle Paul landed when he was sent to Rome by Festus, in consequence of his having appealed unto Cesar, when accused and persecuted by the Jews. There are the ruins of an old mole still to be seen stretching out into the sea, opposite to the port, and Rollo said he thought that it must have been on that mole that Paul landed.[D]

[Footnote D: See Acts xxv, 9-12; also Acts xxviii, 13, 14.]

"Puteoli was a great place in old times," said Rollo; "and that's the reason why they had such an immense amphitheatre here. We are going to see the ruins of it presently; but first, we are going to see Solfatara."

Just at the entrance to Puteoli, or Pozzuoli, as it is now called, the party came to a bridge where there was a small ascent, that made it necessary for the carriage to go slowly; and here a great number of men, women, and children were assembled, some guides, but most of them beggars; and as soon as the carriage arrived, they all broke out at once with such a noise and clamor, that Rosie was for a moment quite alarmed.

"Never fear, Rosie," said Rollo; "I know how to manage them."

Ever so many old ragged hats and caps were stretched out towards the carriage, and three or four men and boys, who all wanted to be employed as guides, began struggling together to climb up upon the carriage, to get the seat with the driver. Rollo looked at them all, with a view of making a selection among them. He chose an intelligent-looking boy of about his own age, that the men had pushed back.

"Do you speak French?" said Rollo to the boy, of course speaking in French himself in asking the question.

"A little, sir," said the boy.

"Then I engage you," said Rollo. Then touching the coachman, he pointed to the boy, and said, "Questo," which means "this one."

So the coachman pushed the other men back, and made room for the boy to get up on the seat with him. He then whipped up the horses, and soon the other guides and the beggars, with all their noise and clamor, were left behind.

"You managed it very well, Rollo," said Mrs. Gray.

"Yes, Rollo," said Rosie, "you did it very well indeed. Next time I shall not be at all afraid."

After riding a little farther, the coachman turned into a sort of lane, and after going on for some way in the lane, he stopped. The boy got down, and said that it would be necessary for them to walk the rest of the way. So the whole party descended from the carriage, and began their walk.

After going on for nearly a quarter of a mile, they passed through a gate which seemed to be connected with some rude sort of manufactory, and then, walking on a little farther, they found themselves within the crater. It was a small, circular valley, surrounded on all sides by a ridge of earth, apparently one or two hundred feet high. The valley might have been about a third or a quarter of a mile in diameter. The bottom of it was level, and was covered with a scanty vegetation. The soil was very white, as if it were formed of substances calcined by exposure to the fire.

An old man met them at the gate, and led the way in towards the middle of the crater, along a sort of cart road. After a while he stopped, and took up a large stone -- as large as a man's head. This stone he threw down with great force upon the ground two or three times, to show how hollow the ground sounded. It did sound very hollow indeed, and the peculiar resonance which is produced here by this experiment is generally considered as proving that there is a great void space below the surface, and that the bottom of the crater may some day or other fall in.

At a little distance farther on, on the other side of the crater, and close at the foot of the ridge of earth that surrounds it, there was to be seen a column of dense smoke, or rather of vapor, coming up out of the ground.

The guide led the way towards this place, and all the party followed him. As they approached it, they heard a roaring sound, which grew louder and louder as they drew near. When they arrived at the spot, they saw that the steam was issuing from the mouth of a cavern that opened there; and as it came out, it made a noise like the roaring of a steam pipe when the engineer is blowing off steam.

Mrs. Gray and the three children stood gazing at this phenomenon for some time in silence. At length Rollo said, "What an astonishing blast that is, to be coming up out of the earth, day and night, continually and forever!"

"The ground is very hot all about here," said the boy. "See!"

So saying, he pointed to the old man, who was at work not far from the mouth of the cave, digging into the ground a little way with a sharp hoe. He dug down a few inches, and then took up a hoe full of the earth, and held it out to Rollo to try it with his fingers, that he might feel how hot it was. Rollo put his fingers upon the earth, but he could not hold them there an instant.

It seemed to Mrs. Gray that it must be dangerous to remain long in such a place; and so she prepared to move away, and Rollo and Josie, as they had now seen all that there was to be seen at this place, followed her. They went on by the road, round to another part of the crater, where there was some sort of manufactory of alum. The alum was made from the saline earth which was found there, and the evaporating basins used in the process, instead of being placed over a fire, were simply set in the ground, so that the process of evaporation was carried on by the natural heat of the soil.

After leaving this place, the party followed the circuit of the road still farther, until at last it brought them back to the place where they had entered the crater; and here, after paying the old man who had conducted them around, they passed out through the gate, and went down the lane to their carriage.

"Now to the amphitheatre," said Rollo, addressing the coachman.

So they all got into the carriage again, and the coachman drove down the lane; and after going back towards the town a little way, and making various turns, he stopped at last before a great wooden gate. A man in a certain uniform appeared at the gate and unlocked it, and they all went in.

They saw before them the walls of an immense ruin. The wall was of a curved form, and there were vast openings in it, like arches, below. The man in uniform, who was the custodian, as they call him, of the ruin, led the way along a path into one of these arches, and thence ascended a massive flight of old stone steps, to a place which commanded a view of the interior.

They saw that the amphitheatre was of an oval form, and was built with seats rising one above another, all around, to a great height. The seats were all of stone, and at regular intervals between them were flights of steps for going up and down. In the centre, below, was a large level space, called the arena. All around the arena, and under the seats, were immense galleries or passage ways among the arches, some of which were below the level of the ground. Some of these galleries were for the spectators to use in passing from one part of the building to another, and others were used for the dens and cages of the wild beasts that were kept there to fight in the arena, for the amusement of the people.

The guide led the way through all these places, and it was not until after walking about through them for some time that Mrs. Gray and the children obtained a full conception of the magnitude of the structure. The guide told them that it contained room for forty thousand people.

"What a dreadful place it must have been!" said Rosie, as she followed the guide round through the subterranean chambers.

"They used to hoist the cages that contained the wild beasts up through these openings," said the guide, pointing to some large circular openings in the masonry above, "and then open the gates, and let them out into the arena. The cages were so contrived that when the keeper opened the door to let the beast out, by the same motion he shut himself in, so as to be safe out of his way. He then, afterwards, got out behind, by another door."

There was a very wide and deep canal open in the centre of the arena, with a communication for water connected with a vast reservoir a little way off. By means of this canal the whole of the arena could be flooded with water, so as to form a little lake for naval battles. The guide took the party down to the bottom of this canal, and showed them a large, circular opening in the masonry below, for drawing off water. This opening connected with a conduit, which ran off towards the sea.

The spectacles which were exhibited by the ancients in such buildings as these were real combats of beasts with one another, or of beasts with men, and sometimes of men with one another. At first, the men who were compelled to maintain these combats were convicts, who were condemned to them as a punishment for their crimes. The beasts were lions, tigers, and other ferocious animals that were caught in the forests in Africa, or in other remote parts of the Roman empire, and brought to the great cities for this special purpose.

A great many of the early Christians were compelled to meet these beasts in such conflicts, in the persecutions which they endured. The rulers of the country chose to consider them as criminals for being believers in Jesus, and so doomed them to this dreadful punishment.

It was shocking to think of the scenes that had probably been enacted in this very amphitheatre; and Mrs. Gray and Rosie, after they had examined it in every part, were not sorry to go away.

Rollo next directed the coachman to drive to the Temple of Serapis. The curiosity of the Temple of Serapis, which stands on the shore, just at the entrance of the town, is, that it is partly under water. It seems that from the effects of earthquakes, or from some other similar agency, the whole coast in this region rises and falls in the course of ages, and that at the present time it is several feet lower than it was in the days of the Romans. The consequence is, that many structures which were originally built upon the land, are now partly or wholly submerged in the sea. In passing along the coast in a boat, you can see a great many of these ruins in the water. There is one, however, which can be seen without going out in a boat at all. It is a temple called the Temple of Serapis.

It stands on the margin of the shore, and the floor of it is now about a foot or two under water. This floor is very extensive, and a great many columns and other superstructures are still standing upon it, the whole of which can be easily explored by the visitor, by means of a raised stone pathway, made by the government, which traverses it in all directions. It is a very curious place indeed.

Rollo and his party were admitted to the ruin through a gate, kept as usual by the custodian appointed by the government; and then they walked all over the ruin upon the raised stone path. They looked down through the water, and saw the marble floor of the temple below, and the columns rising up from it with their bases submerged. There is proof that at one time these ruins were fifteen or twenty feet lower than they are now, and that they have since come up again. The next earthquake may depress the whole coast again, in which case the floor of the temple will be once more deep under water; or it may raise it so as to bring the ruins all up once more, high and dry.

Rollo wished very much to take a boat, and go out and see the ruins that lie under water along the coast; but he knew very well that Mrs. Gray would not like to go out in a boat, nor to have Rosie go, at least unless Mr. George were with them, and so he did not propose the plan. He, however, only reserved it for the time when he should come again to see the ruins, in company with his uncle.

After concluding the visit to the Temple of Serapis, Rollo paid the boy whom he had taken for the guide when he first arrived at Pozzuoli, and then the party drove home.

Mrs. Gray insisted on paying the whole expense of this excursion; and she was so much pleased with Rollo's management of it, that she said she wished that he would plan another excursion as soon as possible.



Chapter XII.

The Orange Gardens.


The last excursion which Rollo made in the environs of Naples, was to a beautiful valley which was situated some miles to the south of the city, on the shores of the bay, which was full of groves of lemons and oranges. The place was called Sorrento. The town of Sorrento and its environs occupy a broad plain, which is elevated somewhat from the sea, and yet, being surrounded, on all sides towards the land, with ranges of very elevated land, it is really a valley. The reason why the oranges and lemons grow so well there is, partly because the soil is very rich, and partly because the valley opens towards the south, and is sheltered by the mountains towards the north, and this makes the climate of the spot very warm.

Rollo himself formed the plan of this excursion. One evening his uncle came home from the museum looking very tired. He laid his note book upon the table, threw himself down upon the sofa, and said, -- 

"Rollo, I am tired out."

"What makes you so tired?" asked Rollo.

"Hard work in the museum," said Mr. George; "but I have got through. To-morrow I mean to rest, and I wish you would take me off to-morrow, somewhere on an excursion. I don't care where it is, provided I have nothing to think or to say about it. I don't want even to know where I am going."

"Shall I invite Mrs. Gray and Rosie to go too?" asked Rollo.

"I don't care whether you do or not," said Mr. George. "Do as you please, provided I have nothing to say about it. Make all the arrangements, and call me to-morrow morning when you are ready."

Accordingly, the next morning, about half an hour after breakfast, Rollo went into Mr. George's room, and told him that he was ready. So Mr. George followed Rollo down stairs. He found a carriage at the door, with Mrs. Gray and Rosie sitting in it. Josie was there, too, on the box with the driver.

Mr. George got in, and Rollo directed the coachman to go on.

The coachman drove for half an hour through the busiest part of the city, and at length stopped at the railway station.

"Now, uncle George," said Rollo, "you must go into the waiting room with Mrs. Gray and Rosie, while I get the tickets."

Rollo bought tickets for a place called Castellamare, which is a romantic town built on the shore of the bay at the foot of Vesuvius. It is famous, among other things, for the hot springs of medicinal water which come up out of the ground there, I suppose from under the volcano, or from so near the neighborhood of it that the water is heated by the volcanic fires. Castellamare is a great naval station for the government of the country, and for this reason, as well as on account of the springs, they have made a railroad to it from Naples.

On coming out into the street at the station at Castellamare, Rollo and his party were greeted by a sudden burst of clamor from a crowd of coachmen and guides, all wanting to be hired.

"Pay no attention to all these people, uncle George," said Rollo, "but follow me."

So saying, Rollo pushed forward, followed by his party, until he reached a place where he could see the carriages. There were a great number of them. They were harnessed with three horses to each. They were there to take travellers on excursions along the coast, and among the neighboring mountains. They were ready to go to Sorrento, or to Pestum, or to Amalfi, or wherever any travellers wished to go.

Rollo paid no attention to the clamor, but quietly surveyed the carriages which were standing in the street before him. The coachmen of some of them were on the sidewalk; those of others stood up in their carriages, shouting all the time to Rollo, and cracking their whips. Rollo at last selected the one which he thought would be best for the purpose, and went quietly to it. Partly by signs, and partly by disconnected words in Italian, he made a bargain with the man to take them to Sorrento and back; and then the carriage drove up to the sidewalk, and all the party got in. Rollo also selected a guide. The guide mounted on the box with the coachman. Josie took a seat inside.

The party enjoyed a magnificent ride along the coast for eight or ten miles. The road was excellent. It was built on the declivities of the mountains, which here crowd close upon the sea. It was very smooth and hard, and was finished with a sidewalk, and with avenues of trees, almost all the way. On one side it looked down upon the blue and beautiful bay, and on the other upon the mountains, which were almost every where terraced up to form vineyards and olive groves, and presented to view a perpetual succession of villas, convents, churches, summer houses, and gardens.

At length they came in sight of the valley of Sorrento. It lay broadly expanded before them, full of groves of orange and lemon trees, among which were to be seen every where lofty walls of enclosure running in all directions, and roofs of houses, and villas, without number, rising among the trees. Towards the sea the ground terminated in a range of cliffs that were almost as smooth and perpendicular as a wall.

The carriage gradually descended into this valley, and then went on across it. Rollo and his party, in thus riding along, had the lofty walls of the orange gardens on each side of the way, while here and there there appeared a house, a shop, a church, or a hotel. After traversing this region for nearly half an hour, the carriage stopped in the stable yard of an inn, and the party descended. The guide was going to show them the way to a garden where they could go in.

They walked along some way, still between lofty walls, with branches of orange and lemon trees, full of fruit, seen every where above them, until at length the guide stopped before a massive gateway, where he knocked loud and long, by means of an ancient-looking iron knocker. Presently a man came down a sort of road, which led through the garden, and unlocking the gate, let the party in.

The road led to a house which was in the centre of the garden. The man who opened the gate, however, knew very well that the visitors came, not to see the people in the house, but to gather and eat some oranges. So he led the way towards the part of the garden where the fruit was the most abundant and the sweetest. After a while he came to a place where there was a seat. The party took their places on this seat, while the guide brought them oranges from the neighboring trees.[E]

[Footnote E: See Frontispiece.]

He supplied them very abundantly. He brought them not only all that they wanted to eat, but gathered also a large number in clusters on the branches, for them to carry to the carriage and take home.

The party remained in this garden for more than an hour, and then giving the gardener a small piece of money, -- the guide told them how much it was proper to give, -- they went away. They rambled about some time longer in Sorrento, and visited the brow of the cliffs which overhung the sea.

At length they went back to the carriage, and set out on their return to Naples, with all the vacant spaces in the carriage filled with the clusters of oranges which they had gathered in the garden.

The next day after this, Mr. George and Rollo closed their visit in Naples, and set out in the diligence for Rome.

<eob>

The Tale Of Nimble Deer

By

Arthur Scott Bailey



I

The Spotted Fawn


When Nimble's mother first looked at him she couldn't believe she would ever be able to raise him. He was such a tiny, frail, spotted thing that he seemed too delicate for a life of adventure on the wooded ridges and in the tangled swamps under the shadow of Blue Mountain.

"Bless me!" cried the good lady. "This child's not much taller than an overgrown beet top and he can't be any heavier than one of Farmer Green's prize cabbages. And his legs -- " she exclaimed -- "his legs are no thicker than pea pods.... They'll be ready to eat in another month," she added, meaning not her child's legs, as you might have supposed, but Farmer Green's early June peas. For Nimble's mother was very fond of certain vegetables that did not grow wild in the woods.

Of course young Nimble did not know what she was talking about. He had a great deal to learn. And he would have to wait until he was a good deal bigger before his mother took him on an excursion, by night, across the fields to Farmer Green's garden patch.

All at once Nimble leaped quickly upon his slightly wobbly legs. He trembled and gazed up at his mother with a look of fear in his great eyes. At the same time his mother, too, lifted her head and listened for a few moments. "Don't be afraid!" she said then, to Nimble. "That's old Spot -- Farmer Green's dog -- barking. But he's down near the barns, so we don't need to worry."

That was the first time Nimble had ever heard a dog's voice. Yet no one needed to tell him that it wasn't a pleasant sound.

Even his mother couldn't help feeling that she had better put a wide stretch of rough country between her new youngster and old Spot's home. So in a little while she led the way slowly along the pine grown ridge which bent around a shoulder of the mountain. She was headed for the spring which marked the beginning of Broad Brook.

Her little spotted fawn, Nimble, kept close beside her. Slowly as his mother moved, he found the traveling none too easy. And he was glad when she stopped in a pocket-like clearing. There she spoke to a proud speckled bird who was sitting on a log and amusing himself by spreading his tail feathers into a beautiful fan.

"Good morning, Mr. Grouse!" said Nimble's mother.

"Good morning, madam!" replied the gentleman with the fan. "What a handsome child you have! There's nothing quite like spots -- or speckles -- to add to a person's looks."

"They are pretty," Nimble's mother agreed with a happy glance at her son.

"I can't say he favors his mother," Mr. Grouse remarked.

"Oh, I had spots enough when I was young," she explained. "You see, all our family lose our spots as we grow up."

"I'm glad to say," Mr. Grouse said with a flirt of his tail, "that all our family keep their spots, every one of them."

"We get to be so swift-footed that we don't need spots," said Nimble's mother.

That speech seemed to displease Mr. Grouse.

"I hope," he cried, "you don't mean to say that we Grouse aren't swift!"

"No, indeed!" Nimble's mother answered hastily.

"I should hope not!" was Mr. Grouse's response to that. "For everybody knows that we go up like rockets at the slightest sign of danger."

"Exactly!" said Nimble's mother. "You are so swift that you don't really need those spots to help conceal yourself, once you're grown up."

"They're handy to have, all the same," he told her. "And as for this youngster of yours, you needn't worry much about him. He'll be safe enough in the woods. He looks just like a patch of sunlight that has fallen through a tree top upon a leaf-strewn bank."

Nimble's mother was pleased to hear that.

"Yes!" said Mr. Grouse cheerfully. "He'll be safe enough -- except for the Foxes."

And that remark didn't please Nimble's mother at all.



II

Learning Things


Nimble's mother hadn't liked Mr. Grouse's remark about Foxes. Somehow she couldn't put Foxes out of her mind. And not once did she mean to let Nimble wander out of her sight.

At first, when he was only a tiny chap, it was easy for her to keep her young son near her. But Nimble grew a little livelier with each day that passed. And it wasn't long before he began to annoy his mother and worry her, too. For he soon fell into the habit of dodging behind something or other, such as a baby pine tree or a clump of blackberry bushes, when his mother wasn't looking. Every time she missed her spotted fawn the poor lady was sure a Fox had snatched him up and dragged him away. And when she found Nimble again she was so glad that she hadn't the heart to punish him.

However, one day she talked to him quite severely.

"Do you want a Fox to catch -- and eat -- you?" she asked him.

"No, Mother!... Has a Fox ever eaten you?"

"Certainly not!" Nimble's mother answered.

"Do you expect to be caught by a Fox?"

"No, indeed!" said his mother.

"Then there can't be any great danger," Nimble remarked lightly.

"Ah! There's always danger of Foxes so long as you're a little fawn," she explained. "When you're grown up -- or even half grown -- no Fox would dare touch you. But if you wandered away alone at your tender age and you met a Fox --  -- " Well, the poor lady was so upset by the mere thought of what might happen that she couldn't say anything more just then.

But her son Nimble was not upset.

"If I met a Fox," he declared bravely, "I'd be safe enough. I'd stand perfectly still. And he wouldn't be able to see me, on account of my spots."

"Ah! But if the wind happened to be blowing his way he'd be sure to smell you," cried Nimble's mother. "And he would find you. And he would jump at you."

"I'd run away from him then," said Nimble stoutly.

His mother shook her head.

"You're spry for your age. But you're too slow to escape a Fox. You're not quick enough for that yet. You don't know how quick Foxes are. So look out! Look out for a sly fellow with a pointed nose and a bushy tail!"

In spite of all these warnings Nimble didn't feel the least bit alarmed. And the older he grew the less he heeded his mother's words. He thought she was too careful. She seemed always to be on the watch for some danger. She was forever stopping to look back, lest somebody or something might be following her. Whenever she picked out a good resting place behind a clump of evergreens, out of the wind, she never lay down without first retracing her steps for a little way and peering all around. Then, of course, she had to walk back again before she sank down on the bed of her choosing. It all seemed very silly to young Nimble.

"What's the use," he finally asked her one day, "what's the use of fussing so much over your back tracks?"

"You should always know what's behind you," said his mother. "Besides, I can't rest well if I'm uneasy."

"Do you feel easy now?" he inquired, for she had just then lain down after giving her back tracks her usual attention.

"Quite!" said Nimble's mother, as she closed her eyes and heaved a deep sigh of contentment.

Her answer pleased Nimble. He smiled faintly as he watched her closely. And he chuckled when his mother's head nodded three times and then sank lower and lower.

Presently Nimble rose to his feet, without making the slightest rustle. And very carefully he stole away.



III

An Interrupted Nap


Nimble, the fawn, stole away into the woods while his mother was sleeping. And when he went he took great pains not to disturb her. He was careful not to step on a single twig. For young as he was, he knew that the sound of a breaking twig was enough to rouse his mother instantly out of the deepest sleep. And he made sure that he didn't set his little feet on any stones. For he knew that at the merest click of a hoof his mother would bound up and discover that he had left her.

So Nimble trod only upon the soft carpet of pine needles and made not the slightest noise. Meanwhile his mother slept peacefully on -- or as peacefully as anybody can who is a light sleeper and keeps one ear always cocked to catch every stir in the forest.

She never missed her son at all until she found herself suddenly wide awake and on her feet, ready to run. Not seeing Nimble beside her, for a moment or two she forgot she had a child. Her only thought was to flee from the creature that was crashing through the underbrush beyond the old stone wall and drawing nearer to her every instant.

It was a wonder that she didn't dash off then and there. Indeed she took one leap before she remembered who she was and that she had a youngster named Nimble.

Then, of course, she stopped short and looked wildly around. But she saw no little spotted fawn anywhere.

She had been startled enough, before, roused as she was out of a sound sleep. And now she was terribly frightened.

"Nimble!" she called. "Where are you?"

"Here I am!" Nimble answered. Even as he spoke he burst into sight, leaping the stone wall in such a way that his mother couldn't help feeling proud of him.

"What's the matter?" she cried. "Who's chasing you?"

"Nobody's chasing me," Nimble told her. "When I saw the Fox I hurried back here."

"The Fox!" his mother exclaimed. "Well, he won't dare touch you while I am with you." She began to breathe easily again. If it was only a Fox she certainly didn't intend to run. "Where did you see the Fox?" she demanded.

"He was right over my head," Nimble said.

"My goodness!" his mother gasped. "That was dangerous. Was he on a bank above you?"

"He was in a tree," Nimble replied.

His mother gave him a queer look.

"What's that?" she asked him sharply. "In a tree? What did he look like? Was he red?"

"He was grayish and he had black rings around his long bushy tail; and his long pointed nose stuck out from under a black mask."

"Nonsense!" cried Nimble's mother. "You didn't see a Fox. You saw a Coon!"

Nimble was puzzled.

"You told me once," he reminded his mother, "that a Fox was a sly fellow with a bushy tail and a long pointed nose. And this person in the tree had --  -- "

"Yes! Yes!" said his mother. "Now listen to what I say: A Fox is red. And his tail has no rings at all. And Foxes don't climb trees."

"Yes, Mother!" was Nimble's meek answer.

He was glad to learn all that. And he was glad, too, that his mother hadn't asked him how he happened to stray off alone into the woods.



IV

Planning A Picnic


While he was only a fawn Nimble became very fond of water lilies. But he didn't carry them as a bouquet, nor wear one in his buttonhole. He was fond of lilies in a different way: he liked to eat them, and their flat, round, glossy pads. At night his mother often led him to the edge of the lake on the other side of Blue Mountain and there they feasted.

It was wonderful to stand in the cool water, not too far from the shore, with the moonlight shimmering on the ruffled lake, and breathe in the sweet scent of the lilies while nibbling at their pads.

"There's nothing," said Nimble to his mother one night, "nothing so good to eat as water lilies."

His mother said, "Humph! Wait till you've tasted carrots!"

"Carrots!" Nimble echoed. "What are carrots and where can I find some? Do they grow in this lake?"

"Carrots," his mother explained, "are vegetables and they grow in Farmer Green's garden."

When he heard that, Nimble wanted to start for Farmer Green's place at once. But his mother said, "No!" And he soon saw that she meant it, too.

However, the word carrots was in his mouth a good deal of the time, for days and nights afterward. But Nimble wasn't satisfied with having only the word in his mouth. There was no taste to that at all. Nor could he chew it, nor swallow it. He was wild to bite into a carrot and see if it actually was more toothsome than a water lily. Again and again he said to his mother, "Can't we go down to Farmer Green's garden patch to-night? If we wait much longer somebody else will eat all the carrots before we get a taste of them." Or maybe he would exclaim, "Let's have some carrots for supper! Please!"

It was no wonder that Nimble's mother grew very tired of his teasing. At last she said to him, when he was urging her to take him down the hill and across the meadow to Farmer Green's vegetable garden, "There's no sense in our going down there now. The carrots aren't big enough yet. They aren't ready to eat. But later, if you show you're trustworthy, and if you mind well, and if you grow enough, and if you can start quickly and run fast, perhaps I'll see that you have your first meal of carrots. Now, don't bother me any more!"

Well, there were so many ifs in his mother's promise that Nimble almost gave up hope of ever getting to Farmer Green's garden patch. He didn't quite dare expect that his mother would take him there with her. But he made up his mind that if she didn't he would go on a carrot hunt alone as soon as he could.

At the same time he practiced minding his mother, which was not always a pleasant thing to do. And he practiced starting and running, both of which were a good deal of fun. As for growing, Nimble did not need to practice that at all; for he was getting heavier and taller every day, without doing anything more than to eat and to sleep and to have the best time possible.

Meanwhile he told everybody he met that if all went well he would be eating carrots some day. And when his friends learned that he planned to go on an excursion to Farmer Green's garden patch there wasn't one of them that didn't say he would like to go too.

Jimmy Rabbit said he really ought to have a look at the cabbages. And if Nimble didn't mind he thought it would be pleasant to join the party. Patty Coon remarked that there were certain matters connected with corn which he must attend to, and if there was no objection he would go along with the rest, when the time came for the excursion. Even Cuffy Bear, who almost never went near the farm buildings, declared that there was nothing he would enjoy more than to make the trip with Nimble and his mother. He had once tasted baked beans. And ever since that occasion he had meant to see if he couldn't find some around Farmer Green's house.

Of course it would have been awkward to say no. So Nimble said yes to everybody. He even promised that he would let all his friends know when the excursion should take place.

But of all these things he said not a word to his mother. He was not sure that they would please her. In fact he was sure that they wouldn't.



V

Nimble's Mistake


One morning Nimble's mother said to him, "To-night, just as the moon rises, we'll start for Farmer Green's garden patch."

He knew what that meant. It meant that he was going to know, at last, what carrots tasted like. And he was delighted.

"You've improved fast," his mother told him. "You've grown a good deal. You start to run much more quickly than you did a month ago; and you're quite speedy now. I must say that you don't mind me any too well. Take care that to-night you do exactly as you're ordered!"

Nimble promised. "I'll be good," he said. "No matter how many carrots you want me to eat, I'll finish every one."

"No matter if you haven't had a chance to eat a single carrot, if I tell you to run you must obey instantly," his mother warned him. "Two seconds' delay might be fatal," she added solemnly. "If we hear a twig snap you mustn't stop to look nor listen."

"Yes!" said Nimble. But ten minutes later he couldn't have repeated a word that his mother said -- except that they were going to start for the garden when the moon rose. That much he told Jimmy Rabbit when he met him in the woods a little while afterward. And Jimmy Rabbit agreed to get the news, somehow, to Fatty Coon and Cuffy Bear.

He was as good as his promise -- even better. For Jimmy told everybody he met that day. He explained about the excursion to the garden patch and said that every one must be ready to start just as the moon peeped over the rim of the world, for Nimble Deer's mother wouldn't wait for anybody that wasn't on hand.

Nimble found that day a long one. He was so eager to get a carrot between his lips that he thought night would never come. But darkness fell at last. And some hours later his mother said to him, "Are you ready?"

He was. So together they passed silently along the old runway which led, as his mother knew, to the pasture fence. The woods were inky black, for the moon had not yet risen. But Nimble's mother remarked that she thought they would see it when they reached the open hillside.

Just before they came to the fence somebody spoke. Nimble's mother jumped when somebody cried, "Good evening!" But she knew at once that it was only Jimmy Rabbit.

"I see you're on time," he said. "I haven't been waiting long."

"Waiting?" Nimble's mother exclaimed. "Waiting for what?"

"For you!" he answered. "I heard you were going down to the garden patch to-night; and I'm to be one of the party."

The good lady thought it queer. How did Jimmy Rabbit happen to have heard of the excursion? She couldn't imagine. But he was a harmless little fellow. Really she didn't mind having him go with her.

"Very well!" she told him. "But remember: You must be quiet!" And she was just about to walk up to the fence when she gave a searching look all around. "Bless me!" she muttered. "I never saw so many eyes in all my life. Who are all these people?"

It was no wonder she asked that question. For no matter where she turned, pairs of eyes burned in the darkness.

Strangely enough, nobody answered. Jimmy Rabbit didn't say a word. And as for Nimble, he didn't seem to hear -- nor understand -- anything his mother said.

"I repeat," she spoke again, "who are these people? Why have they gathered here? The woods aren't afire, are they?" And she lifted her nose and sniffed at the air. But she could find no trace of smoke.

Somehow Nimble began to feel ill at ease. He edged away from his mother and tried to hide behind Jimmy Rabbit. And that was a ridiculous thing to do; because Nimble was ever so much the bigger of the two.

Presently his mother gave him a sharp look. And then he, too, raised his muzzle and sniffed.

"I don't smell any smoke," he stammered.

"Do you know why there's such a crowd here?" she asked him sternly.

"I think," he said, "they expect to go to the garden patch with us."

And his mother wondered, then, why she hadn't guessed the secret instantly.



VI

An Unexpected Party


Nimble's mother's plans went all awry. She had expected to give her son a treat by taking him quietly to Farmer Green's carrot patch, so that he might have his first taste of carrots. So it wasn't strange that it upset her a bit when she found that there were dozens of other forest folk all ready and waiting to go along with them. One extra member of the party wouldn't have displeased her, especially when that one was Jimmy Rabbit. But she had never gone near the farm buildings with more than two others. And she didn't intend to break her rule now.

Besides, it annoyed her above all to know that her son had spread the news of the excursion far and wide.

"Did you invite these people?" she asked Nimble in a low voice.

"No! Oh, no!"

"Then what brings them here?" she demanded.

"Their legs, I suppose," he replied.

"Be careful!" she said. "Be very careful!"

Then Nimble began to whine. And that was something he almost never did.

"They said they'd like to come," he told his mother. "And I said maybe you wouldn't mind."

"Well, I do mind," she declared firmly. "When I take a child to the carrot patch for the first time I don't want company. One of this crowd is more than likely to rouse old dog Spot. And we can't have him ranging around while we're dining."

"Then tell everybody to go home!" Nimble suggested. "Tell them to go 'way!"

"No!" said his mother. "That wouldn't be polite."

She was silent for a few moments. And then she explained to Jimmy Rabbit and to the owners of the pairs of eyes that still stared at her out of the darkness. She explained that on account of an unexpected party she wasn't going to the carrot patch that night.

"When are you going?" asked the owner of one pair of specially bright eyes.

"Ha!" Nimble's mother exclaimed. "Is that Cuffy Bear speaking?"

"Yessum!" said the same voice.

"I fear," she told him, "I may not be able to go for a long time."

"Never mind!" Cuffy cried. "I can go any night -- that is, until I den up for the winter."

And every one in the company declared that he hadn't a single engagement that would prevent him from visiting the garden whenever Nimble's mother should say the word.

"Well," said she, "it won't be to-night, anyhow." And with that she turned around and began to walk along the runway again, away from the pasture fence.

As Nimble followed her Jimmy Rabbit skipped alongside him and whispered in his ear.

"Don't fail to let me know when the time comes!"

But Nimble said never a word. Somehow he suspected that he had made a great mistake.

He knew he had, a little later.



VII

The Strange Light


Weeks went by; and still Nimble's mother said no more about visiting Farmer Green's carrot patch. Nimble himself did not dare to mention carrots now. It was his own fault that the excursion had been postponed. And much as he still wanted a taste of carrots the whole affair was something he didn't care to talk about.

Anyhow, it was lucky that he liked water lilies. For his mother took him to the lake behind Blue Mountain every night, almost. And there they splashed in the shallows and ate all they wanted.

Most of those nights were much alike. But there was one that Nimble remembered for many a day afterward.

It was not a dark night; neither was it a light one. It was a half-and-half sort of night. There was a moon. But it was far from full. And it was not high in the sky. The light from it came slanting down upon the lake, throwing the shadows of the trees far out upon the water.

Where those shadows reached out darkly Nimble and his mother stood with the water lapping their sleek bodies. And they were eating so busily that neither of them noticed a blurred shape that glided slowly nearer and nearer to them, without making the slightest sound.

All at once a shaft of dazzling light swept along the shore. Nimble was so surprised and puzzled that he stopped eating to stand still and gaze at it.

Never Had Nimble Run So Fast Before. Page 42

But only for a moment! Instantly his mother flung her tail upward, so that the under side of it gleamed white even in the half light. And that -- as Nimble knew right well -- that was the danger signal.

Almost before Nimble knew what was happening his mother made for the shore. As she plunged through the water her tail, still aloft like a flag, twitched from side to side.

Nimble needed no urging to follow it. Soon they scrambled, dripping, out of the lake to dive headlong into the cover of the overhanging willows.

In those few seconds the light darted swiftly towards them. But it was not quite quick enough. Only the ripples told where they had been standing. Only the gently waving branches of the willows showed where Nimble and his mother had vanished.

A noise like a thunder-clap crashed upon Nimble's ears and rolled and tumbled in the distance, tossed from the mountain to the hills across the lake, and back again. It frightened Nimble much more than did the odd whistle that whined just above his head a moment before the thunder peal.

Never had he run so fast before. Never had his mother set such a pace for him. Usually, when startled, she stopped after going a short distance and looked back to try to get a glimpse of whoever or whatever had alarmed her. To be sure, she always stopped in a good place, like the edge of Cedar Swamp, where she could duck out of sight if need be.

But this time Nimble's mother ran on and on without pausing.

"Haven't you forgotten something?" her son gasped after a while.

"Forgotten something? What do you mean?" she asked.

"Haven't you forgotten to stop?" Nimble inquired.

A queer look came over her face.

"I declare," she said, "I do believe I'd Have run all night if you hadn't reminded me." She fell into a walk. And neither of them said another word until they reached the swamp, which was one of his mother's favorite hiding places. Then Nimble spoke again.

"I waved my flag too," he said proudly.



VIII

Mrs. Deer Explains


For the first time in his life Nimble felt quite grown up. He forgot that he had not yet lived a whole summer. He had made a suggestion to his mother which she had promptly acted upon. It had never happened before. And that was enough to cause him great pleasure.

Then there was something else that made Nimble believe himself to be a person of some account: A strange affair had happened at the lake. He had seen it all. He had taken part in it himself. Really it was no wonder that he began to talk quite importantly.

"It was lucky I was with you," he remarked to his mother as they rested amid the tangle of Cedar Swamp.

"It was lucky we weren't any further out in the lake," she exclaimed. "If you hadn't been with me no doubt I'd have gone where the water was much deeper. And that light would have caught me before I could have reached the shore."

What his mother said made Nimble feel bigger than ever. He wasn't quite sure what had happened back there, where they had been surprised while eating water lilies. But he meant to find out, for he thought it would make a good story to tell his friends.

"Would the moon have burnt us if it had hit us?" he inquired.

"What in the world are you talking about?" his mother asked him.

He looked puzzled at her question.

"Wasn't that the moon that lit up the lake along the shore?" he demanded.

"Certainly not!" she replied.

"Didn't the moon fall into the water?" he asked.

"No, indeed!" his mother cried. She was astonished at his question.

Nimble was disappointed. He had thought he had a wonderful tale to tell. And he couldn't understand yet why everything wasn't as he had supposed.

"I was sure the moon fell into the lake and blew up," he explained. "What was that terrible noise we heard if it wasn't the moon bursting into pieces?"

His mother didn't laugh. Instead she was quite solemn as she answered Nimble's last question.

"That -- " she said -- "that was a gun that you heard. And the light that you saw came from a lantern in a boat."

It was very hard for Nimble to believe what she told him.

"I thought I heard a piece of the moon whistle past my head," he went on.

"A bullet!" his mother declared. As she spoke she moved a little distance, to a spot where the trees were not so thick. And she raised her nose towards the sky. "There!" she said. "There's the moon! It's still up there where you've always seen it."

Nimble looked; and at last he knew that his mother had made no mistake. But somehow he was more frightened than ever.

"Then -- " he faltered -- "then there must have been men in the boat -- men that turned the light upon the shore -- and fired the gun!"

"They were men -- yes!" said his mother. "And they were lawbreakers, too. I hope the game warden will catch them at their tricks."

"What is a game warden?" Nimble asked her.

"He's a man," she answered. "He's a man that looks after all of us forest folk and he's the best friend we've got.... Goodness, child! Are you never going to stop asking questions?"



IX

A Spike Horn


Nimble didn't mind losing his spots, when he grew older. He had something else that gave him much more pleasure than they ever had. He had a new toy. Or to be exact, he had two new toys. And everywhere he went he carried them with him.

He carried them on his head. And he couldn't have left them behind in the woods even if he had wanted to -- at least not until he had enjoyed them for a whole season.

Of course you have already guessed that he had a pair of horns. They were not very big. But neither was Nimble, for that matter. So they suited him well. A little deer like him would have looked queer wearing great branching horns such as his father owned.

Nimble's horns were merely two spikes which stuck up out of the top of his head in a pert fashion.

It was a proud day for him when an old deer spoke to him and called him "young Spike Horn." About that time the forest folk had begun to speak of him as a "yearling." But there was something about "Spike Horn" that sounded much more important.

Somehow there was a new crop of Spike Horns that summer -- Nimble's second summer. And every one of them had been -- like him -- a little spotted fawn the year before.

At first Nimble had thought it fun to use his new horns to jab anybody that happened to be with him. One day he even stole up behind his own mother and gave her a sharp prod with them.

He never did that again. His mother quickly taught him better. She wheeled and struck him smartly with her fore feet.

"There!" she cried. "That's the first time a child of mine has played that trick on me.... Let it be the last!"

And it was. Nimble was very careful, after that, to prod only those that didn't mind such pranks.

Luckily he soon found that the other Spike Horns liked the same sort of fun that he did. They were just as proud of their new horns as he was of his. And (sad to say!) there was a good deal of boasting among them. Each one declared that his own horns were the longest and strongest.

All the Spike Horns, including Nimble, were forever butting one another in play. And they had just discovered a new sport when Nimble met with what he feared, for a time, was a terrible accident.

Late in the fall, before the deep snows came, both his horns loosened and dropped off his head.

"Oh! oh!" he cried when he saw what had happened. "I'll never be able to take part in another mock battle again!" For the Spike Horns had had gay times pretending to fight one another in a most savage fashion.

After Nimble lost his horns he carefully avoided all his playmates. He didn't want the other Spike Horns to see him. At last, to his great dismay, one day he came face to face with one of them. They both tried to dodge out of sight. But the other, whose name was Dodger, was not quite quick enough. Before he hid behind a thicket Nimble saw that he had lost his horns too!

Then Nimble guessed the truth. He knew why it was that he had managed to keep out of sight of his friends. Every Spike Horn in the neighborhood had lost his horns! And every one of them had been trying to keep out of sight.



X

At The Carrot Patch


During his first summer Nimble never reached Farmer Green's carrot patch once. His mother had planned to take him there. But on account of an unexpected party she had postponed their visit. And somehow the right night for a trip after carrots never seemed to come again.

Now, Nimble had never forgotten what his mother had told him about carrots. And he was going after some -- so he promised himself -- just as soon as he was big enough.

When Nimble's second summer rolled around he was big enough and old enough to prowl through the woods and fields much as he pleased. He was a Spike Horn. And he felt fit to go to the carrot patch without waiting for anybody to show him the way.

So one night he stole down the hillside pasture, across the meadow, and jumped the fence into Farmer Green's garden.

He saw at once that somebody was there ahead of him. It was Jimmy Rabbit. He was very busy with one of Farmer Green's cabbages.

"I've come down to try the carrots," said Nimble.

Jimmy Rabbit made no reply, except to nod his head slightly. He was eating so fast that he really couldn't speak just then.

"Are these carrots?" Nimble inquired, as he looked about at the big cabbages, which crossed the garden in long rows.

Jimmy Rabbit shook his head.

"They seem to be good," said Nimble, "whatever they are. I'll taste of one."

And he did. In fact he tasted of three or four of them, eating their centers out neatly.

Meanwhile Jimmy Rabbit was becoming uneasy. And at last he spoke.

"I thought," he said, "you told me you had come down here to try the carrots."

"So I did," Nimble answered. "But I don't know where the carrots are."

"Why didn't you say so before?" Jimmy Rabbit asked him. And without waiting for a reply he cried, "Follow me! I'll show you." And he hopped off briskly, with Nimble after him.

Soon Jimmy Rabbit came to a halt.

"Here it is!" he said. "Here's the carrot patch. Help yourself!" And then he hopped away again, back to his supper of cabbages.

Nimble Deer Followed Jimmy Rabbit. Page 57

Nimble Deer began to eat the carrot tops. And he was greatly disappointed.

"They're not half as good as those great round balls," he muttered. And he turned away from the carrots, to go back and join Jimmy Rabbit. But he hadn't gone far when he met Jimmy bounding along in a great hurry.

"Old dog Spot!" Jimmy Rabbit gasped as he whisked past Nimble. "He's out to-night and he's coming this way."

In one leap Nimble sprang completely around and followed Jimmy Rabbit across the meadow, up through the pasture and over the stone wall into the woods. There they lost each other.

The next morning Nimble met his mother along the ridge that ran down toward Cedar Swamp.

"I went down to the carrot patch last night," he told her. "And I must say I don't see why you're so fond of carrots. They're not half as good as some big green balls that I found in the garden. I call the carrot leaves tough. But the big green balls have very tender leaves."

His mother gave him a queer look.

"Do you mean to tell me," she asked him, "that you ate only the leaves of the carrots?"

"Why, yes!" said Nimble. "I saw nothing else to eat. There was no fruit on them."

"Ho!" cried his mother. "You have to dig with your toes to reach the carrots themselves. They're down in the ground. And to my mind there's nothing any juicier and sweeter and tenderer than nice young carrots, eaten by the light of the moon."

Nimble felt very foolish. And then he tossed his head and said lightly, "Oh, well! It wouldn't have made any difference if I had dug the carrots out of the dirt. They wouldn't have tasted right anyhow. For there was no moon last night!"



XI

Cuffy And The Cave


Nimble did not spend all his spare moments with the other Spike Horns. Once in a while he met Cuffy Bear prowling about near the foot of Blue Mountain. But Nimble never had a mock battle with Cuffy. Cuffy Bear was a famous boxer. And in each of his paws he carried long sharp claws. What if Cuffy should forget to pull in those claws sometime, when he struck you a playful tap? Ah! That wouldn't be very pleasant! This was what Nimble thought about the matter. So he never butted Cuffy Bear nor pricked him with his spikes.

On the whole they found each other good company. Cuffy liked to see Nimble jump. And Nimble liked to see Cuffy climb trees.

One day, late in the fall, that year when Nimble was a Spike Horn, he strayed half way up the side of Blue Mountain. It was seldom that Nimble wandered so far up the steep and thickly wooded slopes. But old dog Spot was ranging about the lower woods. And for once Nimble did not run for Cedar Swamp when he heard the old dog bay. Instead he climbed steadily until he was sure that he had shaken Spot off his trail.

Nimble had stopped for a drink at the spring which marked the beginning of Broad Brook and there he met Cuffy Bear, who was just turning away from the ice-framed pool. "Aren't you a long way from home?" Cuffy asked him.

"Yes! But I can get down to my favorite ridge quickly enough, when I want to," said Nimble. "Do you live in this neighborhood?"

"I'm not quite sure," Cuffy Bear replied. "I've had my eye on a snug den a little further up the mountain. I'm thinking of living there, if it suits me.... Wouldn't you like to see it?"

Nimble told Cuffy that he would be delighted. So they started up the mountain, after Nimble had had his drink.

Cuffy Bear led the way. And in a short time he stopped in front of a cave. A tangle of bushes hid the mouth of it. You'd have passed right by it without ever guessing that there was any cave there.

"This is it," Cuffy Bear told Nimble. "Come right in!"

"No, thank you. I'd rather not," said Nimble. "I don't care for caves, myself, though this seems to be a good one."

"It's worth seeing," Cuffy Bear urged.

"No, thank you!" Nimble repeated.

"You don't mind if I take a look at it?" Cuffy Bear inquired. "Maybe I can make up my mind -- about living here -- if I look at the cave once more."

"Go inside, by all means!" Nimble cried.

"Will you wait here till I come out?" Cuffy asked him.

And Nimble promised that he would wait.

Cuffy Bear yawned as he turned away. And Nimble thought it strange that he didn't take the trouble to beg pardon, nor to cover the yawn with a paw. Only a very careless -- or a very sleepy -- person would forget those things, Nimble knew.

Well, Cuffy crept inside the cave. And outside Nimble waited. He waited and waited, until at last the afternoon light began to fade.

"I wish he'd hurry," Nimble muttered. "We're going to have a storm and I don't want to stay up here in it, all night."

Snowflakes were already falling. And Nimble wished he hadn't promised that he would wait till Cuffy Bear came out of the cave.

He went to the entrance and called. But he got no answer.

"I hope nothing has happened to him," Nimble said.

But something had.



XII

Cuffy Is Missing


Far up on the dark mountainside, in the driving snow, Nimble waited in front of the cave where Cuffy Bear had vanished. And all the time Nimble was growing more uneasy. He feared that Cuffy Bear might be in some sort of trouble.

Nimble looked all about for help. But there wasn't a sign of anybody stirring, anywhere. All the mountain people seemed to have sought shelter from the storm.

At last, however, Peter Mink came sneaking up from the spring. He had set out to follow Broad Brook all the way up to its beginning, on a hunt for meadow mice. And when he set out to do a thing he always finished it, no matter what the weather might be.

"You're just the person I want to see!" Nimble cried. "Will you do me a favor?"

Now, Peter Mink never did anybody a favor if he could help it. So he promptly said, "No!"

"Won't you go inside this cave for me and see what's happened to Cuffy Bear?" Nimble implored him. "He went inside the cave. I promised to wait for him here. And he has been gone for hours."

"I won't go into that cave for anybody," Peter Mink declared. "How do I know you're not trying to play a trick on me? I don't see any Bear tracks in the snow."

"Of course you don't!" Nimble agreed. "All this snow has fallen since Cuffy crawled into the cave."

"Why don't you go inside yourself?" Peter Mink inquired with something very like a sneer.

"I'm too tall," said Nimble. "Besides, I don't like caves. I keep out of them."

"So do I!" Peter Mink declared -- though everybody knew that he went everywhere -- even under the ice along Broad Brook and Swift River.

Poor Nimble didn't know what to do. He felt that he ought to go for help, somewhere. But he had promised Cuffy Bear to wait for him.

Then all at once an idea came to him. Why not send Peter Mink for help?

"Won't you please go down to Cedar Swamp and ask Fatty Coon to come up here?" Nimble begged Peter.

"I can't," Peter answered. "I must go home now." And everybody knew that Peter Mink had no home at all! He was the vagabond of the woods.

Nimble saw then that it was useless to look for help from him. And after Peter Mink had gone his surly way Nimble still lingered there. He was hungry. So he began to paw the snow away here and there, to uncover the ground growths. And just as he was nibbling beside a bush somebody said, "Don't step on me!"

It was Mr. Grouse, half buried in the snow.

"I wondered why you were waiting here so long," Mr. Grouse told Nimble. "When I heard you talking to that rascal, Peter Mink, I knew the reason. But I didn't dare speak while he was about."

"Are you going to spend the night here?" Nimble asked him.

"Yes!" said Mr. Grouse. "I shall be snug and warm after the snow covers me."

"Well, your head won't be covered for some time," Nimble told him. "Are you willing to keep an eye out for Cuffy Bear? I'm going down to Cedar Swamp to get help. And Cuffy Bear might come out of the cave while I'm gone."

"I'd be glad to watch," Mr. Grouse replied, "but it wouldn't be any use."

"Why not?" Nimble asked him. "Don't you think we'll see Cuffy again?"

"Oh, we'll see him," Mr. Grouse answered. "But it won't be till towards spring. For there's no doubt that Cuffy Bear has fallen into his winter's sleep."

And then Nimble exclaimed that Cuffy Bear had yawned as he turned away to enter the cave. He hadn't even begged pardon, nor covered his mouth with a paw.

"No doubt he was very, very sleepy," said Mr. Grouse.



XIII

Cuffy Bear Wakens


The winter after Nimble lost his spike horns was a mild one. The snowfall was light. And Nimble was able to roam up and down Pleasant Valley and about Blue Mountain as he pleased.

It happened that a certain bright day in early spring found him far up the side of the mountain, near the cave where he had waited for Cuffy Bear weeks before. And as that whole queer affair came back to his mind Nimble remembered how he had fed upon the green things under the snow.

That thought made him hungry. So he began to paw away the soft heavy snow, which wasn't more than a foot deep; and he was enjoying a good meal when he heard a sudden woof behind him.

Nimble wheeled instantly. And there, at the mouth of the cave, peering over the tangle which screened it, Cuffy Bear stood upon his hind legs, rubbing his eyes. Catching sight of Nimble, Cuffy blinked at him.

"Where's Nimble Deer, madam?" Cuffy Bear growled presently.

"I'm right here!" Nimble replied. "But please don't call me 'madam!'"

"You're not Nimble Deer. You're a Doe," Cuffy Bear insisted. "You have no horns."

"I'm a Deer," Nimble retorted. "I had horns; but I've shed them."

Cuffy Bear woofed a bit more. He seemed to be somewhat ill-tempered.

"You can't fool me," he grunted. "Nimble Deer's horns were firm upon his head when I left him here and stepped inside this cave. He agreed to wait for me; and I'm surprised that he broke his promise."

"I am Nimble Deer," Nimble declared again. "You led me to this spot from the spring. You told me you wanted to take another look at this cave because you were thinking of making it your winter home."

Cuffy Bear eyed Nimble with astonishment. And he shambled up to Nimble and sniffed at him.

"It is you!" Cuffy cried at last. "So you did wait for me!"

"No, I didn't," Nimble confessed.

"But here you are!" Cuffy Bear retorted. "You must have been waiting for me. And if I've kept you a bit longer than I intended to, I'm sorry. I think I fell asleep in that den and had a short nap."

Nimble Deer Tells Cuffy Bear About His Horns. Page 71

"A short nap!" Nimble repeated. "You've been asleep in there all winter! It's weeks and weeks since I last saw you. And I'm here now only because I happened to wander this way, when I heard old dog Spot baying."

Cuffy Bear was so surprised that he couldn't say another word. His mouth fell open. And he gazed blankly at Nimble.

But at last he spoke. "I must apologize to you," he said, "though it was really no wonder I called you 'madam.' You have changed a great deal since I left you here."

"And you -- " Nimble told him -- "you have changed too."

"I have?" Cuffy Bear cried. "How's that? How have I changed?"

"You look much hungrier," Nimble explained.

Cuffy Bear laid a paw across his waistcoat.

"I am hungry," he admitted. "And if you're going down the mountain I think I'll stroll along with you and see what I can find to eat."

"Very well!" Nimble agreed.

"One moment!" Cuffy Bear said hastily. "Just one moment, please! Wait till I go inside my cave! I believe I left my cap in there."

"I'm not going to wait for you," Nimble replied firmly. "For all I know you might not come out again till haying time."

And then Nimble trotted off down the mountainside, heading for Cedar Swamp. For he didn't think old dog Spot would wander in that direction.



XIV

Antlers


Although Nimble had lost his horns he managed to go through the winter without missing them as much as he had expected. And in time he had almost forgotten the pair of spikes that he had worn on his head the summer before. Then, one day, he made a great discovery. He found that new horns were sprouting to take the place of those that he had lost!

"Now I can have some mock battles again -- when my horns get long enough," he thought. And then he stopped short. What if the Spike Horns of the year before had no more horns? If they were hornless they certainly wouldn't care to take part in any mock battles.

Nimble's fears were soon set at rest. His old playmates soon let him know that they were all going to have new horns too.

And then, a little later, Nimble made another great discovery. He was looking into a pool one morning when he saw something that gave him huge delight. His new horns were not like last year's horns. He beheld, mirrored in the water, a handsome pair of Y-shaped antlers, each with two points!

"Hurrah!" he cried. "I'll make those Spike Horns feel like hiding themselves again."

He had expected to have a pleasant time showing his new antlers to his old friends. When he met Dodger the Deer, Nimble called to him: "See what I've got! Antlers! Two points!"

"Ho!" said Dodger. "So have I got antlers. And they have two points, too."

Nimble had been so interested in his own horns that he hadn't looked at Dodger's. And now when he gazed at them he saw that they were like his.

"What about the rest of the Spike Horns?" Nimble asked Dodger. "Have they --  -- "

"Yes, they have!" Dodger interrupted. "I tell you, 'two-pointers' are common this season."

"So there aren't any more Spike Horns!" said Nimble somewhat sadly.

"Oh, yes! Plenty!" Dodger answered. "But they're an entirely new crop. They were fawns last year."

When he heard that bit of news Nimble felt happier. And as soon as he parted from Dodger the Deer he went and found some of the new Spike Horns and showed them his wonderful two-point antlers.

But somehow they didn't seem at all impressed. They were too much taken up with their own spikes to pay any attention to Nimble.

"Anyhow," he said to himself, "we 'two-pointers' can have some good mock battles together."

And they did. They had mock battles that became famous all around Blue Mountain. And of all the "two-pointers" that lived in that neighborhood, Nimble and his friend Dodger the Deer were known as the best sham-fighters. They could look fiercer and act angrier than any of their young friends. And the way they tore into each other was almost enough to frighten you, if you had seen them.

Old Mr. Crow said it was worth flying a mile to watch one of their set-tos.



XV

A Mock Battle


When Nimble had three-points on each of his antlers, in his fourth summer, he felt that he was at last grown up. He was now a "three-pointer." Some of the older bucks had no more points than he. Many of them were but "four-pointers." His own father had been a "five-pointer." So Nimble hoped, secretly, that he would have five-point antlers in another two years.

As soon as his new horns were ready Nimble and his friend Dodger the Deer began their mock battles again. And Nimble found them greater fun than ever.

Dodger was a spry fellow. He was quick as a flash at dodging. When Nimble ran at him with head lowered and horns aimed straight at him Dodger could wait until Nimble all but struck him, before leaping aside. And then Nimble would go rushing past him.

But Dodger did not always dodge when attacked. Sometimes he stood his ground, with his own head lowered in a threatening fashion. And then Nimble checked his headlong rush and merely clashed his horns pleasantly against Dodger's.

There was something about the sound that sent a thrill through Nimble and started his coat to bristling along his backbone with a queer, creepy feeling.

One day in the fall Nimble's mother came upon them in the woods when they were having one of their sham fights.

"You'd better stop that!" she said to them severely. "Somebody will get hurt sooner or later if you're not careful."

Nimble and Dodger paid little heed to her warning, except to stop until the good lady had gone on and left them. Then, just as they were on the point of renewing their frolic, somebody spoke in a hoarse voice. It was old Mr. Crow. He sat on a low branch of a spreading pine, where he had been watching the contest for some time without being noticed.

"I'd have my fun if I wanted to," he croaked. "Ladies are too finicky. They don't know what a good time is."

Now, Mr. Crow's remarks pleased Nimble. And they pleased Dodger the Deer. They didn't know that the old gentleman was a famous trouble maker.

So Dodger and Nimble drew a little distance apart, as they always did when they were getting ready to clash.

"Go it!" squalled Mr. Crow.

And they started. And Mr. Crow jumped up and down in his excitement.

"Now there's going to be some real fun," he muttered.

But Dodger the Deer leaped aside just in time to avoid being hit. And that didn't please Mr. Crow at all.

"You fellows aren't half trying," he cried impatiently. "Anyone would think you were a pair of Spike Horns."

Now, all Spike Horns were two whole years younger than Dodger and Nimble. So it was no wonder that Mr. Crow's words stung them.

Nimble charged more fiercely than ever. And Dodger stood his ground. With his feet planted firmly beneath him he waited for the blow.

There was a crack and a thud.

"Ha!" Mr. Crow squawked. "That's a little more like it. Dodger didn't dodge that time, to be sure. But he stood still. And only a Spike Horn would stand and wait for the enemy."

Of course Dodger couldn't help wanting to show Mr. Crow that he knew how to carry on a mock battle. So the next time Nimble rushed at him Dodger did not wait. He jumped to meet Nimble. They struck in the air with a frightful crash and fell sprawling upon the ground.

"Ha! That's more like it!" Mr. Crow applauded. "That's the sort of mock battle I like to see!"



XVI

Mr. Crow Looks On


Nimble and his friend Dodger the Deer picked themselves up off the ground where they had fallen after their collision in the air. They did not feel any too pleasant. One of Dodger's sharp tines had given Nimble a good prick. And one of Nimble's points had stung Dodger like a hornet's sting.

If only one of them had been pricked the whole affair might have ended differently. For then perhaps only one of them would have lost his temper. As they drew apart they were growing more angry every instant. And when they wheeled and glared at each other old Mr. Crow, who was watching them from his perch in the pine tree, called out: "Don't stop! Make it lively, now!"

Nimble gritted his teeth and stamped upon the ground.

"I'll teach you not to prick me!" he muttered.

"I'll make you wish you'd left those new antlers at home!" cried Dodger the Deer.

"Don't stop!" old Mr. Crow urged them once more as he teetered on his perch. "Let the fun go on!"

He squalled so loudly that his cousin Jasper Jay heard him half a mile away and came hurrying up to see what was going on. He arrived just in time to see Nimble and Dodger stagger back from another mad charge.

"What's this? A mock battle?" Jasper Jay inquired as he settled down beside Mr. Crow.

"No!" Mr. Crow replied in muffled tones. "It is a real one -- but they don't know it yet."

Next to quarreling himself, old Mr. Crow loved to look on while others wrangled. And though he had no taste himself for actual fighting, he liked to see his neighbors pummel and peck and buffet and bounce one another.

So Mr. Crow enjoyed watching the tilt between Nimble and Dodger the Deer. Neither Mr. Crow, nor his rowdy cousin Jasper Jay, had ever seen so furious a fracas as that one soon became. Sometimes Nimble and Dodger rushed together with such force that it seemed to Mr. Crow their horns must break off. Sometimes they reared and struck each other with their front hoofs.

At first, whenever he felt a hurt Nimble only fought the harder. When Dodger's horns gouged him and his hoofs cut him Nimble butted and thrust and struck all the faster. But for every buffet he repaid Dodger, Dodger gave him another that was heavier than ever.

It was no wonder that in time Nimble began to feel tired. But he didn't let Dodger the Deer know that.

"This was easy to start," Nimble thought, "but it seems hard to stop. I wish Dodger would run away."

In the meantime Mr. Crow and Jasper Jay agreed that the battle was growing tamer every moment.

"Hustle it up!" Mr. Crow called to Nimble and Dodger, while Jasper Jay jeered at them both and told them they were mollycoddles.

"I shouldn't call this a mock battle now," Mr. Crow told them. "It's more like a game of tag."

"If only Dodger would run away!" Nimble said under his breath. "I'll stop a minute and see if he won't." So he stood still, with his nose all but touching the ground.

Dodger the Deer did not run. But he paused and stood exactly as Nimble was standing.

So they eyed each other for a while. And neither of them said a word.

"Come!" cried old Mr. Crow. "This will never do. Give us more action!"

And then Dodger the Deer looked up at Mr. Crow and Jasper Jay and spoke.

"If you want more action why don't you two furnish it?" he asked.

"That's a good idea!" Nimble exclaimed. "Let's see a mock battle up in the tree!"

"Don't Stop!" Said Old Mr. Crow, to Nimble. Page 85

But Mr. Crow replied hoarsely that he had to meet a friend down the valley. "I must be flapping along," he said. And off he went.

Jasper Jay grinned and winked at Nimble and Dodger behind Mr. Crow's back. And then with a loud squall -- which might have meant almost anything -- he too flew away.

"That was the liveliest mock battle we ever had," Nimble remarked to his friend Dodger.

Dodger agreed with what he said.

Nimble's mother gasped when she saw her son a little later.

"You're a terrible sight!" she told him severely. "What have you been doing?"

"I've been having fun with Dodger the Deer," Nimble explained. "But to tell the truth, it wasn't as much fun as I had expected."



XVII

What Brownie Wanted


Nimble Deer had stopped at Brownie Beaver's pond to get a drink. Just as he raised his head from the water he spied Brownie a little way off, on the bank, gnawing at a box alder tree.

"Good evening!" Nimble called to him.

"Good evening!" Brownie Beaver answered.

"I see you're busy, as usual," Nimble remarked.

"Yes!" Brownie replied. "And what are you doing -- if I may ask?"

"Oh! I'm just rambling about," Nimble explained.

"Then you're not doing much of anything," said Brownie Beaver.

Nimble admitted that he wasn't.

"Since you're not working, perhaps you'll be willing to help me," Brownie suggested.

"Certainly!" Nimble cried. He liked Brownie Beaver. Everybody liked him -- unless it was Timothy Turtle, who had a grudge against the whole Beaver tribe.

"Maybe I can make arrangements with you to --  -- " Brownie began.

"Of course you can!" Nimble interrupted.

"That's very kind of you," Brownie said. "I'm sure I'm much obliged to you."

"You're quite welcome," Nimble assured him.

"You're sure you won't mind!" Brownie Beaver inquired.

"Not at all! No, indeed! What is it you want me to do for you? Do you want me to help you roll a log into the water, when you've finished cutting down that tree? I might use my horns for a cant hook, such as the lumbermen have."

"No! It's not that -- thank you!" Brownie Beaver mumbled. He had not stopped working, while he talked. And having some chips in his mouth he did not speak any too clearly.

"Maybe you'd like me to walk back and forth along the top of your dam and make it firmer," Nimble suggested.

"No, it's not that," Brownie told him. "The dam is firm. It has been here a great many years, ever since my great-great-grandfather's time.... You've noticed my house, I dare say," he went on.

"I have," Nimble answered. "It's a good one, though the chimney looks a bit lopsided, to me. Shall I give it a push and see if I can straighten it?"

"No, indeed -- thank you!" said Brownie hurriedly. "For mercy's sake, don't touch my chimney! I worked a long time to make it. And if I do say so, it's the best one in the whole village."

Well, Nimble Deer couldn't guess what it was that Brownie Beaver wanted him to do. He couldn't think of any other way in which he might help.

"Then what -- " he demanded -- "what is it you want?"

"There's something I need for my house," Brownie explained.

"Shingles!" Nimble cried.

"No!" Brownie said, as he shook his head.

"I hope you don't want a pair of antlers to fasten over your chimney piece!" Nimble exclaimed. "I shouldn't care to part with my antlers -- not just at present!"

"No!" Brownie said once more.

"I'm glad of that," Nimble replied. For a moment he had been worried.

And then Brownie Beaver told him what he had in mind: "I need a flag to fly over my house."

"That would be fine," Nimble observed. "But I don't see how I could help you with that."

"I've heard that you have a flag. I thought perhaps you'd let me have it -- or borrow it, at least," Brownie Beaver told him.

Nimble Deer looked puzzled.

"I haven't any flag," he said. And then he cried, "Yes! Yes, I have one!"

"Ah! I was told you had," said Brownie Beaver.

"Who told you?"

"Old Mr. Crow!" Brownie Beaver said.

"I might have known it," Nimble muttered. "He has played a joke on you. It's true that I have a flag; but it's not the kind of flag you want. Some people call my tail a flag, on account of the way I wave it in the air when I'm startled. Of course you wouldn't care to have my tail on the top of your house."

And Brownie Beaver admitted that he shouldn't.

"But I can't help being disappointed," he confessed.



XVIII

The Muley Cow


Nimble Deer was a famous jumper. And so was the Muley Cow. In Farmer Green's herd there was no other that could match her.

Living as he did in the pasture, Billy Woodchuck had often seen and admired the Muley Cow as she jumped the fence in order to get into the clover patch, or the cornfield, or the orchard.

And Jimmy Rabbit, who lived in the woods, had come to believe -- and even boast -- that there wasn't anyone that could jump higher than Nimble Deer.

So Billy Woodchuck and Jimmy Rabbit could never agree upon this question of the best jumper in Pleasant Valley. And there was only one way to settle their difference of opinion. Old Mr. Crow told them that.

"You must have a contest," he declared.

And everybody was willing. The Muley Cow said (when asked) that she would be delighted. And when Nimble Deer heard of the plan he ran all the way to the back pasture at once. For that was where Mr. Crow said the contest ought to take place.

Nimble reached the back pasture just in time to see the Muley Cow arrive there. She leaped the fence. And at the same time she grazed the top rail.

"Good morning, madam!" Nimble said to the Muley Cow. And while she was answering him Nimble jumped the fence into the pasture from which the Muley Cow had come; and then he jumped back again, into the back pasture. And he didn't touch the fence by so much as a single hair.

Then Billy Woodchuck crawled under the fence and came hurrying up.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"I'm just stretching my legs a bit," Nimble explained. At that answer Billy Woodchuck set up a loud clamor. "It's not fair!" he howled. "I expected the Muley Cow to win the contest. But if you're going to stretch your legs she'll certainly be beaten unless she stretches hers too."

Now, old Mr. Crow was on hand to see the fun. And not being very friendly with the Muley Cow he didn't want her to win the contest. So he began to squall.

"She mustn't stretch her legs any more than Nimble stretches his," he objected in his hoarse croak. "Nimble jumped the fence twice to stretch his legs. She has jumped once already. Let her jump the fence once more and then they'll be even and the real contest can begin."

"That's fair enough," said Jimmy Rabbit. But Billy Woodchuck began to chatter and scold.

"It's a trick -- a trick of Mr. Crow's!" he cried. "If the Muley Cow jumps once more to stretch her legs she'll be on the wrong side of the fence. She won't be in the back pasture then. And how could she have the contest with Nimble Deer?"

Old Mr. Crow gave a loud haw-haw. But he still insisted that the Muley Cow might have only one more leg-stretching jump, when Jimmy Rabbit hurried up to him and said something nobody else could hear. And Mr. Crow listened and then nodded his head.

"It's all right," the old gentleman told Billy Woodchuck. "Let the Muley Cow stretch her legs all she likes."



XIX

The Jumping Contest


Having had Mr. Crow's permission, the Muley Cow went on stretching her legs as much as she pleased. She jumped the pasture fence; and she jumped it back again. And when she seemed about to stop Billy Woodchuck whispered to her, "You may as well keep a-stretching them. Keep a-jumping! And when the time for the real contest with Nimble Deer comes your legs will be stretched so long that you'll beat Nimble without the slightest trouble."

So the Muley Cow jumped over the fence and back, over the fence and back. And when at last she said she was ready for the contest Billy Woodchuck still urged her to stretch her legs a bit more.

By the time he was willing to let her stop the Muley Cow's sides were heaving.

Meanwhile Jimmy Rabbit and Billy Woodchuck, with Mr. Crow's help, had picked out a clump of young hawthorns for the first test. And now that everybody was ready for the contest Nimble Deer cleared the clump gracefully, with a foot to spare.

Then came the Muley Cow's turn. She looked worried as she fell into a lumbering gallop and ran towards the prickly young trees. And with a mighty effort she tried to fling herself over them.

As she rose into the air she gave a bellow of dismay, to fall floundering the next instant into the thorny thicket.

Jimmy Rabbit began to hop about in circles. He knew that Nimble had won the contest and Jimmy was very happy.

Old Mr. Crow haw-hawed. The Muley Cow had lost the contest and he was glad.

Nimble watched the Muley Cow as she struggled amid the hawthorns, trying to scramble out of the tangle.

"Can I help you, madam?" he asked.

But she never even thanked him. She was so upset that she neither wanted anybody to speak to her nor did she wish to speak to anybody else.

As for Billy Woodchuck, he looked frightfully disappointed. He had expected the Muley Cow to win the jumping contest. And there she was, beaten at the very first jump!

He stole up to her; and standing on his hind legs, to get as near her as he could, he said, "It's a pity you lost! I don't believe you stretched your legs enough."

The Muley Cow snorted.

"That's not the reason why," she snapped. "I stretched my legs too much. I jumped the fence until I was so tired I could scarcely stand. It's no wonder that Nimble beat me."

Nimble Deer could see that the Muley Cow was feeling quite glum. After she had struggled free of the thorns he went up to her and bowed in his most polite manner. "Is there anything I can do for you?" he asked her.

"Yes! Do let down the bars for me!" she gasped. "I want to go home. And I couldn't jump that fence again. It would be dangerous for me to try. I might fall and break a leg off. And then I'd have a short leg the rest of my life."

"You could stretch it," old Mr. Crow suggested.

But the Muley Cow turned her back on him and walked away.



XX

Solving A Problem


Jimmy Rabbit was going to give a party. Up and down Pleasant Valley and all about Blue Mountain the field and forest people were talking about it.

Almost everybody had an invitation. There were only a few that weren't asked. Jimmy Rabbit didn't intend to invite Grumpy Weasel because he was a rascal. And Timothy Turtle wasn't to be one of the guests because he would be sure to grumble at everybody and everything.

And then there was Nimble Deer. Jimmy Rabbit said that Nimble was too big to come to his party. And every one told Jimmy Rabbit that it was a pity. All the neighbors said so much that Jimmy Rabbit didn't know what to do.

"If I don't ask Nimble you won't be pleased," Jimmy complained to Billy Woodchuck. "And if I do ask him and he should happen to step on you during a dance you wouldn't like that."

"Invite him; but keep him away from the crowd!" Billy Woodchuck suggested.

"How can I do that?" Jimmy Rabbit demanded.

"I don't know," Billy replied. "But I am sure you can find a way, if anybody can."

Well, after that remark there was nothing Jimmy Rabbit could do except to put on his thinking cap. But try as he would, he couldn't hit upon a single plan.

Now, Nimble Deer had no idea of all the trouble he was causing Jimmy Rabbit. To be sure, he knew that he was not invited to Jimmy Rabbit's party. But he was no person to sulk or feel hurt over such a matter.

However, there was one thing that he thought was odd. Wherever he went he was sure to come upon Jimmy Rabbit. Sometimes Nimble would hear a faint rustle. And when he looked around he would catch a glimpse of Jimmy Rabbit ducking out of sight behind a tree. Sometimes Nimble would be taking a nap under the shelter of a clump of evergreens. And he would wake up suddenly with a strange feeling that somebody was watching him. And almost always he would discover Jimmy Rabbit crouching near-by and staring at him.

At first, at such times, Nimble only spoke pleasantly to Jimmy Rabbit. Still he couldn't help noticing that Jimmy Rabbit always acted queerly. He seemed to be absent minded. If Nimble bade him a cheerful good morning Jimmy Rabbit was likely to reply with a good evening. If Nimble said, "It's a fine day," Jimmy would say, "Yes! It does look like rain."

At last, one day, Jimmy Rabbit made the oddest answer of all. When Nimble spied him peering from behind a stump he called, "Hullo! I'm glad to see you." To which remark Jimmy Rabbit said, "I hope to see you later."

"Now, I wonder -- " Nimble mused -- "I wonder what he means." And then Nimble asked Jimmy Rabbit a question: "Are you feeling well?"

"As well as could be expected!" Jimmy Rabbit told him.

"You don't seem like yourself," said Nimble. "I haven't seen you smile for over a week."

Then, strangely enough, Jimmy Rabbit jumped into the air and kicked and smiled.

"At last," he cried, "I feel better. I have solved the problem. Will you come to my party and help me a week from to-night?"

Nimble Deer thanked him and said that he would.



XXI

An Untold Secret


All the field and forest people soon knew that at last Jimmy Rabbit had invited Nimble Deer to his party. And everybody was pleased -- that is, everybody except Grumpy Weasel and old Timothy Turtle, who were left out in the cold, so to speak. Grumpy Weasel, when he heard the news, said, "Humph!" And Timothy Turtle, when he heard it, said, "Ho!" And they both declared that they were glad they were not going to the party.

Old Mr. Crow carried the news far and wide. It was he that told Billy Woodchuck, in Farmer Green's clover patch. And Billy Woodchuck almost choked over a clover top, he was so excited.

"Where's Jimmy Rabbit?" he asked Mr. Crow. "I want to ask him something."

"I couldn't say where he is," said Mr. Crow. "I don't think he'd want me to tell. But I'll find him for you and I'll ask him your question -- if you'll tell me what it is." That was Mr. Crow's way. He was so curious.

"Thank you!" said Billy Woodchuck. "I don't want to trouble you, Mr. Crow."

And though Mr. Crow tried to learn what the question was, Billy Woodchuck wouldn't tell him.

Later Billy was almost sorry he hadn't accepted Mr. Crow's help. For he couldn't find Jimmy Rabbit anywhere. And then Billy happened to meet Nimble Deer.

"I hear you're going to the party," Billy said to him. "How are you going to keep out of the crowd?" That was the question he had wanted to ask Jimmy Rabbit.

"Keep out of the crowd!" Nimble exclaimed. "I don't expect to keep out of it. The crowd at a party is more than half the fun. Since I'm to help Jimmy Rabbit I'll have to be where the people are."

"Oh!" said Billy Woodchuck. He had been a bit worried, for he didn't want Nimble Deer to step on him at the party. Even though it might be an accident, being stepped on by so big a chap as Nimble would be no joke. Everybody knew that Nimble's hoofs were sharp.

But now Billy had learned something that set his fears at rest. Nimble Deer was going to help Jimmy at the party.

"Ah!" Billy Woodchuck murmured to himself. "That means that Jimmy Rabbit has a plan. And it must be a good one; for his plans are always fine."

"What are you going to do to help?" he asked Nimble.

"Jimmy Rabbit didn't tell me," Nimble replied. "Maybe I'm to entertain the company by having a mock battle with somebody. How would you like to have a mock battle with me?"

"I shouldn't care for it at all!"

"Well, I dare say somebody would enjoy a sham fight," said Nimble. "I must ask Jimmy Rabbit who it will be."

So the next time Nimble found Jimmy Rabbit he asked him that very question.

But Jimmy Rabbit said there were to be no battles of any kind at his party.

"Then how am I going to help you?"

"You're going to use your horns -- but not to fight," Jimmy Rabbit explained.

And he wouldn't say another word.



XXII

The New Hat-Rack


The night of Jimmy Rabbit's party arrived at last. The time was an hour after sunset. The place was Farmer Green's back pasture. And Jimmy Rabbit was waiting eagerly. He had told Nimble Deer to come early, before the other guests, because Nimble was going to help him.

Jimmy Rabbit hadn't waited long when he heard a muffled thud, followed by a swift patter.

"There's Nimble now!" he exclaimed. "He just jumped the stone wall and he's coming this way."

Jimmy Rabbit was right. In a few seconds more Nimble Deer stood before him.

"Here I am!" Nimble cried. "I've come early and I'm ready to help you."

"Good!" said Jimmy Rabbit. "Step this way, please!" And he hopped over to a clump of evergreens. Nimble followed him.

"Now," Jimmy Rabbit went on, "step inside this thicket and let only your head and neck stick out!"

"What shall I do with my antlers?" Nimble asked him. "They won't come off, because it's the wrong time of year to shed them."

"Oh! I want your antlers to show too," Jimmy Rabbit assured him.

So Nimble did exactly as Jimmy Rabbit had told him.

Then Jimmy sat up a little way off, cocked his head on one side, and looked at Nimble. "That's fine!" he declared. "When the moon comes up everybody will be able to see you -- except what's hidden by the evergreens."

"What am I going to do here?" Nimble inquired.

"You're to stand perfectly still," Jimmy explained.

"And what else?"

"Nothing!" Jimmy Rabbit answered. "The other guests will do the rest.... And now, if you don't mind, I'll leave you here; for I hear somebody coming."

He scampered away then. But soon he came hurrying back.

"There's something I forgot to say," he told Nimble hurriedly. "You mustn't talk. You mustn't even open your mouth. You mustn't even chew your cud."

"I suppose I can wink if I want to," said Nimble Deer.

"No, indeed!" Jimmy Rabbit cried. "That would spoil everything."

"It's going to be hard," Nimble complained, "to keep so still."

"Oh, no!" Jimmy Rabbit assured him. "It will be easy. Just act as if you were stuffed!"

"Stuffed!" Nimble exclaimed. "I've never been stuffed. I hope I never shall be. And I don't know how to act as if I were."

Jimmy Rabbit didn't even wait to hear what Nimble said, but whisked away again.

"Dear me!" Nimble muttered. "I wish I hadn't said I'd come to the party and help. For it certainly won't be any fun to stand still in this thicket, with only my head and neck sticking out."

However, he had promised to help. So there was nothing to be done except to follow Jimmy Rabbit's orders. And at once Nimble could hear Jimmy Rabbit welcoming some early guests.

"Come this way and leave your hats and coats!" Jimmy Rabbit was saying. And soon he returned with Billy Woodchuck and Fatty Coon at his heels. Jimmy led them straight to the place where Nimble stood.

"Hang your things on my new hat-rack!" Jimmy Rabbit told them as he waved a paw toward Nimble's antlers.

And to Nimble's amazement they reached up to do as they were told.

But Nimble's antlers were too high for them.

It was a bad moment for Jimmy Rabbit.



XXIII

How Nimble Helped


Billy Woodchuck and Fatty Coon had come early to Jimmy Rabbit's party. And Jimmy had told them to hang their hats and coats upon his new hat-rack -- meaning Nimble Deer's antlers. But when they tried to do as they were bid they found that the antlers were beyond their reach.

Of course Jimmy Rabbit was most uncomfortable. He coughed and gave Nimble an odd look. He even nodded his head at Nimble behind his guests' backs, thereby doing his best to give Nimble a hint to lower his head.

But Nimble Deer couldn't imagine what Jimmy Rabbit meant. Hadn't Jimmy warned him not to move -- not even to open his mouth, or chew his cud, or wink? So Nimble stood like a statue.

"I -- I see my new hat-rack is too high," Jimmy Rabbit stammered. "Let me take your hats and coats and I'll hang them up for you while you go and wait for the rest of the company over by the stone wall!"

So Billy Woodchuck and Fatty Coon gave their hats and coats to Jimmy.

"That's a fine Deer's head," Fatty remarked. "It seems to me I've seen it before somewhere."

"Perhaps! Perhaps!" Jimmy Rabbit answered. He wished his guests would move away.

"Those antlers remind me of Nimble Deer's," Billy Woodchuck remarked. And he gave Nimble a wink, for he had quickly guessed the secret of the hat-rack and how Jimmy Rabbit had planned to have Nimble at his party and yet keep him out of the crowd.

"Is this Deer's head stuffed?" Billy Woodchuck asked Jimmy Rabbit.

"Perhaps! Perhaps!" Jimmy muttered. "Move along, please!"

Nimble wanted to return that wink that Billy Woodchuck gave him. But he didn't, because Jimmy Rabbit had warned him to keep perfectly still.

As soon as his guests had left them Jimmy whispered to Nimble, "Lower your head a bit, for pity's sake!"

Nimble promptly obeyed him. And Jimmy Rabbit hung the hats and coats upon Nimble's antlers.

"Now," Jimmy said, "keep your head exactly where it is!"

Nimble Frightened Uncle Jerry Chuck. Page 125

"I suppose I may raise it after everybody has come to the party," Nimble ventured.

"No! That would never do," Jimmy Rabbit replied firmly. "If anybody happened to come back to get a pocket-handkerchief out of his coat he'd be sure to notice the difference."

A sigh escaped Nimble Deer.

"My neck will ache before the evening's over," he said. "Couldn't I take a short walk in the woods, later, to rest myself?"

"My goodness, no!" Jimmy cried. "You'd be sure to lose some of the hats and coats, or tear them on some briars, or get them full of burs."

"How long is the party going to last?" Nimble asked.

"Only till midnight!"

At that Nimble gave a groan.

"S-s-h!" Jimmy Rabbit laid a paw upon his lips. "Keep still! Stuffed animals never talk. If you don't look out somebody will hear you."

And then he hurried away to join his guests. He did not want to leave them alone too long. He feared they might be saying things to each other about his new hat-rack.



XXIV

Uncle Jerry Chuck


Soon Jimmy Rabbit's friends arrived at his party in throngs. And soon Nimble Deer's antlers bristled with hats and coats of many kinds and colors.

"I must look like a Christmas tree," Nimble thought. "I wish Jimmy Rabbit and his friends would come and dance around me so I might see the fun."

But they didn't. They stayed down in a little hollow some distance away. Nimble could hear their voices. And they seemed to be having a delightful time.

As for Nimble, he wasn't having a good time at all. "I'll never help at another party!" he promised himself. He couldn't believe that midnight -- and the end of the party -- would ever come.

At last, however, he took heart. For old Uncle Jerry Chuck came hurrying up and began taking hats and coats off Nimble's antlers. And Nimble knew then that the party must be almost over.

"This is a good hat!" Uncle Jerry muttered to himself. "I'll take it." And then he said, "This is a good coat! I'll take it." Then he looked closely at another hat. "This is a good one, too!" he remarked. "I might lose the other. I'll take this one, too -- and this coat here," he added, selecting a second coat that pleased him.

Little did Uncle Jerry Chuck dream that the Deer's head was a real, live one. And just as the old chap reached for the second coat Nimble Deer had to cough. He didn't want to. Hadn't Jimmy Rabbit cautioned him not to stir -- not to open his mouth?

But the cough came all the same, right in Uncle Jerry Chuck's ear. And Uncle Jerry jumped. He dropped both hats and both coats. And then he waddled off as fast as he could go and scrambled over the stone wall, out of sight. He didn't even wait to get his own rusty coat and tattered hat, which he had left lying on the ground.

Uncle Jerry hadn't been gone long when all the company came jostling up to Nimble. Everybody -- except Nimble -- was very merry. Amid a good many jokes the company put on their hats and coats, until only Aunt Polly Woodchuck's poke bonnet hung from Nimble's horns.

Then -- just for fun -- Jimmy Rabbit set the bonnet on Nimble's head and tied its strings under his chin. And Aunt Polly Woodchuck herself laughed hardest of all.

And then all at once something happened. A dog barked. "It's old dog Spot!" somebody cried.

Nimble Deer was the first to run. One leap took him out of the evergreen thicket in which he had been standing all the evening. Three leaps more took him over the stone wall.

After that nobody saw him -- nor Aunt Polly Woodchuck's bonnet -- again that night.

The whole company scattered and vanished like baby grouse surprised in the woods. And when old dog Spot reached the clump of evergreens a few moments later he found nothing to show that there had been a party there -- that is, he found nothing except a battered hat and a rusty coat lying on the ground.

Spot sniffed at them. "Unless I'm mistaken, Uncle Jerry Chuck has forgotten something," he murmured. "No doubt he'll be back here in a little while."

So Spot waited and waited there.

But Uncle Jerry Chuck was half a mile away and sound asleep in his underground chamber.

And Nimble Deer was a mile away, over in Cedar Swamp, trying to tear Aunt Polly's bonnet off his head by rubbing his horns against a young cedar.

<eob>

Jack, The Young Ranchman

Or

A Boy's Adventures In The Rockies

By

George Bird Grinnell



Chapter I

Jack Danvers


The door-bell rang, and from the library Jack heard the soft tread of Aunt Hannah, as she walked through the hall to answer it. There was a murmur of voices, and then Hannah's tones, loud and high pitched: "Guns! no indeedy, chile, ye can't leave 'em here. Not here, chile. Take 'em away. No, I don't keer if they is Mr. Sturgis'. Go 'way. I won't take 'em. Gib 'em to the policeman; ye can't get me to tetch 'em. Go 'way."

"What is it, Hannah?" said Jack, as he went to the door.

"Don't ye come here, honey. This man here, he's got some guns he wants to leave. Says they're for your Uncle Will. Don't ye go near 'em."

"These are two rifles that Mr. Genez has been sighting. Mr. Sturgis told him to deliver them here to-day," said the messenger.

"All right; give 'em to me," said Jack, as he took them; and the messenger ran down the steps.

"Oh look out, honey, look out," said Aunt Hannah, shrinking away from Jack; "they'll go off and kill you, sure."

"Pshaw, Hannah," said Jack, "what are you talking about? They wouldn't go off of themselves, and anyhow they ain't loaded."

"There, what'd I tell ye?" cried Aunt Hannah. "Do be keerful. Many's the time I heard your grandpaw say them's the most dang'ous kind. He allus did say that it was the guns that wan't loaded that went off and killed folks. 'Deed he did."

Jack took the guns up to his uncle's room, and put them on the bed, and went back to the library. He had hardly got there, and gone to the window to look out into the darkening street, when he heard the front door close and a quick, light footfall in the hall.

"Oh, Uncle Will," he said, "is that you?"

"Hello, Jack, are you there?" was the reply. "I want to speak to you," and a moment later Mr. Sturgis entered the room and stepped over to the fireplace.

"Well, Jack," said he, "are you ready to start in to-morrow to be a cowboy?"

"Yes, Uncle Will, I'm all ready," was the reply.

"You're sure you don't want to back out now? You know," added Mr. Sturgis, "that you may see some rough times. Some days you will be wet and cold and hungry, and will wish that you were in a good house and by a warm fire, with a hot meal ready for you. It isn't all fun and play and good times out on the ranch."

"I know that, Uncle Will," answered Jack, "but there must be plenty of fun, too, and I think I am going to like it."

"I believe so, too, my boy, but I want you to remember that there are two sides to almost everything. You will have lots of fun on the ranch, and that is what you think most of now, but you must remember also that it will not be all pleasure and no pain."

"Why, Uncle Will, don't you suppose I know that? A fellow's bound to be too hot or too cold sometimes, and to hurt himself now and then, but I guess I can stand it, and I don't think you need feel afraid that I'll want to come home before I have to." As he said this, Jack looked quite injured, and stood very straight.

"No, no, my boy. I don't doubt your pluck; but I want you to understand well before we start what it is that you have to look forward to.

"Now," continued Mr. Sturgis, "everything is ready for our start, and all we have to do to-morrow is to go to the train and get into the sleeping-car."

"Let's sit down in front of the fire and talk a little, Uncle Will. You have plenty of time before dinner, haven't you?"

"Yes, I have half an hour before it will be time to dress; I'll smoke a pipe and talk to you for that time. Now, ask your questions."

Jack Danvers was a New York boy about fourteen years old. He lived in East 38th Street, near Park Avenue, and Mrs. Danver's brother, Will Sturgis, had a ranch out on the Plains, on which were many horses and cattle. Mr. Sturgis spent the summer on the ranch, but often came to New York for the winter. The ranch was in a wild country, where there were bears and elk and deer and antelope, and sometimes buffalo and Indians.

Jack was not a very strong boy. He was slim and pale and spent most of his time reading, instead of playing out of doors as all boys should. In the summer when he was in the country and in the open air he grew brown and hearty, but through the winter he became slender and white again.

Jack had no brothers and sisters, and his parents were often anxious about his health. They had thought several times of moving to the country to live, so that Jack might have an out-door life all the year round, but Mr. Danvers' business was so confining that he was obliged to be in town constantly, and Mrs. Danvers was not willing to leave him.

Dr. Robertson, whom Mr. Danvers had consulted, had given much thought to the boy's case, and at last had advised his mother to send him out to his uncle's ranch for a year, or at least for a summer, telling her that a few months of rough life in the open air would do him more good than all the medicines in the world. When Dr. Robertson told her this, Mrs. Danvers at first thought the advice dreadful. She said, "Oh, doctor, I couldn't think of doing that. Why the life out there is one of constant danger and hardship. There are cowboys and Indians and wild animals of all sorts. I should never have an easy moment while Jack was away."

"My dear madam," said the doctor, "medicine is often very unpleasant to take, unpleasant for the patient and sometimes for his friends as well. I can build your boy's system up from time to time with tonics, but I can do him no permanent good. My medicines are only palliatives; the real trouble is with his environment. If the conditions of his life are changed, he will be certain to throw off the lassitude and weakness which he now feels, and to become a stout and hearty boy about whose general health you need have no farther concern; but it is important that now, when eight or ten years of schooling and study are before him, he should have a well-nourished body. I know of nothing that promise so much in this direction as a course of open-air life and vigorous exercise. Now he stays too much in the house and cares for nothing but books. This is not natural for a boy of his age. He ought to be full of animal spirits and to be working them off by climbing trees, running races and fighting. Think this matter over carefully, Mrs. Danvers, and let me know what you and your husband decide."

After much thought and many long talks, the parents had at last made up their minds to let their boy go. All preparations had been made, and on the next day Jack and his uncle were to take the train for the Far West.

"Well, Uncle Will," said Jack, "first, I want to know how long it will take us to get out to the ranch?"

"Five days, unless something happens to delay us," said Mr. Sturgis.

"Next," said Jack, "I want to know what I can do on the ranch. I want to help in the work, you know, but I don't know how to ride, or how to do anything that you have to do out there among the cattle and horses. I'll have to learn a great deal before I can be of any use."

"Yes, of course, you will have to learn. You will pick up riding and roping readily enough, but to learn the ways of the prairie and the mountains is not so easy, and unless you are with some one that knows all that and tries to teach you, it will take you a long time to learn. You can easily learn the cowboy part of your education from almost any of us out at the ranch, but there is only one man there who can teach you how to become a good mountain man; that is old Hugh Johnson. He has lived on the plains and in the mountains for more than forty years, and has hunted, trapped and fought Indians from the Mississippi to the Pacific, and from the Saskatchewan to the Rio Grande. He knows the plains and the mountains better than any one I ever saw, and is like an Indian for reading sign."

"What do you mean by reading sign, Uncle Will?" said Jack.

"Sign is a word which may mean a great many things. Sign may be the tracks of animals, or of people, or the smoke of fires, or an old camp, or clothing dropped by some one who has passed along. Anything that shows that animals or people have been in a certain place is called sign. Sign may be old or fresh, and there is always something about it that should tell you more than the mere fact that whatever made it has been there. You ought to be able to tell when the sign was made, and sometimes how it came to be made. Sometimes the sign is merely the way the wild animals act. I remember years ago, when the Sioux and Cheyennes were troublesome, I was travelling alone with Hugh, and one night when we camped, he rode out to kill a buffalo heifer. Before long he came back and told me that he had seen Indian sign, and that as soon as it was dark we must start and travel on all night. When I asked him what he had seen, he said that the animals were uneasy and the buffalo were running, and that some one was chasing them not far off. We hid our horses in a ravine and crept on top of a near-by hill from which we could see a good stretch of country. Sure enough, before long we saw buffalo running as if frightened, and a little later we saw, far off, two Indians chasing a little bunch. We lighted no fire that evening, but soon after dark rode away, and did not rest till we had put forty miles behind us."

"Do you think they would have tried to kill you, if they had seen you?" asked Jack.

"I don't know," said his uncle, "we were not taking any chances.

"Now, when you get to the ranch," he went on, "you will learn a lot about the birds and animals, and if your tastes lie that way, and you keep your eyes open, you will find out much of the life of these wild things that few people know. Although I have been out there so many years and have always tried to observe things, I see every season something that I never saw before, and learn more and more how little I really know about the beasts and the birds of the west -- even those that are most common about the ranch. Only last year I saw for the first time a little blind coyote puppy dug out from a hole in a ravine and was astonished to find that, instead of being yellow it was dark blue, almost black in fact. You could get a great collection of pets together at the ranch. Young elk, young antelope and deer and wolves, possibly a buffalo calf, some foxes, and birds of a dozen different kinds, grouse, ducks, magpies, young hawks. Why, you could have a regular menagerie."

"Oh, what fun that would be," said Jack. "I should like that. But how do you catch all these things? I supposed that young deer and antelope could run so fast that they could not be caught. I thought that they ran even faster than the old ones."

"They can run very fast and they are hard to catch as soon as they are a few weeks old," said his uncle; "but when they are quite young -- for the first few days after they are born -- they can scarcely run at all. During this time the mother hides them, telling them, I suppose, in her own language, to lie perfectly still until she returns. The young one lies flat on the ground, and the old mother goes off a little way -- not far though -- and feeds about. If she sees any one coming, or if danger of any kind threatens, she runs away and only returns after it is past. Meanwhile, the little one, lying there among the grass or weeds or undergrowth, and keeping perfectly still, is not noticed by the hunter or the wild animal that is passing along, and when the mother returns, she finds it just where she left it. It is said that at this time of their lives, these young animals give out no scent, and so they are not found by the wolves, unless these brutes happen to come right upon them."

"Well, but how do you catch them then?" said Jack.

"When we see an old doe antelope by herself on the prairie at about the season of the year when the young are born, we watch her and we can tell pretty well whether she has a young one or not. If we think she has a kid, we can get some idea of where it is hidden by the way the mother acts. Then the only way to find it is to go to the place and search the ground over foot by foot, until the young one is found or the task is given up. Usually both kids will be found side by side, but sometimes they are three or four feet apart. When they are taken up, they do not struggle or try to get away. They hang perfectly limp, and if you try to make them stand up, their legs give way under them and they sink down again. It is often twenty-four hours before they seem to take any interest in what is going on about them, but when they get hungry, and after they have once drunk some milk, they are tame, and as soon as they become strong, very playful. Young antelope are not always easily reared, but young deer and elk are more hardy. If a buffalo calf is caught it can be given to a cow to rear. Wolf or coyote puppies can be reared on a bottle. Those animals do not easily become tame and trustful. They are likely to be shy and to dodge and jump away if any sudden motion is made, but when they are pleased, when any one in whom they have confidence approaches them, they lay back their ears and wag their tails and wriggle their bodies just like an affectionate dog. Once we had a young bear at the ranch for a year and a half, and he was an amusing pet. If you gave him a bottle of milk he would stand on his hind legs, and holding the bottle in both hands he would tilt it up and let the milk trickle down his throat until the bottle was empty, when he would throw it away."

"Uncle Will, I think we're going to have a splendid time out west. I don't feel as if I could wait for to-morrow to come."

"It will be here before you know it, old fellow; and we'll be at the ranch before you know it too."




Chapter II

Prairie Wolves And Antelope


One morning, a few days later, a train was speeding westward among the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, bearing the travellers towards their summer home. The grey monotone of the prairie was unbroken by any bit of colour. The soil, the sage-brush, the dead grass that had grown the summer before, were all grey, unvaried except where a great rock or a bush taller than its fellows cast a long black shadow. Now and then the train passed close to some high butte, whose sides were gashed and gullied by deep ravines, and whose summit was crowned by a scattered fringe of black pines. Far off on either side, rose great mountains, covered with a mantle of snow, the most distant looking like far-off white clouds. From this snowy covering long fingers of white ran down the narrow valleys and ravines, seeming like white clasps holding the covering close in its place. The nearer foothills were white towards their tops, and against the shining snow the black pine trees stood out in strong contrast. Scattered over the grey plain were horses and cattle, most of them in little herds, but now and then a single cow was seen and near her a staggering calf, which had just been born, to face the scorching heats and bitter colds of the high plains.

Suddenly as the train rushed around a low knoll, a dozen animals were seen, running swiftly along, parallel with the track, and less than three hundred feet distant. In colour they were bright yellow, almost red, with white patches and white legs, and two or three of them had black and nearly straight horns. They were graceful, and ran very swiftly, easily keeping pace with the train.

"Oh, Uncle Will," said Jack, grasping his uncle's arm, "what are those? They're not deer, I am sure. They must be antelope. How pretty they are, and see how fast they run! Why, they are going faster than the train, I do believe. They just seem to skim over the ground."

"Yes, those are antelope, the swiftest animal on the plains. And yet the coyotes catch a good many of them, just by running them down. Now, how do you suppose they do that, Jack?" and his uncle smiled at the boy's puzzled expression.

"I don't know. You said they were the swiftest animals on the plains, and yet you say that the coyotes catch them. That seems to mean that the coyotes are swifter. Doesn't it?" asked Jack.

"Not exactly," replied his uncle; "it only means that they are smarter -- more cunning. A single coyote who undertook to run down a single antelope, would get very tired and very hungry before he accomplished it, but when two or three coyotes are together, it is quite a different thing. The coyotes do not all run after the antelope together. They take turns, and while one runs, the others rest, so at last they tire the antelope out."

"But I should think that when the antelope ran, it would leave all the wolves behind, those that were resting even more than the one that was chasing it."

"It would do so if it ran straight away and out of the country, but this it does not do. Instead, it runs in large circles. When three or four prairie wolves decide that they want antelope meat for breakfast, one of them creeps as close as possible to the animal they have selected, and then makes a rush for it, running as fast as he possibly can, so as to push the antelope to its best speed and to tire it out. Meantime his companions spread out on either side of the runner, and get on little hills or knolls, so as to keep the chase in sight. They trot from point to point, and pretty soon when the antelope turns and begins to work back towards one of them, this one tries to get as nearly as possible in its path, and as it flies by, the wolf dashes out at it and runs after it at the top of its speed, while the one that had been chasing the antelope stops running, and trots off to some near-by hill, where, while the water drips off his lolling tongue, he watches the race and gets his breath again. After a little the antelope passes near another coyote, which takes up the pursuit in its turn. And so the chase is kept up until the poor antelope is exhausted, when it is overtaken and pulled down by one or more of the hungry brutes."

"Why, I should think the coyotes would kill all the antelope after awhile," said Jack.

"Of course the coyotes do not catch every antelope they start," said his uncle. "Sometimes the game runs such a course that it does not pass near any of the waiting wolves, and only the one that starts it has any running to do. Then the chase does not last long; the wolves give up. Sometimes the antelope is so stout and strong that it tires out all its pursuers. Yet they catch them more frequently than one would think, and it is not at all uncommon to see coyotes chasing antelope, although, of course one does not often see the whole race and its termination. Often if a wolf running an antelope comes near to a man, he gives up the chase and that particular antelope is saved. It is a common thing for a single coyote to chase an old doe with her kids, just after the little ones have begun to run about. At that time they are very swift for short distances, but have not the strength to stand a long chase. In such a case a mother will often stay behind her young, and will try to fight off the coyote, butting him with her head and striking him with her forefeet. He pays little attention to her, except to snap at her, and keeps on after the kids. Several times I have seen a mother antelope lead her young one into the midst of a bed of cactus, where the wolf could not go without getting his feet full of thorns. If the bed is small, the wolf will make fierce dashes up to its borders, trying to frighten the little ones, so that they will run out on the other side and he can start after them again, but usually the mother has no trouble in holding them. I have several times killed young antelope whose legs had been bitten up by coyotes, but which had got away. One hot day last summer a gang of section-men were working in a railroad cut west of here, when suddenly a big buck antelope ran down one side of the cut, across the track and up the other side. His sudden dash into the midst of them startled the men, and as they stood looking up where he had crossed, a coyote suddenly plunged down the side of the cut, just as the antelope had done. The readiest of the section men threw a hammer at him, and the wolf turned and scrambled up the bank and was not seen again.

"I wonder what the men thought?" said Jack.

"Two or three years ago I camped one afternoon near Rock Creek, and as there was very little feed, we turned the horses loose at night to pick among the sage-brush and grease wood. Early in the morning, before sunrise, while the man with me was getting breakfast, I started out to get the horses. They were nowhere to be seen, and I climbed to the top of the hill back of camp, from which, as it was the only high place anywhere about, I felt sure that I could see them. Just before I got to the top of the hill an old doe antelope suddenly came in view, closely followed by a coyote. Both of them seemed to be running as hard as they could, and both had their tongues hanging out as if they had come a long way. Suddenly, almost at the heels of the antelope -- much closer to her than the other wolf -- appeared a second coyote which now took up the running, while the one that had been chasing her stopped and sat down and watched. The antelope ran quite a long distance, always bearing a little to the left, and now seeming to run more slowly than when I first saw her. As she kept turning, it was evident that she would either run around the hill on which I stood, or would come back near it. At first I was so interested in watching her that I forgot to look at the wolf that had stopped. When I did so, he was no longer in the same place, but was trotting over a little ridge that ran down from the hill and was watching the chase that was now so far off. He could easily have cut across and headed the antelope, but he knew too well what she would do to give himself that trouble. After a little, it was evident that the antelope would come back pretty near to the hill, but on the other side of it from where she had passed before, and the wolf which I had first seen chasing her, trotted out two or three hundred yards on the prairie and sat down. The antelope was now coming back almost directly towards him, and I could see that there were two wolves behind her, one close at her heels and the other a good way further back. The first wolf now seemed quite excited. He no longer sat up, but crouched close to the ground, every few moments raising his head very slowly to take a look at the doe, and then lowering it again so that he would be out of sight. Sometimes he crawled on his belly a few feet further from me, evidently trying to put himself directly in the path of the antelope; and this he seemed to have succeeded in doing. As she drew near him I could see that she was staggering, she was so tired, and the wolf behind could at any moment have knocked her down, if he had wanted to, but he seemed to be waiting for something. The wolf that was following him was now running faster and catching up.

"When the antelope reached the place where the first wolf was lying hidden, he sprang up and in a jump or two caught her neck and threw her down. At the same moment, the two wolves from behind came up, and for a moment there was a scuffle in which yellow and white and grey and waving tails were all mixed up, and then the three wolves were seen standing there, tearing away at their breakfast.

"Great Scott! that must have been exciting," said Jack.

"It was," said his uncle; "I had been so interested in watching this thing, which after all had not taken more than ten or fifteen minutes of time, that I had forgotten all about the horses. It only needed a moment's looking to see them, a short distance down the stream, and before I had got to them and brought them back to camp, I heard Bill's voice singing out breakfast."

"I always thought," said Jack, "that the antelope could run so fast that they could get away from all their enemies except hunters that carried rifles. Is there any other wild animal besides the coyote that catches them?"

"Yes, the golden eagles often kill them when they are quite young, though if any old ones are near they will fight the birds and keep them from catching the kids. Once in winter I saw an eagle attack two kids that were feeding at a little distance from a big bunch of perhaps a thousand antelope. At this time the young ones were seven or eight months old, and so quite large and strong. The eagle had been sitting somewhere on the hillside and flew down over the kids to pounce on one of them. They immediately began to run to the herd, and when the eagle made a dart at them, they both stopped, reared on their hind legs, a good deal in the position of the unicorn that we sometimes see fighting for the crown, and struck at the bird with their forefeet. Perhaps the eagle was not very hungry, but at all events this turned him and the kids ran on. He made two more swoops at them before they reached the herd, but each time they fought him off in the same way by rearing up and striking at him. Of course when they got in among the other antelope the eagles left them and flew away.

"You know that in old times, before they had horses or fire-arms, the Indians used to catch antelope in traps."

"No, I didn't know that," said Jack, "how did they do it? I should think it would have needed a pretty big trap to hold an antelope."

"It was something on the same plan as the way in which they trapped the buffalo; they built two long straight fences which almost came together at one end and were far apart at the other. At the end of the fences where they almost came together, the Indians either built a corral or dug a deep pit which they roofed over by slender poles on which they put grass and dirt. Now you have heard that the antelope is very curious. If he sees anything that he does not understand or can't quite make out he is likely to go up closer to it, so as to see what this object really is. The Indians took advantage of this weakness of the antelope and by means of it decoyed bunches of them into the space between the widely separated ends of these two fences. Other Indians were hidden behind the fence, and as soon as the herd got started down between these wings the Indians near the end of the fence ran out and got behind the antelope, which were then forced to run down towards the pit or the corral. If it was a pit, they broke through the roof in running over it, or they ran into the corral where they were killed by the Indians, who were hidden near-by.

"Down in Utah and Colorado, south-west of here, I have seen in several places the remains of these fences and corrals. I do not know that the Indians hereabouts ever caught the antelope in pits, but men who have lived up north with the Blackfeet and Cheyennes, tell me that up there they used the pits instead of the corrals.

"So you see, my boy, the antelope has his troubles like other people. It isn't all cake and pie for him, even though he can run fast and lives out on the prairie where he can see a long distance."

"That's so, Uncle Will," said Jack, "I never thought of all these things."

While the two had been talking they had forgotten about the antelope, and these had now been long left behind. Now the train with a long groaning whistle plunged into the darkness of a snow shed, and a few moments later ran out past the border of a large lake, the surface of which was covered with ducks and geese which rose from the water until the air was fairly dark with their numbers. The whistle of the duck's wings and the clamour of the honking geese could be heard, even though the car windows were shut, and the passengers all gathered at the windows to look at the great flocks of birds.

When they had passed out of sight of the lake his uncle said to Jack: "That is the Medicine Lake, and the next stop is our station. Better ring the bell for the porter, so that he can have all our things together ready to put off."

"Well, Thomas," he said to the smiling coloured man who came up, brush in hand, "we are going to leave you now. Please get all our things ready to throw off. You know the train does not stop long."

"All right sir, all right," said Thomas, "I'll see that nothing is left. Hope you will have a good drive out, Mr. Sturgis. Nice day you've got. Don't always have such nice weather, this time of the year." And he brushed furiously.




Chapter III

The Road To The Ranch


The little cluster of buildings which the travellers saw when they stepped from the cars to the station platform was smaller than any village that Jack had ever been in. There were the station, the section house and the great round water tank, all painted red, and on the other side of the track a row of five one-story houses, four of unpainted logs, and one of boards, with large glass windows, evidently a store. Standing on the platform were a man holding a mail sack, two men wearing broad-brimmed hats, enormous fringed leather trousers, and small high heeled boots with great spurs. Not far from the platform stood a heavy spring-waggon, to which were hitched two good-sized chestnut horses, very nervous, or else half broken, for they were rearing and plunging and shying away from the train, yet were perfectly controlled by their driver, a large stoop-shouldered, white-bearded man. As the train drew out of the station, this team made a wide circle and then drove up to the platform, and as it reached it, the driver called out cheerily: "How are you Mr. Sturgis? how are you, sir. Glad to see you;" and he reached out and caught Mr. Sturgis' hand in a cordial grasp. "This your nephew? How are you, my son? I'm glad you've come out into this country to visit with us. We'll try to make a cowman of you before you go back."

"How are you, Hugh?" said Mr. Sturgis. "I am glad to see you, and glad to get back again. I have had enough of the town for a little while. Yes, this is my nephew, Jack Danvers. I want you to know him and like him, for I hope that you two will see a good deal of each other before snow flies. Jack has never been away from home before. He has everything to learn about life in the mountains, and there is no one who can teach him so well as you."

"Well, well," said Hugh, "I don't know as I'm much of a hand to break in a cowboy. I took to it too late. But let's get your things loaded. If you'll take these lines I'll pack the waggon."

In a very few moments the small trunks, bundles, gun-cases and bags were stored in the deep box of the waggon, and Hugh, stepping in again, took the lines and they drove off north over the rolling prairie.

The horses, which started with a rush, for a little time occupied all his attention. Old tin cans lying near the roads, and bits of paper quivering in the wind, caused them to shy, and often they tried to bolt, but the firm hand on the reins, and the low soothing voice soon quieted them, and before long they were jogging steadily and swiftly over the prairie road.

"They'll be a good team, Hugh, after a little driving," said Mr. Sturgis.

"That's what;" replied Hugh. "They're good now, only they're a little mite skeery yet, but they'll soon get over that. I don't know as I ever saw a team that promised better. They're right quiet, too, when you get 'em going." Just as he said this, a great bird rose with a roar of wings, almost under the horses' feet, and the right quiet animals, turning at right angles, bolted over the prairie, the waggon bumping and bouncing over the sage-brush in a way that made the two men hold on for dear life, while Jack, who was sitting between them, clung to the back of the seat, somewhat uneasy lest he should be thrown over the dashboard. Gradually Hugh checked the horses' speed and turned them back to the road, and when they were again quiet, he looked down at Jack and said to him, with a twinkle of fun in his eye: "I expect this prairie isn't as smooth as some of your park roads back in the States, my son."

"My, no! It bumped, didn't it? and I don't think your horses are so very quiet yet, Mr. Hugh. But what was that big bird that made such a noise when it flew up? Was it a partridge? I've heard about the noise they make getting up, but I didn't suppose they were as big as that."

"That was a sage hen, my son. You'll see lots of them before night. It's getting along towards nesting time for them, and maybe we'll find some nests, and maybe get some young ones this spring. I've raised a brood or two, but they always went off after they got big. Along in the fall, say in October, just before it gets cold weather, they get together in big droves, hundreds and hundreds together, and stay like that all winter. They're big, but they ain't much account. They taste too strong of the sage. The young ones about half grown are good eating, though not near so good as the blue grouse or the pheasant. Now, you take young blue grouse, just when they are feeding on the little red huckleberries that grow on the mountains, and, I tell you, they are tender and as nice tasting as any bird there is. There's as much difference between them and these sage hens as there is between a nice fat yearling mountain sheep in October and an old buck antelope at the same time of the year."

As they went on, Mr. Sturgis and Hugh began to speak of matters on the ranch, of cows and calves and horses and colts and brands, and of places and people Jack had never heard of, so that he paid no heed to their talk, but occupied himself in watching the prairie over which they were driving, and the wild creatures which lived on it. There were many of these, chiefly birds, and these of kinds new to him, familiar only with the commoner birds of the sea-coast. Most of them were small and dull-coloured, but not all; for, flying up from the road, yet often standing close to it while the waggon passed, were little birds with bright yellow throats and black chins, and which seemed to have little black horns on either side of the head. There were great flocks of these, and Jack determined to remember and ask his uncle what they were. At one time a great, long-eared animal sprang from under a bush by the side of the road and half hopped, half ran off over the prairie. It was mostly white, and had long ears, and Jack thought it must be a rabbit of some kind. When it sprang into view, the horses gave a great bound and tried to run, and not until they had again been brought down to a trot was he able to ask what it was, and to learn that it was a jack-rabbit.

By this time they had gone quite a long way, and as they reached the top of a ridge, Mr. Sturgis pointed toward a range of distant hills which cut off the view, and asked his nephew how far off he thought they were.

"Oh, I don't know, Uncle Will; how far are they?"

"They are about twenty miles distant, and we have to go ten miles beyond them. Do you see that low place in the line of the horizon, just to the right of the horses' heads? Well, we go through that. There is a narrow valley there, and we go up that, and then over the hill and down into the basin, where the ranch is."

"What makes those mountains look so grey, Uncle Will? They shine almost like silver. In some places the mountain looks black, but it's mostly grey."

"The black is the dark green of the growing pine timber, and the grey is where the timber has been burned, and is dead. For the first year or two after the fire has passed over the forest and killed them, the trees are black or keep their bark. Then the wind and rain and snow beating on the soft coating of charcoal, wear off the charred surface and the bark, and the wood becomes grey from the weather, just the colour of an old fence rail. The trees continue to stand for a good many years, and give this grey colour to the mountain side. Gradually the roots rot, and one by one the trees fall to the ground. Often they lie across each other, six or eight feet high, and this is the "down timber" which it is so hard to travel through. Sometimes it is even dangerous to pass through a piece of this dead timber. If it has been dead a long time, so that the roots of many of the trees have become rotten and weakened, the trees are easily thrown down by a high wind. I have seen a tall, thick tree pushed over by a mule knocking its pack against it, and in a gale of wind have seen the trees falling all around me. Of course, if one of them fell on a horse it would kill him."

By this time the waggon had begun to go down into some low but very rough and barren hills, cut up in every direction by ravines and water-courses. There was no grass and the ground was bare, except for low sage-brush here and there, and the rocks seemed to be bent and twisted. Sometimes a little pointed hill was capped by a great broad slab of stone, or again a narrow ridge was crowned with pinnacles which looked like pyramids or church steeples, or men or animals. It was a queer-looking place, and not like anything that Jack had ever seen before. He asked his uncle about it, and he explained. "These are what the old French trappers of early days used to call mauvaises terres -- bad lands -- because no grass grows on them. The soil is all sand or clay, and very dry. All this country you see was once the bottom of a big bay where the tide rose and fell."

"Tide rose and fell, Uncle Will! How could that be? Where did the tide come from? I didn't think that the ocean was within a thousand miles of here;" said Jack.

"That is true to-day, Jack," said his uncle; "but the time I am talking about was long, long ago, in what the men who study the earth's history call Jurassic time. No one knows how many years ago it was, but it is safe to say it was millions. In those times the salt ocean, or an arm of it, lay just east of the Rocky Mountains and the water in this bay where we are now was partly fresh and partly salt. Great forests grew here, and strange animals lived among them and fed along the shores of this bay. If we had time to get out and look for them, we could find beaches, where the sand was washed up by the waves, and shells, and the bones of these great animals. A big book could be written about these bad lands here, just as big books have been written about other bad lands."

"They're surely queer places," said Hugh. "I've seen it down in Kansas, and down on Henry's fork of Green River, and up in Oregon, where the ground was stuck full of bones and teeth. Some of the leg-bones was nigh as thick as my body, and some of the big heads had long teeth as long as my hand. They must have been big animals, and mighty dangerous too, I reckon."

"What makes the dirt all those different colours, Uncle Will," asked Jack; "In some places it's white, in others yellow or brown or black, and in some, bright red, like bricks."

"That red colour," said Mr. Sturgis, "is where the earth has been burnt. All through the soil here there are seams or veins of a crumbly brown substance, which is called lignite. It is a sort of coal about half made, and like coal it will burn. Sometimes a seam of this lignite catches fire from some cause or other, and may burn for years, baking the earth close to it. The heat turns it red, just as bricks which have been burned turn red."

By this time they were passing out of the bad lands and down into a flat through which flowed a broad river. There was no bridge over it, and Jack wondered how they were going to get across, but when they came to the water's edge the horses trotted in, were stopped to drink, and then walked on across, although the water came up to their bellies and washed and gurgled about the waggon, so that Jack began to think that perhaps they might be swept away. Pretty soon it grew more shallow, and then they came to the bank, and once more the waggon started off down the valley at a brisk rate. Soon they crossed a narrow little stream flowing between deep banks, climbed another hill, and then turning away from the river, went up a narrow valley, shut in on one side by a high wall of rock and on the other by a great mountain dotted with cedars. On this mountain Hugh said there were some mountain sheep, and he pointed out to Jack tracks in the road where some of these animals had crossed that morning. Further on, in a broad rolling valley, they saw some antelope, but by this time the cold wind had made Jack chilly and tired, and his uncle wrapped him up to the throat with blankets and robes, and propping him up between Hugh and himself, told him to go to sleep. Just as he was about to do this, something happened which woke him up very thoroughly.




Chapter IV

A Grizzly Killed


Jack was just dropping off to sleep when he heard, very faintly, Hugh's voice, saying, "Got your gun handy, Mr. Sturgis, and some cartridges? Get it out quick then, there's a bear coming down from that bluff, and he's liable to cross the road a half mile beyond here; I'll run the horses and we may get there as soon as he does; he can't hear nor smell us in this wind." The last part of this sentence sounded very loud to Jack, for the word, bear, had thoroughly waked him up. When he opened his eyes, he seemed to have the seat all to himself. His Uncle Will's head was down between his knees, and he was feeling under the waggon-seat, while Hugh was half standing up and putting the whip on the horses. They did not need much urging to make them run, and in a minute the waggon was bounding along the road, jumping and swaying so that Jack held on to the back of the seat as hard as he could. His uncle had found his rifle, and was hurriedly fumbling with the straps of the case, and at the same time muttering questions to Hugh, asking where the bear was likely to cross.

In a moment more the rifle was pulled from its case, a cartridge slipped into the breech, and then the waggon topped a little rise of ground, and there before them, just crossing the road, was a big brown animal that looked something like a big dog without any tail. As they saw it, the horses tried to shy out to one side, but Hugh was ready for them and held them firmly. Mr. Sturgis rose to his feet and raised his gun to his shoulder, but Hugh said, "Hold on, hold on; wait till we get to where he crosses and then jump out. You will catch him as he rises the hill." Meantime the bear had crossed the road and disappeared in a ravine, and in a moment more Hugh drew up the horses, so that they almost reared, checked the waggon, Mr. Sturgis jumped out, and at that moment the bear was seen only fifty yards off, swiftly galloping up the hill. There was a shot, and then another, and the bear turned over and rolled down the hill out of sight. The horses danced, plunged, reared, and then ran some little distance before Hugh could stop them. But Jack looking back saw his uncle wave his hand and call out a cheery "All right!"

In a moment the horses stopped, and Jack jumped out and ran toward his uncle, not heeding Hugh's call to him to wait. Before he had reached Mr. Sturgis, however, the waggon had passed him, and when he got to the spot his uncle and Hugh were unhitching the horses, and in a moment had tied them to the hind wheels of the waggon.

"Where's the bear, Uncle Will," said Jack, "where did he go to?"

"I think he is down there in the ravine, my boy, but don't go down there yet. We'll get out your gun and load it, and then we'll go down and look for him."

"That is the way to do it," said Hugh. "Don't never go near no game without your gun, and a load in it, and above all, when it is a bear. Don't go near him, even if your gun is loaded, unless you can see him plain and are sure that he is dead. It is better to stand off and throw rocks at him for ten or fifteen minutes than to go up close and have him jump up and hit you once."

Jack's gun was soon out of the waggon, and when it had been loaded, he walked down the hill by his uncle's side, while Hugh, who was unarmed, followed a little behind them. They soon reached a point where they could see into the bottom of the ravine, and there lay the bear, doubled up in a heap and apparently dead.

"Roll a rock down on him, Hugh," said Mr. Sturgis, "and let's see if there is any life left in him."

Two or three big stones rolled down the steep slope caused no movement in the bear, and very slowly they approached him, but he did not now seem nearly so big to Jack as when he had crossed the road.

"He is only a yearling, Mr. Sturgis," said Hugh. "Say about fifteen or sixteen months old, but he has surely got a nice hide, and he will make a nice little robe for the boy here."

"Yes," said Mr. Sturgis, "but if we stop to skin him, it will bring us mighty late to the ranch."

"Oh, Uncle Will," said Jack, "let's skin him; what difference does it make whether we get to the ranch an hour sooner or later. Just think, this is the first big animal I have ever seen killed. I think we ought to take his skin along with us."

"All right, my boy," said Mr. Sturgis, "we will skin him; it won't take more than half an hour. Take hold of his front paws, Hugh, and drag him out to a level place, and we'll take his coat off; and Jack, do you go down this ravine a little way and see if you can find any water; before we get through we'll probably all want a drink, and certainly some of us will want to wash our hands."

Jack wanted to wait there and watch the operation of skinning the bear, but he did as he was told, and after walking down the ravine a few hundred yards, he found a place where a little water was trickling out of the side of the bank, and flowed away in a very thin small stream. There was so little of it that it was impossible for any one to drink, and there was no place where one could wash one's hands. He followed it down a little way further, and presently it fell over some rocks and into a little pool, almost as big as a water bucket.

Walking in the sun had made him thirsty, and he stooped and took a swallow or two of the water, but, although it was clear and cold, it was very bitter, and a little of it was enough for him. As he started back to where the bear lay, suddenly he saw coming down the side of the ravine toward him, a yellowish dog, with a long bushy tail and pricked ears, and he thought at once of the Indian dogs that his uncle had described to him, and wondered whether perhaps there was a camp of Indians somewhere near. In a moment after, the dog saw him, paused for an instant, and then turning about, with long bounds, ran up the hill, and after stopping a moment at the crest, it looked back and then disappeared from view.

When he got back to where the men were at work he found that the bear was already half skinned, and while he watched the finishing of the work, he told them of the water that he had found and of the dog that he had seen.

"I guess your dog was a coyote, Jack," said his uncle. "There are no Indians about here now, are there, Hugh?"

"No, not yet, Mr. Sturgis. There's likely to be a camp or two travelling along when summer comes, but they haven't started in to move yet. The grass is not high enough and the ponies can't get any feed. I expect your boy saw a coyote."

"Do you mean one of the little wolves that run down antelopes, Uncle Will?" said Jack.

"Yes, one of those," said his uncle. "The smartest animal that travels the prairie, aren't they, Hugh?"

"They surely are," said the old man, as he gave a last cut with his knife, and then tore the hide free from the bear. "Well, now, Mr. Sturgis," he continued, "I will take this hide up the hill and tie it up, and then go down to the spring and wash up, and then we will hitch up and roll. We have wasted considerable time here, but them horses are able to travel good, and we ought to get to the ranch by eight o'clock; before nine, anyhow."

Twenty minutes later the team was once more swiftly trotting along the smooth road, and Jack, wrapped up in robes and blankets, was cogitating on bear hunting as he dropped off to sleep.

Jack was awakened by a sharp jerk that nearly threw him from his seat, to hear Hugh growl: "Well I didn't hit that crossing very well. Lucky I slowed up."

The waggon was passing through a shallow brook, flowing down from mountains which could be plainly seen in the bright moonlight to the left of the road. Their sides were patched with glistening snow, and one could follow the dark irregular outline of their crest, cutting off the star-dotted sky, but Jack could not tell whether they were near or far away. To the right there seemed a far stretching plain, white in the moonlight. It was all strange, and for a little while Jack hardly knew where he was, but gradually he recovered his wits, and moved and stretched out his legs.

"Awake, Jack?" said his uncle. "We're almost there now. Only a few miles more and we'll be at home and get some supper. You'll be ready for that, I guess."

"Yes," said Jack, "I feel pretty hungry. It's cold too, isn't it?"

"Well," said Hugh, "you see it comes pretty near being winter yet out here. We're pretty high up in the air, and summer comes on slow and don't stay long when it gets here. I reckon you have heard the old saying that we have in this country about the weather. They say it's nine months winter and three months late in the fall. I expect that's because we have frosts and snow-storms every month in the year. Last summer in July we had a big hailstorm that cut down everything in the garden even with the ground, and knocked all the leaves off the quaking asps back of the house. The potatoes sprouted again and got about four inches high when there came another storm and cut 'em down again. So last year we didn't have no garden."

Before Hugh had finished this long speech, Jack had gone to sleep again, not to awake until he was lifted from the waggon at the ranch and was carried up to the house in Hugh's strong arms. The warmth and light of the room they entered confused him and made him still more sleepy, and he ate his supper in a daze and then went to bed.




Chapter V

Roping And Riding


Jack Danvers' sleep was deep and dreamless during his first night at the ranch, and when he was awakened next morning by his uncle's call, he could hardly tell where he was. As he jumped out of bed he saw by the dim light that came in through the small window that he was in a little room, furnished only with a bed, a washstand, a chair and his trunk. From the window he looked out on some level land, a grove of small trees and beyond them a very high hill, rising sharply and strewn with great stones. Gradually the drive of the day before and its incidents came back to his memory, and he knew that he was at the ranch. He dressed quickly, for he felt that there must be many strange things to see, and he did not want to miss any of them.

As soon as he had finished dressing, he opened his door and stepped out into another larger room, in which were chairs, a lounge, a stove and a good many shelves with books on them. This was the ranch sitting-room. There was no one here, but somewhere not far off he could hear the rattle of dishes, and passing through another room, he found himself in an open door-way looking into the kitchen where a pleasant-faced young woman was cooking. She smiled at him as she said, "Good-morning. Did you sleep well? I guess you did, and I don't believe you remember much about getting here last night, do you? You were dead tired and were almost asleep while you were eating supper, and went sound asleep as soon as you were through."

"No, ma'am, I don't remember getting here at all. I remember the drive and Uncle Will's killing the bear, and the horses and Hugh, but I don't remember eating supper."

"Well," said Mrs. Carter, "you must be rested by this time, and now we'll have breakfast pretty soon. Would you rather sit here till it is ready, or go out doors?"

"I think I'll go out doors and look around, if there is time before breakfast," said Jack.

"Oh, there's plenty of time," said Mrs. Carter. "You'll hear the horn when breakfast is ready." So Jack opened the door and went out.

Standing in front of the low grey log-house, he looked down a little valley, bounded on either side by low hills and soon spreading out into a wide plain. Very far away on the other side of the plain were high hills, some of them brown like the near-by prairie, others white, like chalk. Over these distant hills the sun was just rising, and all the broad plain was flooded with yellow light. Down on the prairie not very far from the house some antelope were feeding, and beyond them on a hillside some cattle. To the left were low log buildings -- stables, Jack supposed -- and some high-walled pens. Near the door of one of the buildings, hens were picking about, and close to the house three or four of these were quarrelling with a lot of black-birds over a bone lying on the grass, from which all the meat had been picked. By one of the pens calves were standing, looking through the bars, and now and then bawling to the cows that were being milked within. Behind the house was a high mountain on which grew pines, and high up on its side a number of small animals were moving swiftly, and behind them, one a little larger than the rest. As he looked at these animals they grew larger, and before long Jack could see that they were horses, and that the last one was a man on horseback, driving them. They came toward the house very fast and soon were plainly seen, and a little later the rumble of their galloping was heard, and they crowded into the corral. The man put up the bars and rode to the stable and unsaddled. Just after this, the horn sounded, and Jack saw his uncle, Hugh and two other men come toward the house, and soon all were seated at breakfast.

After the meal was over, Mr. Sturgis said to his nephew: "Now, Jack, I am going to ride out to-day to look for some horses, and I am going to leave you and Hugh here to keep camp. Hugh is going over into the pasture, and if he has time after he gets back, he will give you some lessons in shooting. You had better go with him. You can ride Old Grey for the present, until you begin to feel at home on a horse. I am going out now to saddle up. Do you want to come down to the corral?" They walked down toward the big pen into which Jack had seen the horses driven, but before they got to it a cloud of dust rose from it, and the horses were seen to be running around in it. Jack asked:

"What is frightening the horses, Uncle Will?"

"The men are catching up their riding animals," said Mr. Sturgis. "Run ahead and climb up on the fence, if you want to see them roping."

Jack ran on and clambered up on the top rail, just as another great cloud of dust rose. He saw the horses all standing, huddled in one corner of the pen, but one was following one of the men who held the end of a long rope which was about the horse's neck. Just then Hugh, carrying some ropes in his hand, came out of the stable, and unhooking the gate of the pen, went in, hooked the gate behind him, and walked toward the horses. As he saw Jack on the fence he called out:

"You've come down to get your horse, have you? Before very long we'll have you coming in here and catching him for yourself. You'll have to learn to throw a rope." He walked slowly toward the horses, and soon some of them started to run around the pen, always keeping close to the fence. Hugh held the long rope in both hands, the part in his left hand being in a small coil, while from his right hand a long loop trailed behind him in the dust. Suddenly he threw his right hand forward, the large loop flew out and settled over the head of a small grey horse that was galloping by. The horse stopped short and turned toward Hugh, who walked away toward the gate of the pen, gathering up the rope until the horse was quite close to him. He led the horse through the gate, tied him to the fence outside, and taking another rope went back into the pen.

"Climb over," he said to Jack, "and come here. You might as well get used to horses now as any other time." Jack climbed down the bars into the pen, though it did seem to him as if it were rather a dangerous place, for he did not feel at all sure that the horses might not run against and knock him down, and then run over and trample him to death. They seemed to rush about like a lot of wild creatures. Just as he got to the ground, and was walking over to Hugh, the gate opened again and his uncle came in, and he too had a rope in his hand.

"That's right, my boy," said his uncle. "You can't begin too soon. I see that Hugh has caught your horse; do you think that you can catch his?"

"I don't believe he can do it the first time or two, Mr. Sturgis. We'll have to practise a little on a post first, but I thought he might as well get down here among the horses," said Hugh. "Now, son, you watch me close. Notice everything I do, so that you'll remember next time. Now, you see this rope is lying on the ground. Just watch how I take it up and hold it."

Jack saw that Hugh took the loop of the rope with his right hand, and the free end in a small coil in his left hand, holding the end of the rope pressed against the palm of the hand with his little finger. "Now, d'ye see," he said, "how I hold it? Your right hand must hold both the loop and the free rope about a foot and a half from the hondu -- that's the eye the rope runs through. Then it will always keep open and run free. Always give a twist to the rope as you gather it; then it won't kink on you. Now, watch my right arm and the loop of the rope." He moved his right arm a little forward, turning his hand as he did so, and the loop flew forward and lay spread out open on the ground just before him. It seemed very easy.

"Now," said Hugh, "I'll catch old Baldy, and we'll be going." He walked toward the horses and they started to run, and as they started, he began to swing the rope around his head, and the loop was partly open. In a moment his hand reached forward, the loop flew out and settled over three or four horses that were crowded together, and they all stopped. Then a big bald-faced roan came out of the group toward Hugh, and sure enough the rope was about his neck. Hugh started toward the corral gate, leading the horse, and Jack was just going to follow, when the horses started again, and, turning, he saw his uncle swinging his rope, and in a moment he had his horse, and they all went out of the corral together. The gate was left open so that the horses that were not needed might go out on the prairie again.

The two horses were led up to the stable door, and there Hugh dropped the ropes on the ground, leaving them standing there, not tied to anything. As he entered the door he said to Jack:

"Come in, son, and I'll show you your saddle and bridle and blanket. You know every man here has his own saddle, and no one ever uses it except the man that owns it. Your saddle is here, and you ought always to hang it on its peg, and hang bridle, blanket and rope over it, so that they won't get dirty or be gnawed by anything, and so you'll always know where they are. You see, if you lose your things you'll have to go without any. No one'll lend you theirs. Now, the first thing you've got to learn is how to saddle your horse. I'll saddle old Baldy first, and you watch me close and try to see what I do. You see," he said, as he took down from a peg a great saddle with a high horn and big wooden stirrups, "these saddles that we use out here are different from the little flat things that they ride in the States. I saw one of them once. An Englishman had it, and it was queer for a fact. I thought the man would slip off it every time the horse gave a jump, but he didn't. He stuck to it good. Only he got all raw after he'd been riding it a month or two. Now, these saddles are hard, made of wood and leather, so we have to put plenty of blanket under 'em to keep the horse's back from getting sore. You see, this blanket is folded so that it's just a little longer and a little wider than the saddle. There's about three or four inches in front of the saddle, and three or four behind. Now I throw it on old Baldy, so that the front edge comes just about where the mane ends on the withers, and then I pass my hand all over it to see that there ain't any wrinkles in the folds. If wrinkles are there they're liable to press on the horse's back and make it sore. When it's all smooth, the saddle goes on like this," and grasping the heavy saddle by its horn he swung it over the horse's back, so that stirrups and cinches swung clear, and the saddle fell in its place. "Now, these cinches, you see, come up to meet the latigo straps on this side. You reach under the horse's chest and get hold of the forward cinch first, slip the latigo through the ring, and then through the saddle ring, and again through the cinch ring and saddle ring, and then pull, until the cinch is tight, so, and tie the strap like that. The flank cinch you don't pull so tight; if you pull on that too much, it is liable to make your horse buck. Now, the bridle; always leave your reins hanging down over the head when you get off, and then your horse won't move.

"Now, I'll saddle up your horse. I guess you'll find those stirrups about right. I fixed 'em for you last night when you was in bed. I'll tie up your rope here to these strings. You won't need it with Old Grey. He won't run away, even if you do get off and go and leave him." Then he saddled the grey with Jack's saddle.

"Now, let's see you mount. Here, stand by your horse's left shoulder and gather up your reins in your left hand. Now, catch hold of the mane with the same hand. Now, face a little toward the saddle and take the stirrup in your right hand, turn it so that the open end is toward you, and put your left foot in it. Now, take hold of the horn and pull yourself up from the ground. Go ahead, you won't fall; that's it; now, put your leg over, and there you are. After two or three times you'll be all right."

As he spoke thus, Hugh stepped into his own saddle and, stooping, began to gather up his rope which was still on the ground, and then lifting his bridle rein, his horse started to walk toward the house. Jack sat on his horse, feeling a little queer and wondering what he should do when his horse began to move. But it did not move; it stood there with its head hanging down as if asleep. In a moment Hugh looked around and called out, "Come on, son, lift your bridle rein and put your heel against his side and he'll start." Jack did this, and his horse seemed to wake up, and moved on.

As they rode on, side by side, Hugh explained to Jack which hand he should hold his reins in, how to guide his horse, by moving his hand to the left or to the right, so that the reins would press on the side of the neck away from that toward which he wished to turn, and how to hold on to his horse with his legs. He told him a good deal about riding and roping and handling horses and cattle, but much of it Jack hardly understood, and perhaps Hugh thought of this, for in a little while he began to point out the different hills and stream valleys, and to tell Jack the name of each. He showed him the points of the compass, and explained to him how to guess the direction by the position of the sun in the sky.

They were riding along the foot of the mountain, and crossing little valleys with steep ridges between. Down each valley ran a foaming brook and on each ridge grew sage-brush, and among the sage-brush were many great rocks, most of them smoothed and polished. A little way off, these big stones sometimes looked like animals lying down.

"We're going over to look at some cows that we've been keeping in this pasture all winter," said Hugh, as they rode up one of the hillsides. "They're right tame and we can ride right in among them. They're beginning to have their calves now, and I like to go over every day and look at 'em, to try to keep 'em together. There's lots of coyotes around, and they take a calf now and then, if they can get it and its mother away from the bunch. I put some baits out the last heavy snow we had, and got five of 'em, and the next snow that comes I'll put out some more. They're getting pretty smart though, and don't take poison like they used to in old times."

"How do you manage to poison them, Hugh?" asked Jack. Hugh did not answer, but pointed across a valley to a bit of hillside that had just come in view, and said, "There's a bunch of coyotes now trying to get a calf. Come on." And without a word more he galloped away. Jack had just time to see that he was riding toward an animal about which a lot of smaller animals were dancing, when suddenly old Grey threw up his head and began to gallop after Hugh, and for a few minutes Jack had all he could do to keep from falling off his horse, as it wound in and out among the rocks and the sage-brush. It seemed pretty rough riding, and he had an awful pain in his side, but pretty soon his horse stopped galloping and began to walk, and he saw that he was near Hugh, who was sitting on his horse, looking at a cow, close by which stood a little tottering calf. The cow seemed angry and shook her head as if she would like to charge on the horses.

"Look at that fool of a critter," said the old man, "she left the bunch and came near losing her calf by coyotes, and now she wants to fight us for driving them off. I always did say that cows had no sense."

"Were those coyotes that were running around? I could not see very well, because old Grey was going so fast, and I had a hard time to keep from falling off," said Jack.

"Well, well, you'll have to learn to stick on to your horse. I forgot that you wan't used to riding. We'll sure have to practise riding," said Hugh. "Now, let's drive this heifer over to the bunch. She's in big luck that she didn't lose that calf, young as it is."

"I thought coyotes were little animals, and I should think that a big cow could keep them away, and that all the calf would have to do would be to stay close to its mother."

"That would be all right, son, if the cow and calf had just a little bit of sense, but you see that's just what they ain't got. The coyotes get around them, and first one and then another makes a dash at the cow and tries to make her mad, or to scare her calf away from her. If the calf leaves its mother only a little way it gets a bite, and if the cow gets mad and begins to chase the coyotes, very likely the calf gets left behind, and may be gets two or three bites, or even gets pulled down. The only safe place for a calf is right close by its mother's side. Now, I believe that cow has quieted down, so that we can start her toward the bunch. You stop here till I see."

Hugh rode toward the cow, calling at her, and after a moment she turned and walked away from him, the calf staggering at her side. "Come on," called Hugh. "She'll go all right now."

They rode on behind the cow for a mile or two, and then, after crossing a ridge, saw down in the flat before them more than a hundred cows and calves. They rode down among them, when the cow that they had been driving stopped, and then after Hugh had looked at some of the animals, he said, "Now, I am going up there where there's a warm spot to smoke. After that, we'll go back to the house."

A little way up the valley was a clump of trees, and near these the two stopped, dismounted, and threw down their reins and sat down, while the horses fed near by.




Chapter VI

An Ancient Massacre


It was warm and pleasant where they sat, in the sun and out of the wind, though on the mountain behind them great drifts of snow lay in the ravines. Hugh had taken from his pocket a black wooden pipe and a plug of tobacco, and was shaving off the tobacco into the palm of his hand. Soon he had a pipeful, and crushing it between his palms, he filled his pipe and lighted it. As he leaned back and blew out the streams of white smoke from his nostrils, he pointed to a near-by hill and said:

"We'll go around that hill going back, and I'll show you a place where there was quite a killing of Indians a good many years back. It was before my time in this country, more than forty years ago, but I knew some of the men that was in the fight, if you can call it a fight where there wasn't no fighting. There's lots of old lodge poles and bones lying on the ground there yet, and I can remember years ago, they was old rotten robes and all kinds of truck lying around. The men that did the killing didn't carry anything away. They just killed everything in the camp that was alive, and then went off and left it."

"I think I've heard my uncle tell about that, but I wish you would tell me the story, Hugh. I'd like to hear it," said Jack.

"I'll tell you all I've heard of it, but let's wait till we get to the place. Now we've got to sit here and smoke, and then we'll go home that way, and then this afternoon I want you to take your rifle and come out and we'll see how it's sighted. Then maybe in two or three days we'll go out and kill a buck antelope. That's about the only meat that's good now. Well," he continued after a time, as he knocked the ashes from his pipe, "let's be moving. Let's see you mount now. That's good.

"Now, we'll have to ride a little faster if we're going to stop at that old killing ground. So come on. Try to hold your saddle tight between your legs, and swing with your horse. You'll get into it in only a short while. Come on, now."

Hugh started his horse, and Jack did the same, and they galloped off together. At first the boy bounced about a good deal, but after a little he began to see what Hugh meant, and by sitting back a little in the saddle and easing himself with his toes when the horse struck the ground, he sat more comfortably, and before he had gone very far he began to enjoy his ride. The cool wind blew against his face and through his hair, the sun was bright, little birds rose from the prairie as they galloped along, and it was very pleasant. He looked up at Hugh, who was watching him with a kindly smile, and laughed outright. "It's splendid, isn't it?" he said. Hugh answered something, but the wind blew his words away.

Presently Hugh drew in his horse and they turned and rode up over a little hill and stopped, looking across a narrow valley through which a little stream flowed. On the other side, only a short way off, in a half circle, rose another hill on which grew many cedar bushes among the great rocks. In the valley many grey sticks were lying on the ground, and here and there among the sticks were spots of white. "There's the place," said Hugh, "where the camp was wiped out. Let's 'light down here, and I'll fill my pipe and tell you the story."

When his pipe was going well he turned to Jack, and said: "It was a camp of fifteen lodges of 'Rapahoes, and the white men was a bunch of thirty trappers. This is the way I heard it. It was more than forty years ago that a war-party of 'Rapahoes attacked a small train of emigrants and killed them all, except one young boy about as old as you, who hid in the brush when the charge was made. A few days later a couple of trappers came along that way and found the boy. He told them the story, and when they looked around over the place where the killing was done, they found that it was 'Rapahoes that done it. These two men took the boy with them, and they made up their minds that the 'Rapahoes had got to sweat for this, and when they got into the Fort they told other men about it, and they all figured on it the same way.

"This killing was done in the summer, and the next spring, when the men were coming in from their trapping they camped somewheres near here in the hills, and stopped two or three days. Before they started on into the Fort, one of the men who was out hunting saw a camp of Indians coming -- a small party -- and he watched 'em until they camped, and then crawled up close to the lodges. After he'd watched them awhile, he made out that they were 'Rapahoes, and he took the news to camp. The men there turned out, and during the night they got all around the Indians and cached on the hillside among the cedars and rocks. You can think how it must have been that night, the lodges all standing here white in the darkness, and the men lying hid on the hillside waiting for day. At last it began to grow grey in the east, and then light, and pretty soon a smoke began to come from one lodge and then from another, and then a man stepped out, or a woman started down to the creek to get water, or a boy to bring in the horses, and then the first shot came and the people began to run out, and to run this away and that away, but as fast as they came out they were shot down. After all the people were killed, they killed the dogs and horses; everything that there was alive, and then they went away. They never went down into the camp."

He paused to relight his pipe, and Jack said: "But how did they know that these were the people who killed the emigrants?"

"They didn't," said Hugh, "but they knew that they were 'Rapahoes. That's the way it used to be in them days; if a Piegan or a Sioux, or a Cheyenne killed a white man, his friends killed the next Indian they met of the tribe that had done the killing. The Indians did the same, and many a man has been killed in revenge for something that he had never heard of."

"That seems very unfair," said Jack, "I never heard of anything like it before."

"Well, it don't seem just right; that's so," said Hugh, "but anyhow, that's the way it used to be in old times. Come on now. Let's go down to where the camp stood."

They rode down to the little flat and stopped their horses in the middle of this old camp-ground. Hugh pointed to several spots where there were a few broken, bent and weathered sticks, and said: "You see, the lodges stood wherever you see those lodge poles. If you look in the middle of each of those circles you will find the old ashes of the fire and the stones that were around it. See here!" Dismounting, he walked to one of the circles and picked up two or three pieces of charred wood, which he held up. "That fire once cooked a man's dinner, and look here!" he added, stooping down and feeling in the dirt for something which he released with a hard pull "Here's a knife, a regular old-fashioned bowie-knife; what we used to call an Arkansas toothpick." He knocked the heavy blade against a stone, to free it from the dirt which clung to it, and passed it to Jack.

"Why, what a big knife," said Jack. "It's almost like a sword; but it isn't very sharp."

"Not very," said Hugh, "but notice how it's whetted, round on one side and flat on the other. That's the way Indians always whet their knives. Queer, isn't it? Let's look around for something more. Let your horse go, after you've thrown down the reins; he won't move." The two separated and began to look over the ground, and in a moment Jack called out in a solemn way. "Oh, Hugh, look here; see what I have found!" and as the old man came up to him, he pointed out a human skull that lay half buried in the dirt in a little washout. "That's one of 'em," said Hugh, as he picked it up. It was very old, grey with weather, and all the teeth had fallen out. Higher up the hill were splinters of bones and even some whole bones of legs and arms, and sticking out of the ground among them was a long piece of iron, which when dragged from its resting-place, proved to be a rifle barrel.

"Well, now," remarked Hugh, "if we keep this up we'll have a horse-load of truck to pack home with us."

They looked further, gathering up one thing after another, and at length when they were ready to go home they had five Indian skulls, the rifle barrel, the knife, an old-fashioned T. Gray axe, such as was used in trade with the Indians in early days, some pieces of the wood of saddles, a couple of elk-horn fleshers and a stone scraper. All these things were very old; the iron deeply rusted, the bones and wood grey and split with age and weather.

Hugh bundled these things into his coat and tied it on behind his saddle, and they set out for the ranch. Just as they got to the corral, the dinner horn sounded, and after unsaddling and putting their treasures upon the roof, which Hugh easily reached from the ground, they went to the house. Jack thought that he had never tasted a dinner quite as good as that one, and when he had finished he felt quite uncomfortable.

A little while after dinner, Hugh said to Jack: "Now, son, go in and bring out your rifle, and let's see how it's sighted and how it pulls off. A man always must learn how his gun shoots before he can expect to kill anything. I've seen young fellows from the States come out to hunt, and start in and shoot away a heap of ammunition without hitting anything, and come to find out, they had never sighted their guns, and didn't know anything about where they shot. 'Course they couldn't hit anything. You get a box of ca'tridges and your gun, and we'll try to find out just what it can do, and afterwards what you can do."

When the gun was in his hands he explained its working to his hearer, and then took it apart, put it together again, and told Jack to do this, correcting his mistakes and telling him a good deal about guns in general and this gun in particular. Then he proposed to go out on the prairie to shoot at a mark, and told Jack to carry his gun and to hold it so it would not point at any one. "I'm always scary about a gun," he said, "and the older I get the more afraid of 'em I am. I've seen a heap of accidents in my time from guns, and once, when I was young, I came near killing my best friend, just by foolishness. So I like to see everybody as careful of a gun as he knows how to be. You've been told, I expect, never to point your gun at anything except what you mean to shoot at. This business of sighting your gun at people and animals, and saying to yourself, 'Oh, couldn't I just hit that,' is just baby play, and I don't think there's any need to tell you not to do that. There's another thing. Don't carry a ca'tridge in your gun unless you're expecting game to jump up in front of you any time. Don't carry your gun loaded on your horse. Something may happen. You may kill the man you're riding with, or his horse, or your own horse. In old times we had to carry our guns loaded, but since we've got these britch-loaders it ain't needful. I expect you'd feel mighty mean if you killed a man, just by your carelessness, or if he killed you the same way. I came mighty near getting killed that way once by an Indian I was travelling with. We sat down side by side on top of a high hill to look over the country, and he had his rifle across his knees with the muzzle pointing toward me, and he was playing with the hammer of his gun, raising and lowering it. I didn't like it very much, and got up and walked away, thinking I'd come back and sit down on the other side of him. In less than a minute after I moved, his gun went off, and if I had been sitting there the ball would have gone through me. I was scared some when I thought how near I'd come to being bored through, but I wasn't a patch on the Indian. He was scared grey. You see it was known that he and I were together, and if he had killed me by accident, it would have been hard for him to prove it, and he'd likely have got killed for murdering me.

"We'll try the gun at that hill over there. Do you see that white rock, the small one to the left of that sage-bush? That's about a hundred yards away. Load your gun and shoot at that. First sight at the rock. See that the top of the foresight just shows over the notch of the hind sight. Hold the gun tight to your shoulder and pull the trigger slowly. Try to hold your gun steady on the mark, and when the sight is on it, pull. Don't load it yet."

Jack had been listening carefully and trying to remember all that Hugh had said to him, and now he raised the rifle to his shoulder and sighted at the stone. He was surprised to see how large it looked through the sights of the rifle, and how it seemed to jump about. He could not hold the gun steady, and at last took it down, saying, "I can't hold it still."

"Try it a few times, and then you can fire a shot. Put your gun up and, as soon as the foresight is on the mark, pull." Jack did this two or three times, and the last time said, "That time I think I would have hit it." "Good," said Hugh. "Now put a ca'tridge in the gun and shoot. Remember, you must keep the butt of your gun pressed close to your shoulder. If you don't do that, the gun will kick your shoulder and hurt. I don't want that to happen, it might spoil your shooting." Jack put a cartridge in the gun, closed the breech, and partly raised the gun to his shoulder.

"Haven't you forgot something?" said Hugh.

"I don't know; what?" answered Jack.

"We most generally cock our guns before we shoot," said Hugh, drily. A little ashamed, Jack cocked his gun, aimed and fired. At the report he was pushed back a little, but he was made glad by seeing a little puff of dust rise from the ground somewhere near the stone.

"That was a right good shot," said Hugh earnestly. "If you can do as well as that every time we'll be sending you out to get meat for the ranch pretty soon. The ball struck the ground only two or three inches to the left of the rock. That shot would have killed an antelope if you'd aimed at his heart. Try another, and let's see if you can do it again."

The second shot was not quite so good, and when Jack took down the gun he said to Hugh: "It kicked harder that time."

"Not so," was the reply, "you forgot to hold the butt close to your shoulder, as I told you to. You must always do that. After a little, you will do it without thinking about it. Now let me fire two or three shots. I want to see how the sights are myself."

He fired several shots, the first two striking a little above the mark, the third just below it, while the fourth did not knock up any dust, but seemed to jar the stone, and was followed by a curious screaming sound, loud at first, and quickly dying away. "That was the ball singing," said he, in answer to Jack's question. "The lead hit the rock and glanced off and went sailing away over the prairie. You must just see the tip of the foresight on the mark. Draw it fine. If you pull the trigger when it's there, you will hit every time."

An hour more was spent in shooting at this mark, and before it was over, Jack had come to understand a great deal about his gun, and had received much praise from his teacher. "You're doing well, my son, and it won't take you long to learn how to shoot. If you pick up riding, roping and packing as easily as you do shooting, your uncle will be hiring you to work for wages before snow flies. Now let's go up to the house and wipe out the gun."

After Hugh had shown Jack how to clean his rifle, and had explained to him the importance of keeping it clean, free from rust and sand, and always ready for use under all circumstances, he said, "Of course, in these days we don't have to look out for enemies like we used to in old times. Nowadays the wars are pretty much over in these parts, yet of course there's plenty of places where the Indians are bad yet, and nobody knows when they'll make trouble anywhere. Why, nobody will ever know how many people got killed there when they were building the railroad back on the plains. I scouted from Julesburg west to Cheyenne at that time, and it was an everyday matter to find two or three graders stuck full of arrows along the track. That was the time when the Pawnee scouts were guarding the road, and it was fun to see them fellows get out when there was an alarm and chase the hostiles. Them Pawnees just loved a fight, and they had never been whipped when Major North was leading them, so they did not know what fear was. They'd turn out at any time of the day or night and chase the Sioux and Cheyennes as long as their horses could run. It was a picnic for them.

"I had some good friends in that camp. One fellow, especially, that they called Itching Buffalo, was brave, and he had powerful medicine. They said he had been down into one of them houses where the medicine animals have their councils. The others used to say that he couldn't be killed, and it's sure that he was always in the front of the fighting and never got hit. There's surely something queer about Indian medicine. Take old Whirlwind, the Cheyenne, in that fight he had with the Sacs. Every feather was cut from his war bonnet, but not a bullet hit him, nor his medicine that he carried on it.

"But I'm forgetting that you don't know anything about these things. It's likely you will though, if you and I are much together. What I started to say was this. In old times a man's life often depended on his having his gun ready for use. If he went out for his horse, picketed close to camp, or went for wood, or down to the creek for water, he carried his gun with him, and it was always in good order and ready for use. It isn't that way here or now, but it may be so yet. So you'd better learn to keep your gun clean, and to have it with you always. It ain't much trouble to learn this, and it may save your life sometime.

"Well, there comes the men with a bunch of horses. Let's go down to the corral and look 'em over."




Chapter VII

Hugh Chased By Indians


Jack's first long ride had made him pretty sore; all his muscles pained him. Hugh said he must keep riding and soon he would be all right.

For several days after this, Hugh and Jack rode together, and each day they went a little further and in a new direction. Each day Jack found riding easier, and before long he felt perfectly at home on Old Grey. Each day after they got home from the ride, they took the rifle down on the flat in front of the house and fired a number of shots at the white rock, and several times Jack hit it, and all his shots were good ones, and the bullets struck close to the mark. Hugh was pleased with the boy's steadiness and told him that before long they would go out and take a hunt.

Besides the rifle-shooting Jack was learning something about horses and how to use them. Now, when he went into the corral with Hugh, he no longer felt afraid that the horses would run over him. The day after their first ride, Hugh and Jack led Old Grey up to a big section of a cottonwood log that Mrs. Carter used in mounting her horse, and, standing on this, Jack saddled and bridled the grey. Hugh showed him how to do it, and then stood by and watched, and when Jack did anything wrong, he corrected him, and helped him change it. After two or three days Jack understood how to saddle up so well that Hugh no longer watched him.

One day Jack had his first lesson in roping -- what he had always read of as lassoing. Hugh called the rope a lassrope, or a reata -- this being a Spanish word meaning rope. The two took a rope and went into the big corral, and for a time practised throwing at the snubbing post, which stood in its centre. Hugh showed Jack just how it was done, and after he had thrown the rope two or three times he handed it to Jack, and told him to coil it and to throw it. In two or three days Jack found that he could catch the post about half the time, and that throwing the rope, which at first had seemed to him such hard work, was very easy. Several times he caught Old Grey in the corral. After he had come to understand as much as this, Hugh had him practise on horseback, showing him how to throw from the saddle, and how to fasten his rope by two or three turns about the horn, so as to hold anything that he might catch with the noose. He warned him how to handle his rope in taking the turns around the horn, with the thumb and finger held up, not down, so that he should not get them caught under the rope, for many men have lost their fingers in this way, having them cut off between the rope and the horn when the pull came in throwing a steer. So it was that as they rode along, Jack would throw the rope at one sage-bush after another, pulling up those which he caught and then gathering the rope for a fresh throw. This was pretty good fun, and when he grew tired of it, he would coil up his rope and hang it on his saddle by the loop that was fastened there to hold it, and then he and Hugh would talk about the things they saw, and those that Hugh had seen and heard in his long life on the prairie.

The whole of each day was passed in the open air; and this life, so different from that led by the boy in his city home, soon began to affect his health and his spirits. His appetite increased enormously, his flesh began to harden, and his face, under exposure to the keen cool wind and the unshadowed rays of the sun, to take on a hue of brown that it had never shown before. Each night he was heartily and healthily tired, and an hour or two after supper he went to bed, where he slept like a log until called next morning. Each day began with the sun and was enjoyed through every hour. As he became accustomed to his horse, Hugh taught him to mount from the right side, as the Indians do, and urged him to learn to ride bareback, telling him of the skill shown by the Indians in their war and hunting trips, when they use no saddle, but cling to the naked horse.

After he had been a week at the ranch, his uncle told Jack that he was going to send in to the railroad, and advised him to write to his mother, and to tell her that it might be a month or more before she would again hear from him, and the boy did so, sending a long and enthusiastic account of the place and the people. Mr. Sturgis also wrote to his sister and brother-in-law, telling what Jack's life had been up to that time, of the marked interest felt by the boy in all that he saw and did, and of his changed appearance and improved health. These letters made two people in the distant city very happy.

One afternoon, after they had been practising with the rifle, and had cleaned and put it away, Hugh said to Jack, "Now, son, to-morrow, unless your uncle wants me to do something else, we'll ride over toward Sand Creek and see if we can't kill something. Mrs. Carter says we're about out of meat, and she wants me to kill an antelope. Let me see that butcher knife of yours that I took off your belt the other day. If it's a new one it'll need grinding, of course."

Jack ran and brought the knife, and Hugh looked at it and tried its edge on his thumb. "Yes," said he, "it's just out of the shop and we'll have to put an edge on it. No telling till I get it on the stone what sort of a piece of steel it is. Come on and turn for me and I'll find out."

They went down to the blacksmith's shop, and while Jack turned the handle of the grindstone, Hugh ground the knife and afterwards whetted it on the oil-stone until its edge was keen. "'Pears to me," he said, "that this is a pretty good knife. I expect your uncle bought it for you! Most young fellows that come out here carry a dirk knife with a big bone handle and a guard, that ain't no earthly use except in a fight, and they don't expect to fight; they expect to use the knife to butcher with. What you want is just a common skinning knife, such as a butcher uses -- what you've got here. Now put it back in your sheath, and if we have any luck to-morrow, you'll have a chance to try it."

When they had left the shop and walked up to the house, and Hugh had seated himself on the ground in the sun, and Jack had thrown himself down beside him, the boy said: "Hugh, you spoke the other day about the Pawnees, and said you had seen them and had some friends among them. I wish you'd tell me about them. I've read about them in Cooper's novels. Don't you remember that Leather Stocking when he got very old lived among the Pawnees, and had the young chief Hard Heart, for his son. He must have been a splendid man. I remember the description of the fight, when he killed the Dakota chief. It was fine."

"Well," said Hugh, "I never knew any of them people; likely they were before my time, but the story you read was likely true, for them Pawnees has surely killed plenty Sioux. I expect there's nothing a Pawnee likes better than to get at the Sioux. I have seen quite a few Pawnees in my time, and I've stopped some in their villages, and they're good people, no mistake about that. They are kind, and they give you the best they've got; and they're brave. I don't want to be with better people. Some of 'em helped me out of a bad fix once, and I ain't never forgot it. That's the time I saw the prettiest horse I ever looked at. It was while I was scouting up at the end of the track that I saw him. He belonged to an Indian, -- Sioux or Cheyenne, I expect -- anyhow they were hostiles, and they chased me, and if I had had far to go, I expect they'd have caught me. They might have done so anyhow if it hadn't been for them Pawnees.

"I had gone out from the graders' camp to see if I couldn't get an antelope, for the camp was clean out of fresh meat. I rode up out of the valley, and along on the high prairie, back from the creek, but not too far back, for I expected likely I'd get jumped, and I wanted to have a good show to make a run for it. There hadn't been no Indians seen for quite a while, and the boys working on the track were getting pretty bold. One of them even wanted to go hunting with me. He didn't have no horse to ride, said he would go afoot, that he could keep up, if I didn't ride too fast. I told him he had better stop in camp if he wanted to keep his hair safe, and, anyhow, he couldn't go with me. I knew that because Indians hadn't been seen, that didn't signify there weren't none in the country. The more you don't see them fellows -- when you're in a hostile country -- the harder you've got to look out for 'em. And there was a company, or part of a company, of Major North's Pawnees camped about ten or fifteen miles further up the creek, and I expected that the Sioux, if there was any about, would cut in behind the Pawnees, and likely tackle the graders' camp, if they saw any show to get away with it. Well, I hadn't gone more'n a couple of miles or so before I came over a little rise, and saw a buck antelope feeding, in easy shot. I killed him and tied him to the saddle, and started back to camp; but I hadn't gone far when I saw three Indians come in sight, right between me and the camp. They saw me as soon as I did them, and as soon as they saw me, they charged. They were quite a ways off, maybe a mile or more; but that did not give me much time to fool away. I cut loose the meat from my saddle, and started for the bluffs, thinking I'd get down into the creek valley, and either head them and get to camp, or else ride for the Pawnee camp. When I got to the bluffs, looking all the time for a place to get down, by George! I couldn't see one; it was so steep, even in the best place, that you couldn't get no horse down, without he had wings. Of course a man could have clumb down afoot, but not a horse. Well, the Indians were a-coming all the time, and one of 'em was nigh a half mile ahead of the other two; those two had not gained much, but the fellow in the lead, he was surely a-coming. While I was looking for a place to get down I'd noticed a little point running out into the valley, with three pines on it, and I made for them, for I says to myself, 'I ain't a-going to let them fellows have this horse, and then get killed afoot.'

"I got to the trees and stopped and got off. The lead Indian kept a-coming; and, sir, he surely had a good horse. It was a big iron-grey, powerful and swift, I could tell by the way he overhauled my horse, for mine wan't no slouch, and I hadn't let him linger much by the way. Why, when that grey's foot struck the ground it seemed like he was galloping on cushions, it was so easy. The Indian came up to within about four hundred yards of the trees, and then he wheeled his horse and rode off in a wide circle and met his party, and they stopped and talked a while, and then they started and charged straight at me. They did not worry me much, for I knew they wouldn't come right close, and they couldn't get around me. If they'd been able to circle in behind me, I expect they'd have bothered me considerable. As it was, I kept watching that grey horse, and thinking about him, and figuring to see if there wasn't some way I could get hold of him; but I did not see any. The Indians kept a-charging up and a-charging up, every time coming a little closer. One of them had a gun, and every time they turned off, he would shoot toward me; but they were too far off to hit anything. You see, in them days, britch-loaders weren't very common anywhere, and the Indians, of course, knew less about 'em than white people. They calculated on my having a muzzle-loader, and were trying to tempt me to shoot, so as to make a charge when my gun was empty, and finish me before I could load. I had a little britch-loading Sharp's rifle, with paper cartridges, but I could load pretty fast if I had to, could beat a muzzle-loader all to death.

"At last the Indians came up so close that I made up my mind I would give them a shot, and I thought I would try the man riding the grey, just on the chance that if I killed him, the grey might keep on towards my horse and I would get a chance to catch him. I stood up against the tree and took a careful aim at the man, shooting plenty high, for they were a long shot off. Just as I pulled though, the man I was shooting at swung his horse, and my ball went by him and killed the horse of the man behind him. It fell, and the rider jumped up and ran off, jumping from side to side, like he was plenty scared I would shoot at him. They all stopped away out of range and began to talk again, when, all of a sudden, I saw six more men ride up in sight, quite a long way off. Thinks I to myself, 'If these is more Sioux, I am surely in for it now;' but in a moment I noticed that these six men were coming in pairs, the way soldiers ride, and then I knew it was a bunch of Pawnees. I ran to untie my horse and charge out, but the Sioux had seen the Pawnees as soon as I did, and they had just everlastingly lit out over the prairie. The Pawnees struck out after the Sioux, and by the time I was in the saddle and riding, they were a couple of miles ahead of me, and going hard. I knew it was no use for me to run my horse down trying to catch them, so I rode out to where I had dropped my meat, picked it up, and went back to the graders' camp.

"The next day I went up to the Pawnee camp, for I kept thinking about that grey horse, and if the Pawnees had captured him, I wanted to buy him. I knew that they would understand just as well as I did how good a horse he was, and I thought likely that if they had got him, they would not sell him; but I was going to make a bluff at buying him, anyhow. When I got to the camp I talked a while with Major North's brother, who was in command there, and at last told him about the chase that they had had yesterday, and how the Sioux had had me cornered. I said I wanted to see one of the Indians that was in the fight. When the head man of these six came to the tent, I saw that it was old Ik[=u]ts tar[=u]sh, and I talked with him about the chase, and asked him what they had done. He said that they had killed two of the Sioux. Then I asked him about the grey horse, and whether they had got it. He shook his head.

"'No,' he said, 'that horse got killed. The horse and the two men who were riding him were both killed, and the other man and his horse got away.' I don't know when I've been more sorry about the death of any dumb beast, that wasn't a dog, than I was that time. Ik[=u]ts tar[=u]sh was sorry too."




Chapter VIII

Jack's First Antelope


After breakfast next morning, Hugh and Jack saddled their horses and set out for Sand Creek. Before they started, Hugh brought out from the house a gun sling which he fastened to Jack's saddle on the left side. It was like a long narrow leather bag open at both ends, and held by two long straps, one of which passed over the horn of the saddle, while the other was tied behind the cantle, so that the bag lay along the horse's side under the left hand stirrup leather, and just below where the rider's knee would come. Then he slipped the rifle in, so that the stock lay along the horse's shoulder and within easy reach of the hand. This, he told Jack, was the best way to carry his rifle, and although at first the gun seemed in Jack's way, and a little uncomfortable, he soon got used to feeling it there.

The day was bright and pleasant, and skirting the base of the mountain for two or three miles, they rode over the ridge which separates the waters of Sand Creek from the Muddy. The prairie was everywhere the same dull brown; a few cattle and horses were seen feeding on the distant hillsides. Far away toward the Sand Creek, Hugh pointed out a number of white dots on the prairie, which he told Jack were antelope. He said to him:

"Now, son, when we get near those antelope, who is going to do the hunting, you or me?"

"Why, I don't know, Hugh. I've been wondering about that. You know what it is best to do, and if you will tell me, I'll try to do just as you say."

"That's good, son," said Hugh, "I want you to kill the meat, if we get any, but it's a heap better for you to start in right to learn how to hunt than it is for you to kill anything. I guess the best way is for me to do the hunting for a little while, so that you can watch me and learn. Now, I'll tell you two or three things about hunting that it's worth while for you to remember. When you're hunting, always go alone if you can, or else with one other man, if you and he understand each other. You'll never have any luck if you hunt with a man who is always crazy to be ahead. If he acts that way, you just quit him and don't go with him again. Such a man will everlastingly scare away the game, and he'll wear out your patience, and make you wish he was somewhere else a good many times before you get to camp. If you're alone you'll have yourself to blame for any blunders you make, and it's easy for you to forgive yourself for the fool things you do, but it ain't easy to forgive any one else. If you're hunting with a man who understands how to hunt better'n you do, let him do the hunting, and, if he wants it bad, let him do the shooting too. But I wouldn't hunt with a man that makes a hog of himself, if I was you.

"If you're hunting with another man, always have it understood who is to hunt and who is to shoot. Don't ever hunt side by side with any one. Two men are twice as easy seen as one, and make twice as much noise; so they are more likely to be noticed by the game. You can bet that the game is always on the watch, and, do the best you can, it is pretty likely to see you. So you want to go slow, and to be just as careful as you know how. When you get to the top of the hill, go mighty slow. Only take a step or two at a time, and look over every inch of the ground that you can see beyond you, as your head rises. Always take your hat off. A hat sticks up two or three inches higher than your eyes, and can be seen before you can see whatever it is that's looking at you. In the same way you'll see the horns of an elk or an antelope that's over the ridge from you before you see his head.

"When you see any game, don't dodge down quick, so's to get out of sight. Even if the animal seems to be looking right at you, don't move, or, if you do, lower your head very slowly. The chances are that the animal hasn't seen you, or if it has, that it don't know what you are, and if you keep still, it won't notice you. Likely after staring at you for a minute or two, it'll look some other way, or put down its head to take a bite of grass. Then you must drop down out of sight and begin to crawl to the top of the hill. You must remember that when you see this head, there's the whole crest of the hill between your shoulder, from which you must shoot, and the antelope's heart that you must shoot at. You've got to see the antelope's whole body before you can shoot, and you've got to get up to the top of the hill before you can see his whole body. While you are getting to the top of the hill, you must watch out and not show yourself, either to the animal you have seen, or to any others that there are with it. Likely as not there will be six or eight others in the bunch, scattered about on the hillside, and all of 'em keeping a good look-out. To get a standing shot, you must keep out of sight of all of 'em. For a part of the way to the top of the hill you can go stooping down low, then you'll have to get down on your hands and knees and creep, and at last you'll have to drop flat on your belly and crawl. If the grass is any way thick and high, you won't have much trouble, but if it's short and thin, maybe the antelope will see you and run off.

"Remember to keep your head down, and don't feel that you've got to look every two or three minutes to see whether the game is there or not. It won't run without it gets scared, and if it starts to run, your looking won't stop it. When, by crawling as carefully as you know how, you've got up so you can see your animal again, wait until it puts its head down to feed, or looks away from you, and then raise your head a little bit to see if there are any others with it, so as to get an idea of the general situation. When you raise your head, if you can see the whole body of your antelope, you had better shoot. If the animal is broadside toward you, shoot at his heart; if head toward you, at the point of his breast; if tail toward you, shoot between the hams, about three inches below the tail; if quartering to you, at the point of the shoulder, or, if quartering from you, at the flank, just in front of the ham. You want your bullet to go through the heart, and you must remember that the heart lies just back of the fore legs, and low down. The life lies low. Don't forget that. There is a little curl of hair on an antelope just back of the elbow, and here the hair is thin, and the dark skin shows through and makes this curl look black. That is the mark I always shoot at, if I can. An antelope hit there don't go far.

"Now, it ain't much use for me to tell you all these things, because you've got to see 'em done and to do 'em yourself before you can know much about hunting, but maybe what I've told you will make it easier for you to learn.

"There's one thing I ain't told you about, because I suppose you know all about it without being told. That's the wind. All animals are terrible keen smellers, and of course you can't never get up to them from the windward side. You've always got to go to leeward. Let the wind blow from them to you, not from you to them."

"I think I understand all that you've told me," said Jack, "and I'll try to remember it. Do you think we'll get any game to-day?"

"Oh, we'll sure see some antelope," answered Hugh, "but maybe we won't find what we want in a good place. You see, the does are going to have young ones pretty soon now, and so I don't like to kill 'em. The bucks are in better order, and if we can find one of them in a place where we can get at him, we'll try to kill him."

As they rode on farther and farther, the country became more broken, and they passed over one little ridge after another, with little valleys between. They had almost reached the top of one of these ridges, when Hugh suddenly stopped and looked intently toward the right, where the valley widened out a little. Jack stopped and looked too, but he could see nothing except the brown prairie.

"See 'em?" said Hugh, after a moment.

"No, I don't see anything," replied Jack.

"Look down on the hillside, just above that little alkali lake," said Hugh. "There's two antelope there -- old does, I reckon. We won't bother with them. Likely they'll get our wind after we've gone a little further, and run up by us."

"Oh, yes, I see them now," said Jack. They crossed the next valley and rode up over the ridge beyond, and as they went down that hill, Hugh called out, "Here they come, sure enough;" and looking to his right, Jack saw two antelope running towards them very fast. They ran smoothly and evenly, and as easily and fast up hill as down, or on the level. In a moment they were passing quite close in front of the riders, and had run up the hill and disappeared over its crest.

"We've got to watch out now," said Hugh. "We're liable to run on an antelope any minute. Don't ride up over these hills in a hurry, and keep a good look-out."

The next hill they came to, Hugh checked his horse before he got to the top, and looked carefully over the ground ahead. After doing this, he lifted his bridle rein and let his horse take a few steps forward, and then stopped again and looked. Then he went forward again -- quite to the top of the hill, and looked again. Nothing was seen, and they went on down into the valley and across it. Jack noticed that as he went up the hill old Baldy seemed to be looking just as his rider was. His ears were pricked up; he moved slowly and carefully and seemed to be expecting something all the time. Each time they came to the crest of a hill the same thing was repeated, but nothing was seen. At length, however, after one of the looks, Hugh bent low over his horse's neck, and at the same time turned him round and rode down the hill again. Jack, who had kept close to Hugh's side, had seen nothing, for his head was a foot or two below the old man's.

After they had got part way down the hill, Hugh spoke in a low tone and said, "There's a couple of antelope on the side hill just above here. They're lying down, and I guess we can get up within shot. Throw down your rope and take your gun and come on."

In a moment Jack was off his horse, and had thrown down his bridle rein and his rope. Then he pulled his rifle out of its case and went to Hugh, who had taken his rifle from its case and stood waiting for him. Jack was beginning to feel excited, and his heart was pounding against his ribs, and as he ran up to Hugh, he was not looking where he was going, and he caught his foot in a sage-bush, and would have fallen flat if Hugh had not reached out his hand and caught him by the shoulder.

"Steady, son: steady," said Hugh. "Don't be in such a rush. There's plenty of time, and if you're going to do any hunting you mustn't go ramming around this way. Go slow and easy. Those antelope ain't going to run away unless we've scared 'em already, and if we've scared 'em, they're out of shot by this time."

"Let's hurry, Hugh, and maybe we can get a shot at them."

"Easy, easy. Don't I tell you that you can't make anything by rushing 'round. I want you to learn how to hunt, not to act like a rattlehead. Now come with me and go slow and quiet, and we'll take a look."

The two walked forward toward the mountain for a hundred yards or so, Jack eagerly pressing forward, while Hugh walked slowly. The wind was now blowing in their faces. At length Hugh pointed to their right and ahead, and said to Jack, "Now, those antelope are over the ridge there, lying down on the hillside. Do you want me to go up and find 'em, and then come back and get you, so's you can shoot at 'em, or would you rather go up yourself and find 'em, and take the shot? You can do just whichever you like."

"Oh, may I go up alone and do it all myself? That'll be splendid. I'd rather do that than have any help," said Jack, "Can I start now?"

"Yes," said Hugh. "Go ahead, but mind and be careful, or else the first thing you know you'll see them antelope a long way off. I'll set here and smoke till I hear the shot." As he said this, Hugh sat down on the ground, and putting his rifle beside him, felt in his pocket for his pipe, while Jack went on towards the hilltop. He walked very fast, keeping his eyes fixed on the crest of the hill before him, and before he had come to the top of the ridge he was breathing pretty fast. As he got nearer to the top, he began to be still more excited. He remembered what Hugh had said about shooting at a particular spot on the antelope, and he hoped he could hit it. If he did, he felt sure that the antelope would drop. It would be great to take the animal in and be able to say that he had killed it, and not Hugh. Suddenly, as he was thinking of these things, he heard a queer noise off to his left, and then he saw that he was on top of the hill and could see over quite a good deal of the valley in front of him. He thought that the antelope must be somewhere near here. He began to look, very carefully, when suddenly he again heard this curious noise, something like a person blowing his nose, and looking hard in the direction of the sound, he suddenly saw two buck antelope running away from him not very far off. They disappeared over a hill, and in a moment were seen again much further off, running up a high hill, on top of which they stopped and stood looking at him, again making that curious sound. He felt sure that they were the antelope he had been looking for, and he was so disappointed that he felt like crying, only that would do no good. They were now much too far away to shoot at. He watched them for a little while, and then began to walk along the hilltop to make sure that there were no more antelope there. He soon convinced himself of this, and then turned to go back to Hugh. Before he had gone far, he saw him coming, riding his own horse and leading the grey.

"Well," said Hugh, "I saw the antelope run off, and so I brought the horses. What scared them?"

"I don't know, Hugh," was the answer, "but I guess I did. I got up on the hill and was looking around, and suddenly I heard some queer noises off there, and then I heard them again, and then two antelope ran over the hill and up on the mountain there, and stopped and looked."

"Well," said Hugh, "I expect you must have let 'em see you. You've got to be mighty careful when you're crawling up on game."

Jack mounted his horse and rode off beside Hugh. For a little while he kept still, thinking, and struggling with his disappointment; then he spoke and said:

"Hugh, I tried to be smart just now, and so I lost those antelope. Because you have taught me how to do a few things, I thought I could creep up to those animals alone. I made a mistake and I know it now. Don't let me make any more like it, please."

Hugh's face lighted up with pleasure as he heard these words, and he answered, "Son, I'm mighty glad to hear you say this. You talk like a man, and you're going to make a good one, I know it. I figured quite a spell to-day before I made up my mind what I'd do about them antelope, but I was a little mite afraid you was getting the big-head, and I thought I'd try you the way I did. If you'd asked me to take you up to the antelope, you'd have got the shot, and likely now we'd have been butchering, but I expect it is better the way it is. You've learned a lesson of one kind, and before the day's over I'll give you a lesson in hunting. Come on, now, let's lope while we can."

They went on, galloping across the little valleys and going slowly up the hills. Before very long Jack again saw Hugh bend his head and back away from the ridge, and then turn and ride a few yards down the hill and dismount. Jack did the same, and as he drew his rifle from its scabbard, Hugh said to him, "There's a big buck just over the hill, and I think we can get him. Is your gun loaded?"

"No," replied Jack.

"That's right, but you'd better load it now and keep it at half-cock, and then follow me and do just what you see me do."

Hugh walked quietly up the hill and Jack followed him. Again he was excited, but this time he was not breathing fast, and now he felt sure that he would get a shot. When Hugh had nearly reached the top of the hill, he stopped, took off his hat and dropped it on the ground, and putting his hand behind him motioned Jack to stop. After a long look he took two or three steps forward and then stopped again; then two or three more, and then he slowly lowered his head and walked forward in a stooping position. Then he dropped to his knees, and turning, beckoned Jack, who had imitated all his motions, to his side. "The buck is just over there," he whispered, pointing to the crest before him. "Creep up beside me, and look through the grass and try to see him. Don't raise your head and don't hurry. There's plenty of time."

On hands and knees they crept forward a few feet, and then Hugh stretched out his hand and touched Jack, and motioned with his head. The boy stared at the grass before them which was shivering in the wind, but he could see nothing beyond it but the blue sky. At length Hugh bent toward him and whispered, "Don't you see his horns?" Instantly Jack saw that what he had seen several times and had supposed were two black looking weed stalks were the slender horns of an antelope. Hugh saw the change in his companion's face, and whispered again, "Crawl up a few feet more and then get up slowly, rest your left elbow on your knee, and aim just behind the shoulder and low down." Jack crept up past Hugh, and, rising very slowly on one knee, took a careful aim. The buck was lying on a point of the hill, with his face toward the valley and his back toward Jack, who aimed at the side just behind the shoulder and low down, and fired. The buck sprang to his feet, and in half a dozen low, rabbitlike jumps, disappeared over the hill.

Jack had not had time to wonder whether he had missed or not, when he heard Hugh's voice at his ear saying, "Son, you done that well; no one could have done it better. Now, let's go and get the horses."

"Well, but Hugh, where is the antelope? Did I hit him or did I miss?" asked Jack.

"Why, you hit him, of course. Look where he ran. Don't you see that if you'd missed him he would have been in sight before now, either crossing that flat or running up on one of the hills. He ain't gone far. He's our meat."

"Oh, I hope so," gasped Jack, who suddenly began to tremble as if he were cold.

When they had mounted, Hugh led the way to the place where the antelope had been lying. Here he pointed out the hoof tracks and followed them down the hill. Before long he stopped, and pointing at the ground, said, "See there." Jack looked, and saw a dark splash on the ground, and clinging to a tuft of the brown prairie grass, several bright red drops. After a moment's hesitation, he exclaimed, "Oh, that's blood, isn't it? Then I must have hit him."

"Yes, indeed, he is hit. Now, you see if you can follow that blood trail. Don't keep looking at the ground just in front of you, look ahead of you and don't try to go too fast." Jack looked on the ground ahead of him, and saw other splashes, and starting on, soon saw that he could follow the marks much more easily and quickly in that way than he could by watching those which were close under his horse's head. They went on for a hundred yards further, and then, as they rounded the point of a little knoll, Hugh said, "There's your meat," and looking, Jack saw something white showing above the grass, and a moment later he was looking down on his first antelope.

It was a splendid big buck, and Jack, jumping off his horse, ran to it and for a moment could hardly believe his eyes. Then he tore off his hat and threw it up in the air and just yelled and hurrahed as loud as he could. Hugh meantime, smiling as if greatly pleased, had thrown down the ropes of both horses and twisted them around a sage-bush, and when he came up to the antelope, Jack was looking it all over, opening its mouth, stretching out its slender legs, and smoothing down its coarse rough hair.

"Isn't he pretty, though? And how slim his legs are! No wonder he can run. And he's got a black tongue, just like a pure breed Alderney cow. But he must be pretty old, for he hasn't got any front teeth in his upper jaw. Do you think he'll be very tough? And see, he only has two hoofs on each foot. Are all antelopes that way? Some caribou that Uncle Will killed once in Canada had four hoofs on each foot, two little ones and two big ones. Oh, ain't I glad I didn't miss. But I never thought about missing. I just aimed as near as I could where you told me to. I'm so glad I didn't just wound him. Oh, this is the best day of my life." So Jack chattered on, until Hugh interrupted him by taking hold of the animal and turning it over, saying as he did so, "You done well, my son, mighty well. I watched you shoot and you couldn't have done better if you'd been killing antelope as long as I have. You were steady as a rock. Now, look a'here. You see this little hole? That's where the ball went in; and this big one is where it came out. You want to remember that; going in, the ball makes a small hole, coming out, a big one. You ask a heap of questions, but I'll try and answer some of 'em. You'll have to stop on the prairie longer than I have to find an antelope with front teeth in his upper jaw. They don't have 'em. No more does any other animal that I ever saw that chews the cud. First chance you get, look at a cow's mouth, or a deer's, or an elk's, or a sheep's. You'll see they're all alike in that. A horse has upper front teeth, and so does a hog, but those are about the only animals that eat grass that has 'em, in this country. Now, we've got to butcher. I'll do that, because I know how, and after a while you can learn to. I guess we'll take this fellow in whole. You'd like to have 'em see him that way, I reckon."

Hugh rapidly prepared the animal for transportation to camp, and then, bringing up the horses and tightening the saddles on both, he lifted the antelope on Old Grey, and tied it on behind the saddle with the leather strings, tied its head up, so that the horns should not strike the horse, and the legs to each of the cinch rings of the saddle. Thus it was firm.

He looked at the sky for a moment, and then said, "Let's fill the pipe." Sitting down, he lit his pipe, and while he smoked said: "Antelope don't have no front teeth in the upper jaw, as I told you, and they don't have no dew-claws like a deer or a steer. I can't tell why they don't, but I can tell you what the Indians say about the dew-claws. Now a deer ain't got no gall, and this is the way the deer lost his gall and the antelope his dew-claws.

"A long time ago, they say, deer had galls and antelope had dew-claws. According to the Pawnees tell, in those days all the animals could talk to each other, and one day the antelope and the deer met out on the prairie. They had quite a talk, giving each other the news, and at last the deer got to bragging about himself, telling how smart he was and how he could beat all the other animals running. 'Why,' says the antelope, 'you may be a pretty considerable fast runner, but you couldn't beat me.' 'Bet you I can,' says the deer. 'Bet you ye can't,' says the antelope.

"Well, they bantered each other for quite a spell, and at last they made it up that they'd run a race on the prairie, and they bet their galls on the race. Whoever won was to take both. Well, at last the day came for the race, and they ran, and the antelope beat the deer all hollow. So the deer handed over his gall to the antelope. He felt terrible bad, about it though, and seemed so broke up that the antelope felt sorry for him and made him a present of his dew-claws, to make his heart good."

As he finished the story, Hugh knocked the fire out of his pipe and said, "Well, let's be going." They mounted and rode back toward the ranch. Jack's heart was full of gladness, and he felt proud of what he had done, and proud that Hugh praised him. As they rode by the stables and up to the house, one of the cowboys called out to Hugh, "Why don't you carry your meat instead of making the kid pack it?" To which Hugh replied, winking at Jack, "The kid killed it, and the kid's got to pack it." Jack thought this a very good joke.




Chapter IX

John Monroe, Half-Breed


When he looked out of the window next morning, Jack could see only a little way, for it was snowing and blowing very hard, and the fine snow-flakes filled the air and were whirled about in dense clouds. The brush and the mountain behind the house could not be seen, and even the stables and corrals were hidden.

After breakfast he sat for a little while by the window, looking out and watching the snow-flakes, but he soon got tired of that. His uncle was writing near the stove. There was no one to talk to, and he did not feel like reading. At length he thought that he would go down to the bunk-house where the men slept, and see what Hugh was doing. He could see the outline of the house amid the whirling snow, and supposed Hugh was there. He told his uncle what he was going to do, and Mr. Sturgis looked up and said, "All right, go down to the bunk-house, but go straight there, don't try to go anywhere else. It is easy to get lost in this snow."

When Jack entered the bunk-house, a great cloud of snow blew in the open door after him, and as he banged it to behind him, he saw Hugh standing up plaiting a raw-hide rope, Reuben mending his saddle with strings of wet raw-hide, which he took from a bucket of water beside him, while Joe had his feet cocked up on the stove and was smoking and talking to the others. Jack went up to the stove and sat down on a box near Reuben, and watched him, and after a moment Joe went on speaking.

"I seen Red Cahill yesterday when I was riding. He was going down from Washakie to the Fort, and calculated he'd stop all night to Powell's. He told me that there's five head of our horses ranging up on Grey Bull. There's the old gotch-eared black mare, and her three-year old, two-year old, and yearling, and that yellow gelding that the boss traded for with them emigrants when they came through here two years ago. You mind we ain't seen that gelding since his feet got well, and I always thought he'd took the trail back the way he come. But it seems not. I don't expect the roundup will fetch them horses in, but it may. Anyhow we can go and get 'em 'most any time, only it's a long way to ride for five head of horses.

"Did Red say anything about the Indians at Washakie?" asked Hugh.

"That's what he did," said Joe.

"He said we won't see no Indians down here this summer. You know them Arapahoes that's up there to Washakie is kinder friends to them Cheyennes that broke out last fall down in Kansas, and got took in to Roberson, and then broke jail there, and most all got killed. He says there's some Cheyennes staying up there with the Arapahoes and they're all stirred up and uneasy over that killing down to Roberson."

"Yes," said Hugh, "and I don't wonder at it. It was a doggoned shame the way they treated them Indians. It was all right to capture them and bring 'em in and shut 'em up. That's war all right enough. But after they'd got 'em locked up, to shut down on their grub and their water was about the worst thing that I ever heard of this Government doing, and it sure done some pretty bad things. I don't care so much for the men. It's men's business to get into trouble and to fight and get killed or to starve, but when I think of them women and young girls and little children not having anything to eat or drink for seven days I tell you it makes me mad. I expect if them folks back east who pretends to think so much about Indians could know about that, they'd raise quite a fuss. But they ain't never likely to hear of it.

"What was it, Hugh?" said Jack.

"Oh," said Hugh, "it was just a killing of Indians, like plenty of others that's happened out in this western country, only this time the soldiers took away all the guns the Indians had and didn't give them no food nor water for seven days and then they let 'em get out, and killed 'em as they run. I believe they killed sixty or seventy of them and all but about twenty was women and little children, but I don't feel much like talking about it any more, so let's quit it."

Jack had never before heard Hugh speak as he spoke now; so sternly and sharply that Jack had nothing to say and sat silent on his box, watching the others work. At length Reuben ventured a remark and said:

"This here snow-storm'll do a heap of good to the meadows, and the way it's blowing now it orter pile some of these ravines full of snow, and make the water last a heap longer than it commonly does."

"Yes," said Hugh. "This is going to be a right good year, for feed, and this here storm won't do no harm. It ain't cold enough to hurt young calves and colts. It may make the coyotes a little hungry though, and if any one of you boys rides to-morrow, he'd better take some baits with him -- I mean to put out some poison along the mountains myself."

"That's a good idee," said Joe; "I believe I'll go out and mix up some tallow now."

Joe took his feet down from the stove, yawned, stood up, and walked to the window and looked out. Suddenly he exclaimed, "Gosh!" and stepping out the door uttered a loud "Hallo-o-a." Jack ran to the window and looked out. For a moment the storm had lulled; the wind had stopped blowing, and the snow falling, and the boy saw, a few hundred yards away, on the crest of a hill, a snow-covered horseman, followed by two pack animals. Joe's shout had reached the rider, who had stopped and was now looking toward the house. Then the wind again began to howl and the snow to fly, and in an instant the whole scene was blotted out.

Jack went outside and stood by Joe, who seemed to be listening. "What is it, Joe?" he said.

"Didn't you see the way that fellow was going? He was plum lost, heading straight for the mountains. If he's a pilgrim he'd a got tangled up in the ravines and likely froze to death. Don't talk now; listen." In a moment, the two were joined by Hugh and Rube, and all stood listening. Presently someone said, "There he comes," and a moment later, the little group of animals stopped in front of the bunk-house. The rider stiffly dismounted, and began to take off the packs from his horses. "Well, seh," he said, "my glad my get here."

Hugh stepped out into the snow to help unpack the stranger's horses, and when the snow-covered man saw him, he exclaimed in surprise, "Why, hallo, Hugh, h'ole man, my think you was dead long time."

"Why, I'm durned if it ain't old John Monroe," said Hugh. "Come in, come in and get dry; the boys'll tend to your horses. Well, well; how are you? Living up north, yet? How's the old man? Tell me all the news."

"Well, seh," said old John, "this very curieuse. My comin' down here pour veeseet my girl. She married one man, live on Bear River. Now my goin' down there, meet h'ole Hugh. Bien curieuse," and he stared at Hugh as if he could hardly believe his eyes.

Hugh laughed. "Why, son," he said, speaking to Jack, "this old man and me has travelled together a good many years when I stopped up north with his people. You see, he's a Piegan half-breed, raised in Canada among the Crees and Frenchmen. His father came out into this country long before I was born, must have been more'n sixty-five years ago. The old man worked for the Hudson Bay Company in early days, and John here has been working for fur companies all his life. He's one of the best timber-hunters that ever was. I'm right glad to see him. We'll have to get him to stop with us here for a while, I expect."

A moment later Hugh turned to John and spoke to him in some strange language, and for a little while Jack sat there and watched the two talking and making signs to each other. He had heard his uncle tell of the sign language that the Indians used, and he felt sure that this must be it. When he left them to go up to the house the two men were still talking busily.

After dinner Jack again went down to the bunk-house. Hugh and John were still giving the news to each other, but now they spoke a language that Jack could understand -- that is, Hugh did, but John's English made up only a small part of his speech, which was partly French and partly Indian, with a good many signs. Some parts of what he said Jack could not understand at all.

"Well, son," said Hugh after awhile, "I have got a whole bag full of news from up north, and I'm mighty glad to have it. I've got a whole lot of friends in the Blackfoot camp, and I've got plenty of questions yet to ask the old man.

"Tell me, John, are the young men going to war much these days? In my time with the tribe the horse-stealing parties were out about all the time, except in the worst winter weather," said Hugh.

"Yas," answered John, "plenty war-parties he goin' h'out h'all time, take plenty horses. Goin' to Crow, h'Assinaboine, Gros Ventres, Pend d'Oreilles, h'all peoples. Sometime goin' 'gainst white mans."

"And I suppose plenty of people come to war against them, too," said Hugh. "If they take lots of horses, they lose lots too, I expect."

"Hoh' yas," said John, "plenty horses stolen. Last summer Crows he take 'im 'bout two hundred, one night. Lone Person he loss 'bout hundred. You know it Heavy Runner -- white mans call 'im Brocky. Well, seh, last summer, Crees he comin' down pour steal 'im horses. Somebody see it, h'every body h'running try pour keel 'im Crees. Young man, Wolf Eagle, Cree shoot it 'im in h'arm. Heavy Runner he chase 'im one Cree; Cree jump in washout pour fight; shoot it 'im Heavy Runner in forehead; Heavy Runner shoot it, keel 'im Cree. Heavy Runner get well, may be bullet follow bone of his haid round, no go through. Plenty dances over Cree his scalp. War now, not so good lak' in h'ole days. Too much soldier now; chase it war-party, take away horses."

"Yes, I expect it's a heap different up there now from what it used to be; like it is everywhere in the country since the railroads come and turned things upside down. There's too many people in the country now, and they ain't the right sort of people either."

"Yas, Hugh, h'ole man, peoples lak' you an' me we can' change, we too h'ole. We been loky we was borned in good times, mais we had bad lok we lived too long."

"Well, anyhow, John, I'd like mighty well to go up north again, and maybe I will some day. When you goin' back there?"

"My not know yet. Maybe one, two mont'. Suppose maybe you goin' back sem time my go?"

John stopped talking, and taking his pipe from his fire bag, began to clean and fill it. This was rather a long slow process, during which nothing was said. After the pipe was going well, John sat back, and casting his eyes about the bunk-house noticed the bear-skin hanging against the wall. Pointing to it, he said, "You kill it' 'im bear, Hugh?"

"No, the boss killed that fellow. It must have just come out, for it was right fat. There is lots of bears here, John, but no buffalo. We've got to go more'n two hundred miles to kill buffalo. Last year I seen one dead one out on the prairie about twenty-five miles from here, but that's the only one I've seen about here in a long time. Plenty buffalo up north, I expect."

"Plenty," was the answer. "He trade it two store, Carroll. H'all H'ingin' comin' trade; Cree, h'Assinaboine, Gros Ventres, Sircee, Blackfeet, Blood, Piegan; got plenty whisky, trade plenty h'robe. Sometime he faightin', les chauvages, when he bin dronk. Sometimes he keel it two tree H'ingin' faightin: sometime in winter, cole he keel it, froze 'im so he was die. You know it Calf Shirt, Blood Chief; well, seh, he keel it 'im white mans. Calf Shirt he dronk, want keel it white mans, one h'woman run quick tole um. When Calf Shirt cornin' pour faight, white mans shoot it 'im, maybe six, seven, ten time. Soon he daid."

"Well, well!" exclaimed Hugh, "It's like old times yet up north after all."




Chapter X

Cows In A Snow-Drift


The next morning the snow had ceased falling and the sun shone bright and clear. Hugh declared that it was just the day for putting out his coyote baits, which he intended to string along the mountains north of the house, to try to poison some of the coyotes that were watching the calves. These baits were blocks of wood in which one and a half inch augur holes had been bored to a depth of three inches. Into these holes melted tallow had been poured until the holes were full. The coyotes were expected to eat little balls of tallow containing strychnine scattered on the ground, and to remain near the blocks, licking at the tallow in the augur holes, until the poison which they had taken should act, so that they would die near the blocks. Thus the wolfer would get the skins of the animals that he killed.

Hugh put the blocks containing the baits in two sacks and lashed them on a pack horse, and soon with Jack and John he was riding through the snow north along the mountain-side. Soon after starting, Hugh tied a piece of elk-hide to one end of his rope, and taking a turn of the other around the horn of his saddle, dragged it behind him over the snow. This, he told Jack, was to lead the wolves to follow the trail, so that they might come to the baits. "Of course," he said, "they'd follow it up anyhow, but the smell of this hide'll keep 'em thinking about eating." After they had gone a few hundred yards, Hugh dismounted on top of a little ridge, and here threw down one of his pieces of wood, and about it scattered several balls of poisoned tallow and a handful of chips of dried meat, which he took from a sack. This he repeated at intervals of half a mile as they went along. When they reached the spot where the cows were, they found most of them feeding on a warm, sheltered hillside, which was almost free from snow. There were now many more calves than when they had seen them last. Hugh sat for a long time looking at the animals, while John Monroe rode to the top of a near-by hill, from which after a moment he called aloud, made some motions with his hands and pointed.

"That's good," said Hugh to Jack. "He sees them cows." They galloped up to John who motioned toward the mountains where a number of dark animals were seen standing in the snow.

"Well, John," said Hugh, "we've got to get them out. It's a bad place, too. There's a big drift there. I'll bet the snow's four feet deep."

Riding toward the cows, they saw that there were seven of them standing in the deep snow, which reached half way up to their backs. Two or three of them had moved a little, treading down the snow about them so that they had room to turn around; beside these, calves were standing. All the cows looked cold and hungry and fierce-eyed, and two or three shook their heads angrily as the horsemen pushed their way toward them through the ever-deepening snow.

"Well, now, boys," said Hugh, "we've got to break a road as near the critters as we can, and then rope 'em and snake 'em out. Son, you'll have to look out. Every one of them cows is fighting mad, and likely every one of 'em's got a calf, which will make her fight harder. John, you and me'd better take this nearest one first. Son, when we get the ropes on her, maybe you can get around and hurry the calf along close to her."

For a few moments Hugh, John and Jack rode back and forth through the deep snow, until they had broken a trail from a point where the snow was only knee-deep nearly to where the nearest cow stood. Each time when they got near her, she shook her head at them and looked as if she were going to charge. When the road through the snow was pretty well broken, John and Hugh rode up near to the cow, and then separating, each of them threw his rope. Hugh's settled fairly over both horns, but John's caught only one of them, slipped off and had to be gathered and thrown again. Then both men turned their horses toward the path and slowly dragged the cow over and through the snow. As the cow, bellowing and struggling furiously, passed along, a pitiful feeble cry came from the hole where she had stood, and Jack, spurring his horse up to the place, saw standing there a little weak staggering calf. The snow was deep, even where the cow had been dragged, and the calf could not get out of the hole. As Jack sat there gazing at it, suddenly a rope flew over the calf's neck, and looking, Jack saw John whirling his horse, and then saw the calf fly out of the hole and over the snow at the end of the rope. He followed to where Hugh sat on his horse by the cow, which lay on its side, all tangled up in the rope. There John loosed the calf, which, after a moment, staggered to its feet; and then Hugh, by a few jerks on his rope, freed the cow, which got up and began to lick the calf. Then, the two old men rode back to where the other cows stood in the snow. Jack could not understand why the calf had not been choked to death, nor how the cow had been tied, and then so suddenly untied. He determined that he would watch. He hurried back to where the men were breaking another path, but before he reached them they had roped the cow and were dragging it over and through the snow. The cow bellowed piteously, but moved along so steadily and fast that she could not struggle. Jack drew out of the way to let them pass, and then rode up to the hole, where he saw the little calf. This time he thought he would try his hand; he threw his rope twice and at last it went over the calf's head; then he very gently pulled it tight, and taking a turn of the rope over the saddle-horn, turned and rode slowly toward the others. He did not want to go fast, for he did not want to hurt the calf. Before he had gone far he met John riding back. He called to him: "Hurry! hurry! Ride more fast, else you're goin' kill 'im de calf. You choke it 'im." Jack hurried on then, and stopped when he was near Hugh, who, as before, was holding the tied cow. "Loose the calf as quick as you can, son, and let it get up." Jack dismounted and took the rope from the calf's neck, but it lay there perfectly still.

"Oh, Hugh, I'm afraid I've killed it," said Jack.

Hugh dismounted quickly, leaving the horse standing with the rope stretched tightly between the horn of the saddle and the cow, and walked to the calf.

"You choked it too long," he said. "But I guess we can fix it." He worked over the calf for a little while, and soon it began to breathe again without any help.

"There! He's all right now; but the next time you snake a calf by the neck, hurry him along. If you cut off his wind too long, he'll die on you."

"Why, the reason I went slowly was that I didn't want to hurt it. If Mr. Monroe hadn't told me to come faster, it would have been dead before I got here."

"It sure would," said Hugh. "If you're handling cattle you have to be quick about it often. It's easier on the critters, even if it does look rough. There, that calf can stand now, I guess. Let's drag it over to its mother and turn her loose. Now we've got to get the others out. I expect old John'll wonder what's keeping us."

He took the calf by the fore legs and dragged it over the snow to where its mother lay, then mounted his horse, and seeing that Jack also had mounted, quickly freed the cow from the rope. When she sprung to her feet, she ran to the calf and began to lick it, and in a few moments it stood up. Meantime Jack and Hugh had gone back and met John, who was slowly dragging a large cow over the snow. She struggled and fought, and the little pony that John was riding had his hands full to keep her moving in the right direction. As soon as Hugh's rope fell over her horns, and the two horses began to pull together, she moved swiftly and steadily along. Jack rode on to get the calf. At first he thought there was none there, but looking carefully he saw a foot and part of a leg sticking out from the snow where the cow had been standing. He dismounted, and digging away the snow, by pulling and pushing he brought to light a big strong calf, which at once stood up. This time, Jack did not try to be tender with the calf. He threw his rope over its head, took the turn of his rope over the saddle-horn, pulled the calf up out of the snow pit and then galloped back to where the cow lay. As soon as he cast the rope off the calf, which this time he did without dismounting, the animal stood up and bawled for its mother. Hugh turned her loose, and they all went back for another cow. In this way they pulled out all the cows and their calves, and before the middle of the day had started back to the ranch.

The weather had become milder, and now the snow was melting a little. "Might be such a thing, my son, as we'd find a coyote at some of these baits. 'Tain't likely though. Still we'll go back the same way we came."

"Snow on ground, maybe coyotes pretty hungry. Why you no make 'em trap like H'ingin?" said John.

"Ain't wolves enough for it, and besides that, I don't believe I ever thought of it before. Might be a good idea, though. Maybe I'll try it next winter, if coyotes is anyways like as plenty as they are now. Poison's no good any more."

"What kind of trap is that, Hugh?" asked Jack.

"Why, it's sorter like a pitfall trap that I've heard tell of. You kill a bull, and all around him build up a kind of a fence of poles close together, and all leaning toward each other at the top, where you leave quite a hole. Then you pile up rocks and dirt around your poles, so's to make a little mound for the wolves to walk on up to the hole. If they're hungry enough they'll jump down into the hole to get at the meat, but they can't jump out again because the hole is too high up. They can't climb up the poles and they can't dig through 'em. So there you've got 'em."

"Long time ago," said John, "he catch 'im plenty big wolves, plenty coyote that way, les shauvages. My grand'mere, when she was little girl, 'bout as h'ole as Jacques, H'ingins not make it beaver, not make it h'robes pour trade. H'only trade 'im wolf skin. Ver' curieuse."

"Oh, Mr. Monroe," said Jack, "is that a coyote off there?"

"No, that sinopah -- what you say it, Hugh?" was the reply.

"Kit fox is what I call him, some calls 'em swift. I've heard folks say that they were the fastest thing that runs on the prairie, but it ain't so, by a long shot. There's just plenty of swifter animals. Still you can see easy enough where people get the idea that they run so fast. They're mighty level-gaited and seem to sort o' glide along instead of running. Just watch that fellow now and see how smooth he runs.

"Hallo, Hugh," interrupted John, "you get it one coyote?"

"Well, looks like it, don't it?" said Hugh. The little wolf lay near the block of wood, from the holes in which much of the tallow had been licked. It was a pretty creature, about as large as a small setter dog, yellowish grey in colour, and with thick heavy fur and a bushy tail. Its sharp nose gave it a wise, cunning look.

"He been two of it here, Hugh," said John, whose eyes was constantly wandering about over the snow. "Two coyote and sinopah."

"Yes; the other one's gone back along the trail to the ranch. They've eat up all the scraps I scattered here. Well, I'll put this one on the horse, and skin it at the house." Hugh thrust the coyote into one of the sacks on the pack horse, and they went on.

A mile or two further along on the trail they found where the second coyote had turned off toward the mountain, and both men said that this one had probably not eaten any of the poisoned tallow. That afternoon Hugh showed Jack how to skin a coyote.




Chapter XI

Jack's First Elk


The next two or three weeks were warm and bright and the snow melted fast. The little brooks that ran down from the mountains were full of water. Out on the edge of the hay meadows the men were working with ploughs, spades and hoes, mending the irrigation ditches, which would be used to turn the water on the hay land after all the snow water had run off and the dry season had come. There was much of this work to be done, and all were busy at it, except John Monroe and Jack, who rode together each day.

One morning they went out to look at the cows, and then on past them, and out to the end of the mountain. Here turning west, they followed a narrow winding trail up the hill, until they had reached the crest of the ridge and could look over much of the prairie below. Here they dismounted, and leaving the horses in a little hollow where they could feed, they clambered upon a high rock-crowned knoll and sat there looking over the prairie. It was a wide and beautiful prospect that they saw; fifteen or twenty miles of prairie, which from this height looked as if it were level, marked here and there with lakes that shone like silver in the sun, or with white patches of snow in the sheltered ravines. Beyond were mountains; those in front of them dotted with black pines and with white patches of rock; those to the right rising in brown foothills to peaks which were almost as red as blood. Suddenly, John, who had been smoking in silence, said: "My see 'im two h'elk."

"Two elk, Mr. Monroe; oh, where?" said Jack.

"You look on prairie, that a-way," said John, pointing, "just crossin' from Chalk Bluff there, two small little spots movin'. That h'elk."

Jack strained his eyes to find them, but he could see nothing. He had not yet learned how to look for objects on the prairie. Presently, just as he was going to tell John that he could not see them, he dropped his eyes to the prairie nearer the point of the mountain and saw two dark spots, which seemed to be moving.

"I see them now, Mr. Monroe," he exclaimed eagerly. "Are those elk? I don't see how you know. I can see that they move, and so they must be animals, but I should never know what they were."

"Yes, that's h'elks," repeated John. "Suppose you want it kill 'im one h'elk? Get it some meat?"

"Oh, wouldn't I like to? Could we get a shot, do you think? They're awful far off," said Jack.

"Maybe he comin' right up here. Suppose he comin' up one trail, he come to us. Suppose he take trail we come by, smell 'im horses, then goin' run off quick. Suppose we go to point of mountain, see 'im bote trails. Maybe we get it shot. Come."

They clambered down from the rocks and soon caught their horses. Jack mounted first, and sat there impatient to start. But John checked him, saying:

"Suppose no hurry. Good you fix it saddle." So Jack controlled himself, and remembering what Hugh had told him about taking care of his horse's back, he dismounted and tightened his saddle. John had done the same, and they mounted and rode off together, keeping on the crest of a ridge, on one side of which ran the trail they had followed up the hill. On the other side was a little valley overgrown with aspens, among which ran a brook.

If he had been alone, Jack would have galloped as hard as he could to the end of this ridge, so as to see the elk soon and to find out what they were doing, but he remembered again what Hugh had told him, and he remembered too, how he had lost the first antelope he had tried to hunt. So he asked no questions and rode quietly along, feeling pretty sure that John must know what he was doing. At length, when they had nearly reached what seemed the end of the ridge, John pointed to the valley where the brook ran, and said:

"Suppose he comin' h'up there, we get 'im suer." A little while afterward, he said, "Leave 'em horses here," and dismounted, and taking his gun from its scabbard, he walked forward toward the end of the ridge, where great rocks lay scattered over the ground. Jack, as he followed, noticed that John, as he walked, made no sound. The gravel did not crunch under his moccasins, his trousers did not rub against the weeds and bushes. As he made each step, his toe touched the ground first, then the ball of his foot, and then his heel. If he had been a cat walking over a carpet, he could not have made less noise. It seemed to Jack that every time he himself put down his foot, it made a loud rattling on the ground, the sides of his feet scraped against the bushes, and he made a great noise. Before they had gone very far, John turned and made a sign for Jack to stop. Then he cautiously went forward and peered over some rocks, and then slowly lowering his head, he beckoned Jack to come to him. When he had reached John, the old man pointed and said: "Suppose you look. See 'im h'elk comin' h'up this side?"

Jack raised his head very cautiously and looked over the rock, and there, only a few hundred yards away, coming up the side of the ridge he saw two animals nearly as big as horses. Their bodies and legs were graceful and deer like, but they carried their heads and necks very awkwardly. Their noses pointed straight out in front, and they moved their heads slowly from side to side. They had no horns, but where the horns should have been were odd thick bunches, only a little longer than their ears. Their bodies were brownish yellow. He had hardly had time to see these things, when John touched him on the shoulder, and motioned him to come with him. They went back a little distance from the rocks, and entering a ravine that ran down to the valley, crept part of the way toward the timber, and then up the side of the ravine toward the elk. From the top of the ridge they could see the game coming directly toward them. The animals did not stop to feed, but walked straight on, as if they were going somewhere.

"Soon he comin' close. Suppose you shoot, try kill 'im daid. Suppose he wounded, maybe run far. Hard time catch 'im. That bad. Now wait."

For some minutes they sat there, John saying nothing and doing nothing, but Jack feeling very anxious. He remembered the great pair of elk antlers that his uncle had at home, and though these elk here had no horns, still they were the same kind of animals. He wanted very much to kill one, and his heart had been beating fast ever since he had started. While they sat there though, he seemed to quiet down a little; he still wanted just as much to kill the elk, but when he saw how calm John was, he felt a little bit ashamed that he should be so excited, and this made him cool down still more. At length John said: "Suppose h'elk pretty close. My goin' look now." He crept up and peeped over the ridge and then drawing back, motioned Jack to come to his side, which he did, creeping as close to the ground as possible. John signed to him to shoot. He crept up very carefully, raised his head slowly, and there he saw these two great animals about to cross the ravine, hardly forty yards below him. They were walking, but, before he raised his rifle to shoot, both elk stopped, and seemed to be looking over the country beyond the ravine. Jack aimed carefully behind the elk's shoulder and low down, and fired. Both elks slowly turned their heads and looked toward the hunters, but neither moved. "Shoot," whispered John, and Jack threw out his shell, loaded and shot again, aiming at the same place, and, as the second shot rang out, the elk fell on its side, and its companion turned and trotted swiftly away.

"Ha! You shoot good," said John, as he rose to his feet and walked toward where the elk lay. Jack wanted to shout out hurrahs, he was so glad, but he said nothing and walked along by John's side, trying to seem unconcerned, but with a broad smile of happiness upon his face. In a moment they had reached the great animal, which lay there with its slender brown legs outstretched, and its smooth yellow body glistening in the sun.

"Ha!" said John, "You make it good shoot. Good shoot," and he pointed to the elk's body, where, close behind the fore leg, were two tiny holes, not two inches apart, where both the boy's bullets had entered. Either shot would have killed him.

While Jack was looking at the elk, admiring his graceful, strong body, and wondering at the queer, soft warm bunches that grew out of his head, and which he knew must be the young growing horns, John sharpened his knife and prepared to cut up the bull. Bending its head back close to one of its shoulders, he turned the animal on its back, and propped it in position by placing a large stone under its hip. Before using his knife, however, he said to Jack, "Suppose you no want it skin, take it meat to house. Now, skin no good for moccasins. Biemby, be good."

Jack would have liked to carry in the whole elk, so that all might see what a splendid animal he had killed, but he was ashamed to say so to John, and returned a cheerful "All right," to his suggestion.

John's sharp knife quickly cut off the elk's hams and shoulders and then, turning the animal on its side, the long strips of meat lying on either side of the backbone -- the sirloins -- were torn out. Then very deftly John tied the hams together and threw them across Jack's saddle, fastening them to the cinch rings, put the shoulders and sirloins on his own horse, and they mounted and rode off down the mountain.

The ride toward the ranch was a happy one for Jack. He was glad that he had killed the elk, glad that he had made two such good shots, and he hummed a little song to himself as he rode along and every now and then reached down and smoothed the skin of the elk hams. He could not help thinking how badly he would have felt if he had missed the shot, and the elk had run away, or even if he had missed and John had killed it. This was much better.

Although this was only the second animal that he had killed, Jack was beginning to feel some confidence in his shooting, and was beginning too to understand that he knew nothing about hunting. He could not understand how it was that Hugh and John seemed to know exactly what to do. He could see though that they were never in a hurry, that they were not uneasy about whether the game was going to run away or not, that they were patient and took plenty of time. All this was just what Hugh had told him about hunting, and Jack determined that he would try hard to remember and always to act on it.

The sun was just setting as they rode up to the house. Two of the men could be seen coming across the prairie, driving a bunch of horses before them, and Hugh was just coming down to the corral to let out the milk cows.

He smiled as he saw the meat on the horses, and called out, "Well, son, you've got some meat, I see."

"Yes, seh," said John, "Jack make it good shoot. Good shoot, my tellin' you."

"You killed it, did you, son? Why, that's good. Where'd ye hit it?"

"Good shoot my tellin' you," repeated John. "Plum centre. Il l'a brise le coeur deux fois. Two time."

"You don't say! Why, son, you're goin' to make a sure enough hunter all right. Now, let's hang this meat upon the pole, where the flies won't bother it."

They took the meat off the horses at the foot of a tall pole that stood near the corner of the house, and by means of a pully at the top of the pole, it was hoisted far above the ground where it would be cool and dry, and out of the way of the flies.

A few days later John Monroe packed his horses, and started on to Bear River to visit his daughter. He said that he would return toward the end of the summer and see them again.




Chapter XII

Antelope Kids


"Son, do you want to ride down to the lake with me," said Hugh one day in June, as they sat at dinner.

"Yes, Hugh, I'd like to go. Right after dinner?" said Jack.

"Yes, if your uncle don't want me, we might as well start right off. You get your gun and catch up the horses, and I'll come down and saddle up as soon as I can."

Jack caught the horses and took them to the barn, where he found Hugh waiting, and in a few moments they were on their way. When they had nearly reached the lake, Hugh turned to Jack and said, "Now, maybe we'll see some fun. This morning when I was in the pasture, I saw an old doe antelope down on the flat here, and I reckon she's got kids hidden somewhere. We can lie behind the hill and watch for them. Maybe we'll have company too; there's likely to be a coyote or two about, so you may as well fetch your gun with you."

They left the horses in a little hollow, and creeping up to the top of the hill, carefully looked over it. At first they could see nothing living, but after a moment Hugh said, "Look out! keep close! there's a coyote coming out of the gulch over there." They watched the cunning animal as it trotted out into the flat where the grass was up to its belly, and there it began to quarter the ground, just like a hunting dog, yet every moment or two it would pause and look up toward the hills, as if it were afraid of something that was coming. What this something was they soon saw, for presently a doe antelope came galloping over the hills toward the flat, and when she saw the coyote she ran faster, directly toward it. As soon as it saw the doe, the coyote dropped its head and tail and started to run away, at first slowly, but, as the antelope drew nearer to it, much faster, until presently it was running nearly as fast as the doe. Before it had crossed the flat the antelope had nearly caught it, and now the coyote was running as fast as it could, with its tail tucked between its legs, like a frightened cur. As the little wolf ran up to the hill on which they were lying, the antelope caught up with it, and several times struck it with her hoof, and each time she did so, the wolf yelled with pain, just as a dog would yell when struck with a whip. Wolf and antelope passed close by the watchers and soon disappeared over the next hill.

Then Hugh said to Jack, "Look out, now! that coyote has a partner somewhere about, and, unless I am mistaken, he will show up in two or three minutes." Sure enough, when they turned around and looked at the flat, there was a coyote just beginning to search through the grass, as the other one had done. It was evident that these two wolves were working together, and that while one led the doe away from the neighbourhood of her young ones, the other searched to try to find out where they were hidden. However, the old doe seemed to be pretty wise and did not chase the first coyote far; so that the one left on the ground had hardly time to begin his hunt before the antelope made her appearance again on the flat, and drove him off. As she began to do this, Hugh said to Jack, "Now, turn around and keep a good look-out for the other coyote; you may get a chance to kill him as he comes back." They had not been watching very long when the little wolf that had just been chased away came trotting unconcernedly around the base of the knoll, only a short distance from them. They sat quite still and he did not notice them, but went on until he reached the top of the rise from which he could see the flat. Here he stopped only about forty yards from Jack, and a careful shot dropped him in his tracks.

"Well," said Hugh, "that's a good shot, and a good job too. That other coyote will have to go now and hunt up another partner. I reckon we've saved them kids. Maybe if we lie here a little longer and watch, the old doe will go up to her young ones, and we'll see where they are hidden; then, if you like, we can catch them and take them home."

"Let's wait and see if we can find them," said Jack. "I'd like awfully well to see them and see what they look like, but I don't want to take them away from the old one; she's had trouble enough with these coyotes; let's leave her young ones with her."

"That suits me to a T," said Hugh. "Let's move down a little bit from the top of the hill and skin this coyote, and we can look at the old doe every little while, and if she isn't bothered, likely before long she will go to her young ones."

They skinned the wolf, and every now and then either Hugh or Jack went to the top of the hill and looked over at the antelope. The coyotes bothered her no more; she fed about in the flat, and at length went up on a little side hill and lay down for an hour or two. Then she rose and began to feed again, and after wandering about in rather an aimless fashion for half an hour, she walked over to a bare hillside, where nothing seemed to be growing, and in a moment they saw two tiny kids standing by her side.

"Now," said Hugh, "you notice well where those kids are, and we'll go and get the horses and ride over to them. You will see that just as soon as we show ourselves, the kids will disappear and the old one will run off. You won't be able to see the kids until you're right on top of them."

Sure enough, when they rode over the hills, and the old doe saw them, she cantered away and no young ones were to be seen, but when they reached the spot, two small grey objects looking at a little distance like stones, lay on the ground there. Jack dismounted and picked one up; its legs and head hung down as if it were dead; it made no movement and uttered no sound, but its bright little eye was full and round.

"That's the way it is with them," said Hugh. "Until they are a week or ten days old they act just like that. I expect it's born in them to act like they are dead until their mother tells them it's safe to seem to be alive."

It was a little hard for Jack to leave the kids here. They were such queer-looking little beasts that his wish to possess them almost overcame the sympathy he had felt for their mother, but after what he had said to Hugh he was ashamed to change; and so, rather regretfully, he left the kids lying there on the hillside, for their mother to find when she came back.

As they rode toward the house, talking of the animals they had been watching, Jack was loud in his sympathy for the antelope, and declared that if he could do so, he would kill every coyote in the country. "Well, I don't know, son," said Hugh, "Coyotes are mean and do right smart of mischief, but they've got feelings, just like folks. Did ye ever think of that?"

"How do you mean, Hugh?" asked Jack.

"Why, I mean that they've got to eat and drink, and sleep, just like the antelope, or, for the matter of that, just like us. They've got little ones to look out for and feed, and I make no doubt the old mother coyote thinks just as much of her young ones as the antelope does of hers. I don't mean to say that I like coyotes; they're pesky critters, and often I get mad with them and feel, like you do, that I'd like to kill 'em all; but what I say is that it ain't no more cruel for a coyote to kill an antelope, than it is for an antelope to take a bite of grass."

"I never thought of it in that way, Hugh, but that is so. But you can't help feeling sorry for the little kids and for the old ones, too."

"That's all right enough, but what I say is, if you are going to feel sorry for one thing, you've got to feel sorry for all. And what's more, talking about coyotes, they're so almighty smart, that you can't help admiring them, and thinking they earn all they get."

Talking about these things, they rode over the low hills till they had come to the edge of the valley leading up to the house. Here Hugh checked his horse and pointed to a small animal, walking about in an aimless way near the gully through which the creek flowed. "There's a badger," he said. "Now, if you like, we can get down into the creek bed and creep up close to him and watch him for a spell. What do you say?"

"That'll be bully; let's do it; but can we get close enough to see him well?"

"There won't be any trouble about that, but we'll have to go back a little ways," said Hugh. "Come on."

They rode back a short distance, and around a little hill, and dismounting, walked down into the bed of the stream. The banks of the narrow water-course were eight or ten feet high, and of course hid them from anything on the level of the valley. After they had gone some little distance, Hugh signed with his hand to Jack to wait, and slowly raising his head above the bank, looked through a bunch of grass growing on its edge. After a moment he motioned Jack to come up beside him, and whispered to him, "He's right close, not twenty feet away;" and he pointed. Jack looked carefully over the bank and saw a queer short-legged grey animal with white stripes on his face, walking about and smelling at some little piles of earth. The long hair on either side of its body almost swept the ground, its face had an expression of great cunning, and its nose was long and pointed. It was a heavy, thickset animal, only about two feet long and very broad, but it stepped lightly enough from place to place, snuffing at each lump of earth or tuft of grass that it came to, not as if it were very much interested in it, but as if it felt that it would not do to pass by anything without examining it. Sometimes it would scrape away a little dirt, and smell the ground, and then move on. Often it lifted its head high and sniffed the air, moving its nose about and wrinkling it, as if to catch the faintest scent.

Now and then it sat up on its haunches and looked about, as if to see if any danger were near. When it did this, it held itself much as Jack had seen a woodchuck. "He keeps a pretty good look-out, don't he?" whispered Hugh.

"You bet," said Jack, "he looks as if he knew pretty well how to take care of himself. How strong he seems to be, and what a sly, cunning face he has."

A few moments later the badger suddenly sat up very straight, with his fore legs hanging down by his side, and looked sharply toward a hill away from the house. In a few seconds the animal dropped down on all fours and galloped away toward a near-by hillside. "I expect he hears something coming, and he's making tracks for his hole. Ah, that's what it is," said Hugh, and he pointed to the hill toward which the badger had looked. Over this hill a man came riding, and about his horse were trotting half a dozen great, gaunt hounds. One of them saw the badger, and instantly the whole pack swept down the hill toward it, but just before the leading dog overtook it, the badger disappeared, and the dogs checked themselves and stopped. "I expect that's the Powell kid," said Hugh, as he climbed up the bank, followed by Jack. "He has a lot o' hounds, and catches considerable many coyotes."

As they walked back toward their horses, they met the rider, a boy only a little older than Jack, who seemed to know Hugh very well, and who shook hands with Jack, giving him a hard grip that almost hurt him. "Well, kid," said Hugh, "did ye get any coyotes to-day?" "Yes, I got three, and started two more, but they got so big a start on me that I couldn't catch 'em. I got a kitfox too, but the dogs tore him all to pieces. Like to have got that badger that was near you, but he holed too quick."

"Better ride on up to the house and unsaddle, and get supper, and stop," said Hugh. "It's too late for ye to get home to-night."

"All right," said the boy, and whistling to his dogs, he rode on. Hugh and Jack soon overtook him, and when the three reached the barn, the stranger's horse was put in a stall, while the others were turned out. At the house young Powell was cordially welcomed by Mr. Sturgis, and soon all were seated at the supper table.

That evening the two boys had a long talk, and afterward a consultation with Hugh. Then Hugh went to Mr. Sturgis and asked him if he was willing to have Jack and himself go over the next day to the Powell ranch for two or three days, so that Jack might have a chance to see the hounds run coyotes. Jack's uncle said that he thought it a very good idea. So the next morning, just about sunrise, they set out on the thirty-mile ride.




Chapter XIII

Jack Kills A Lion


As they started off this morning Jack felt good; he had been promoted; he was riding a new horse. The grey, on which he had taken his first lessons in riding, was old and steady and slow; very good to travel over the prairie on, but past his usefulness for any purpose except hunting or going after the saddle horses. So, a week or two before, Hugh had caught up for him a new horse, and he had tried it several times. It was a brown, seven years old, perfectly gentle, yet with plenty of spirit. Hugh had ridden it a good deal, and told him that it was one of the best horses at the ranch; kind, gentle, very swift, and, better than all, a good hunting horse. He had said, "You don't need to watch the Brown when you're riding over the prairie, going anywhere, but if you ever start him after a bunch of elk or a band of buffalo, look out for him, unless you want to get right into the middle of them. He can catch elk too easy, and is faster than any buffalo cow I ever saw."

Jack wanted a good name for the horse. He did not like to call him merely Brown; he wanted a name that would mean something. Half a dozen names had been suggested, but none of them seemed quite to fit the horse. At last he decided that he would call the animal by the name of some Indian tribe. Blackfoot seemed a pretty good name, because the horse's feet were all black, but after thinking it over with a good deal of care, he determined to call the horse Pawnee.

This morning when they mounted and rode away, young Powell was loud in his praise of Jack's horse. He said, "I'll bet he's got the legs of any of these three horses. Mine is pretty fast and keeps pretty close to the dogs in the chase, but yours will run away from him as if he was standing still."

"That's right," said Hugh, "he's an awful good horse, and what's more, he's just as kind as he's good. You can get off him to hunt, and leave him, and you'll feel sure when you come back he'll be feeding in the same place. If you fire a shot, he puts up his head and looks at you with his ears pricked up, to see whether you've killed or not. Then, after you have butchered, if you lead him up to an animal to put the meat on him, he'll snort and curve his neck and look like he was terrible scared; but when you commence to lift the meat to put it on his back, he'll kind of crouch down and lean towards you, to make it easier for you to get it on. You can shoot off him and he'll never move. Sometimes I've thought that when I raised the gun to my shoulder to shoot he stopped breathing for a minute. I know he always kind o' spreads his legs to hold himself steady. You've got a good horse now, son, and I'd advise you to hang on to him as long as you're here at the ranch."

The ride down the valley was a pleasant one. The blue iris stood thick in the damp places. The brilliant red and yellow flowers of the cactus dotted the hillsides. White poppy blossoms swung in the wind, and, if one had been on foot the tiny blooms of the yellow violets, which send their roots so far down into the hard dry soil of the prairie, could have been seen thickly scattered on the slopes. It was a time, too, of singing birds. The clear, sweet whistle of the meadow-lark came from the hills near-by, and was answered from other farther hills in a faint refrain, which sounded like an echo. The little finches of the prairie rose from the ground high in air, and then descended slowly on motionless wings, singing as if their throats would burst. From far on high fell the tinkling notes of the unseen prairie skylark floating above them. Little ground squirrels and prairie dogs were busy everywhere, but as the horsemen and troop of dogs drew near, they scattered to their holes, and, after a few angry barks and squeaks, disappeared from sight. Now and then as they passed over some swell of the prairie they startled an antelope or two or three, which ran up on the neighbouring hills and stood there stamping and snorting. The dogs would look at them eagerly yet doubtfully, and would perhaps trot a little way toward them, but young Powell always whistled them back. The prairie and the air above it were full of pleasant sights and sounds.

Young Powell said to Jack, "The dogs had some hard runs yesterday, and I don't want them to be chasing antelope to-day, and so far from home. I don't run antelope often, anyhow, though I've got some with these dogs, but I use them mainly for wolves and coyotes; and it's a bad thing to have a lot of dogs think that they can run anything that gets up before them on the prairie. If I was going to run antelope, I'd have a special bunch of dogs for running them, and for nothing else."

"Then they've caught antelopes, have they?" asked Jack. "It hardly seems to me as if anything could catch an antelope, when it's really running as hard as it can."

"Oh, I don't know," said Powell, "there's lots of difference in antelopes. Some of them can run twice as fast as others. I almost roped an old doe once in a fair chase, and I wasn't riding anything but a slow cow pony at that. I never felt quite sure though whether I could have caught her or not, or whether she was just fooling me. I ran her and she took down a valley, and I caught up with her, and got so close that I was just getting my rope ready to throw, when she ran across a little green place where the grass stood pretty high. I would not have tried to cross it if I hadn't been after her, for it looked kind of wet, but I couldn't stop, and I put the spurs into the old horse, and he jumped right into the middle of it and stayed there, and I kept going and hit the hard ground on the other side. When I got up and caught the horse, the antelope was out of sight. Still, I know mighty well that there's a big difference in antelope. You take an old buck, and even if you get a good start on him, the dogs have a hard time to get up to him. You take an old doe, or a yearling buck, and it's almost always caught a heap easier. You see those two little blue dogs, the smooth ones, the two that are ahead? They're the fastest dogs I've got. I always depend on them to stop a coyote or a wolf. If they can catch him and throw him it's a mighty short time till the other dogs get up, and then they all pitch in and chew him. These two yellow, rough-haired dogs here, the biggest ones, they're the fighters. They bring up the tail of the chase, but when they get to the wolf they don't stop, they pitch right in. If it's a coyote, one of them generally gets him across the chest and the other in the flank, and then the rest of the dogs take hold wherever they can, and they all pull in different directions. It don't take no time at all to kill a coyote, but of course a big wolf is different. I've had three dogs killed by wolves, and each one only had one bite. They're terrible strong, powerful animals.

"I want to show you twelve pups that I've got at the ranch. They're little fellows yet, but I expect to get some awful good dogs out of them. I tell you a dog don't last any time at all at this sort of work. Some of 'em get cut up by the wolves, and some break their legs or sprain their shoulders, running, and some get hurt by the horses. It's a pretty rough life on a dog; but while they last they've an awful good time." Chatting thus, they covered mile after mile of prairie. Jack's horse stepped along lightly and easily. From time to time Hugh lit his pipe and smoked. Powell watched his dogs. The sun was warm, the air clear and pleasant, and Jack thought that he had never enjoyed a morning more.

Suddenly, just in front of the two blue hounds that were trotting before them, a jack-rabbit bounced up and scurried away at top speed. In an instant all the dogs were running for it, and Jack and young Powell were close at their heels. It was a short run. The leading blue dog pressed the rabbit hard; he dodged in front of the second dog, and in a moment had to dodge again, which threw him into the jaws of the first and he had run his last race. It was short but exciting; doubly so to Jack who had never seen anything of the sort. Powell jumped down among the hounds and cuffed and scolded them, while he took from them the fragments of the rabbit, and then mounted, and they all went on. A little later the dogs all broke away again after a badger which showed himself on the side hill; but he dodged into his hole before they reached him, and the dogs came back, looking foolish. Powell now took from a pocket in his saddle a whip, with a handle about a foot and a half long, and a lash of eight or ten feet, and whenever a dog pressed forward ahead of the horses, he struck at it, and after a little while the whole pack followed obediently at his horse's heels.

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It was long past noon when they reached some high hills, rough and scarred with broken bad lands, on which grew a few stunted pines and cedars. They were climbing these hills, Jack a little in advance, when he saw rise from a shelf in the rocks, a long, slim, yellow animal, which began to sneak away up a ravine.

"Oh, Hugh, what's that?" the boy cried; and at the same time Powell gave a yell, which started all the dogs forward. "A mountain lion," Hugh called back: "The dogs will tree him, sure! Look out for him!" Jack hardly heard the words, for he was pressing forward close after the dogs, not thinking of the rough ground over which he was riding, but half wild with the excitement of the chase. The horses climbed the steep scarp of the hills at a run, and in a moment Jack found himself galloping over smooth, bare, yellow soil, fifty yards behind the last of the hounds, while the two blue dogs seemed but a few feet behind the lion. In a moment more the beast was safe among the branches of a cedar, the dogs clustered about its trunk, leaping into the air and showing the greatest excitement. When he was almost at the foot of the tree, Jack drew up his horse, and the moment it stopped, threw his gun to his shoulder and fired full into the chest of the lion, which stood facing him snarling and angrily twitching his tail this way and that. As the gun cracked, the animal launched itself from its perch full toward Jack; and, as he looked up at it and saw it flying toward him, with gleaming teeth and outstretched paws, his heart jumped up into his throat. It looked about forty feet long. He never knew whether he spurred Pawnee or whether the horse started of its own accord, but it made three or four jumps, and when Jack looked back, there was the lion on the ground surrounded by all the dogs, which were pulling and tugging at it viciously. The beast was still, and Jack rode back near to it, to be heartily scolded by Hugh, who had just come up.

"Son," said he, "you done a fool trick that time. If you'd been on any other horse you might have been badly scratched. If you wanted to shoot at the lion, and I make no doubt you did, you'd ought to have stopped further off. You'll never make no sort of a hunter if ye don't think. It's all right for a man to take risks if there's anything to be made by taking them, but a man who takes risks just because he don't know no better is a fool. What's more, if you act this way, you're liable to make a fool of me. I'd have looked nice, wouldn't I, if you'd gone back to the ranch all scratched up. Now, of course," he went on more mildly, "I know you ain't anything but a boy, and you can't be expected to have a man's sense, but I want you to get sense as fast as you can, and sense means experience. I'm trying to give you as fast as I can the sense that it's took me forty years to learn. Now, let's see where you hit that fellow. I expect you made a right good shot, for I didn't see the critter stir after he struck the ground."

Meantime young Powell had driven the dogs from the lion, and they had all stretched themselves out in the shade of a cedar, where they were lying, panting, with their tongues hanging far out of their mouths. One of them, Jack noticed, had a long bright red cut, extending nearly from shoulder to hip, from which the blood was dripping fast. They turned the lion over and found the bullet hole in the middle of the chest. It was a good shot, indeed, and the animal's wild spring out of the tree was his expiring effort. He was a very large animal, and quite old, as shown by the condition of his teeth.

"Well, son," said Hugh, "you certainly are in the biggest kind of luck. It's seven years since I've seen a lion about here, and they're never anyways common. Of course we wouldn't have got this fellow if it hadn't been for the dogs; and it's great luck for you who have only been out a month or two now, to have had such a chance as this. You made a mighty good shot, too, and when you take this hide back east you'll sure have something to talk about. I expect, though, your Ma wouldn't have been very happy if she'd been here and seen that lion come sailing out of that tree after you."

When they looked at the wounded hound they found that the long cut in its skin was much less serious than it seemed at first; it was hardly more than a scratch made by a last convulsive kick by the lion, and, while it had cut the skin, and would leave a scar, it did not really injure the dog. They skinned the lion, leaving the claws on the hide, and rolled up the skin, tying it behind Jack's saddle, and then started on their way.

The sun was low in the west when they came in sight of the Powell ranch. They rode up to the barn and began to unsaddle, while the dogs went straight to the house. Before they had stabled the horses they heard a clear voice calling, "Why, Charley, what's the matter with Blue Dan? He's all cut up." And when they reached the door of the house they saw Mrs. Powell and Charley's sister, Bess, a little girl of thirteen, bathing the wounded dog, which seemed proud of the attention he was receiving. Hugh and Jack were cordially welcomed by Mrs. Powell, and later by her husband, when he came in from riding; and the story of the killing of the lion had to be told twice over. Every one congratulated Jack on his good fortune, and it appeared that this was the first time the dogs had ever seen a lion. "They have killed plenty of wolves, foxes, and coyotes," said Mr. Powell, "and two or three wolverenes, and of course a few bob-cats, but I think they never chased a lion before."

After supper Charley took Jack out, and after considerable whistling, succeeded in bringing up to the house two tame coyotes, pets of which Charley was very proud. "We dug them out of a hole in the bank of a gulch a couple of miles from here," he told jack. "There were three of them, and they were so small that their eyes weren't open yet. I had to kill one, for it took to killing chickens. I sort of hated to do it, but I knew it was no use to try to keep him and hens both, and I was afraid he would teach the other two his tricks, so I shot him. These two fellows are all right. There's only one thing they do that makes me mad. Sometimes they wander away off onto the prairie, hunting for themselves; and two or three times I have gone after them with the dogs, thinking that they were wild coyotes. They will run and run as hard as they know how, and then, when the dogs are just about catching up to them, they'll flop over on their backs and lie there with their legs in the air until the dogs come up to them. Of course when the dogs get up to them and smell them, they know them, and won't touch them. Then the coyotes get up and play around and wag their tails and jump about, like they'd been doing something almighty smart. In that way they just have fun with us."

When bed-time came that night, Jack was ready for it. His thirty-mile ride and the excitement of the day had made him very weary.




Chapter XIV

Wolves And Wolf-Hounds


At breakfast next morning Mr. Powell said, "I suppose you boys will go out with the dogs to-day, and I wish you would go over east to where the blue stallion's bunch ranges. There's two yearlings been killed since I was over there last, and I believe it's wolves that done it. If them worthless dogs of yours would kill a few wolves instead of all these coyotes they'd come nearer earning their keep than they do."

"Well, I don't know," answered Charley, "I don't think they've done so bad. Seven wolves since Christmas is pretty good, I think; and the coyotes does a heap of mischief, and are sure worth killing.

"Well, well," said his father, "do the best you can to get these wolves. It's all right to kill the coyotes, but one wolf is worse than ten of them little fellows."

"Well, what time are you boys going to start out," said Hugh. "I expect you won't want to leave here till after dinner. I was thinking I'd go with you, but the first thing I want to do is to stretch that lion's skin, and I expect I've got to set and watch it till it begins to get dry, or else them dogs of yours will be chewing and tearing it."

"Oh," said Charley, "we'll have plenty of time to get over to the blue stallion's range if we start after dinner, and of course it might be such a thing as we'd run onto one of them wolves, if they are there. Did you see any tracks, father? or was it just the way the colts were killed?"

"No," said his father, "I didn't have no time to hunt around for sign, but it wan't nothing but wolves that killed them yearlings. If they'd only been one of them, he might have got out away from the bunch and been cut off and killed by coyotes, but that wouldn't happen twice in a few days. It's wolves, I tell you, and the chances are they've got young ones somewheres not so very far off. There's something that 'ud make it worth your while to hunt 'em. You might get a nest of young pups."

"Great Scott!" said Jack, "that would be fine." While Hugh added, "There's a chance for you, Charley, to get up the greatest pack of wolf-dogs there ever was on earth. Get a lot of wolf pups, tame 'em and train 'em to catch and kill the wild wolves."

After breakfast Charley took Jack down to the barn and showed him two litters of greyhound puppies, both very small now, but likely to be large enough next spring, Charley said, to be used with the old dogs. They were queer, blunt-nosed, thick-legged little beasts, which waddled about in most clumsy fashion.

From there the boys went down to the hen-house, where, with great pride, Charley exhibited his chickens and some pigeons -- the only ones within thirty miles. He complained that the hawks killed the pigeons if they ventured far from home, but said that from repeated frights, the birds were learning to keep closer about the building.

When they reached the house again, they found Hugh busy pegging out the lion's skin. He had skinned out the head, cut off every bit of flesh and fat from the hide, and pierced a number of small holes along its margin, and was now busy with a lot of sharp pointed wooden pegs, stretching the skin on the grass, flesh side up, so that it would dry and be preserved. This was new work to Jack, and he watched it closely and asked a number of questions about it.

"You see," said Hugh in reply, "if the hide ain't stretched and dried, it ain't no good. Some folks just take and nail up a hide any way at all against the side of the house, and of course it will dry that way, but it don't dry smooth, and it's apt to get twisted and to be no account. If I take in two hides, one dried this way, and one dried on the side of a house, and try to sell them to a dealer, he'll give me more for the one that is smooth and square than he will for one that is rough and crumpled and pulled to one side. After you know how, it ain't much more trouble to do the thing right than it is to do it wrong, so I think it pays better to do it right. There's lots to drying a hide that a good many people don't know. Now, a thin hide, like this one here, glazes over quick, and don't take no time at all to dry, except maybe the lips, the feet, and the tail, but if I had a bear hide, or a beef's hide, I wouldn't stretch it out here in the hot sun to dry, or if I did, I'd build some sort of a shade over it, so that it would dry slowly. You take them hides that's right thick, and they're awful liable to burn if the sun's right hot. Now you take it when they was beaver in the country; no man ever thought of putting his fur out in the sun to dry. He hung his pelts up in the brush or in trees in the shade, and let the wind do the drying for him, and not the sun. There," he continued, as he pushed in his last peg to hold the tail straight, "Now, in an hour or two that hide will be set, so it'll hold its shape, and then you can take it up and hang it up in the barn. Now I'm going over to the creek to clean the meat off this skull. It's a big one, and you might as well take it home with you, 'long with the hide."

The work of cutting the meat from the skull, and of removing the brain, by breaking it up with a stick, did not take very long, but while it lasted Jack and Charley were much interested in watching the shoals of tiny fish which gathered in the stream, just below where Hugh was working, and fed on and fought over the fragments of brain and meat which floated down to them.

"Where in time did these fish all come from, Hugh?" asked Charley. "I never saw any fish in the creek before. It seems like they ought to be big ones here too. These little fellers are bound to grow up, I expect."

"I guess not," said Hugh. "I guess these are the little kind that don't never grow no bigger. You take these little chickadees or these little brown ground birds; you never heard of them growing as big as an eagle or goose, did you? I expect likely there's a good many different sorts of fishes, just like there's a good many sorts of birds and animals, and each sort has its own size that it grows up to be, and it don't grow no bigger. These little fellows that you see here have come from a long way down the creek. You see, the water carries down the smell of the meat and the blood, and these fish follow up the trail through the water, just the same as a dog or a coyote will follow your trail over the prairie."

"Yes, I know that's so, Hugh," said Jack. "I've seen something just like this, fishing for bluefish, down in Great South Bay."

"What's Great South Bay, and where's it at?" said Charley.

"Why, it's on the south shore of Long Island, and it opens out into the ocean. If you could see far enough, and the world wasn't round, you could look across from there to Europe."

"Jerusalem, down at the edge of the salt water!" murmured Hugh.

"Yes," said Jack, "I've been down there fishing. They anchor the boat somewhere near the channel and then chop up a lot of bunkers, that's a very oily fish, you know, and then they throw this chopped-up fish overboard, a little at a time, and it floats down with the tide and makes a long slick on the water. It looks like a long, shiny ribbon. Well, the bluefish swimming around strike this slick, and follow it up until they come near to the boat, where the fishermen have their lines out with pieces of bunker on the hooks, then the fun begins. I have seen 'em catch bluefish that were longer than my rifle barrel."

"Well, well," said Hugh; "I expect them fish is mighty good eating, too. I'd like to catch one, but what I'd like better would be to stand on the shore there, and look out over that big water and maybe see the ships go sailing by."

After a last scrape and a last shake of the now partly cleaned skull, Hugh turned to Charley and said, "Kid, have ye got any ant-hills round here, where I can put this skull for awhile? I'd like to get them ants to finish up this job for me, but I don't want to put the skull where the dogs or the coyotes or the badgers will get hold of it and pack it off."

"There's plenty of ant-hills," said Charley, "on the side hill just up the creek, and I don't think nothing will touch the skull if you put it there. Coyotes and badgers don't come round the house much and the dogs won't be likely to get up there on the hill."

"We'll chance it, I guess, anyhow," said Hugh; and they walked over to the hillside and half buried the skull in one of the largest and busiest of the ant-hills. After waiting a few moments, they saw that the new supply of food had been discovered and was being swarmed over by the eager ants, and then returning to the house, they found dinner was ready.

After dinner they saddled up and rode east over the prairie, to the range where the blue stallion held his bunch of horses. Nothing was seen on the way, for, as Charley said, the coyotes were pretty well cleared out immediately about the ranch. They had gone perhaps six miles, when a sound like the weak bark of a dog was heard from a near-by hillside, which Charley and Hugh both thought was a coyote barking. They galloped in the direction of the sound and when they topped the rise a little wolf was seen making off, more than half a mile away. It took a minute or two for the dogs to view him, but presently one of them saw him and started, and in an instant afterward the whole pack were strung out, closely followed by the riders. The speed of Pawnee gave Jack a great advantage over his companions, and he was soon but a short distance behind the heavier and slower dogs. Presently he had forged up alongside of them, and at length had passed all the hounds except the two blue ones The coyote had not run straight away, but had bent his course a little to the north, and dogs and horses, taking advantage of this turn, had cut off the corner and made a decided gain on him. Slowly but steadily the blue dogs crept up; both were running at about the same rate of speed, yet one kept three or four lengths behind the other, but both were gaining on the wolf. As they passed over a little swell in the prairie the leading dog was only a yard behind the prey, and just after Jack had come in sight of them again, both dogs put on a burst of speed, and the leading one, catching the coyote by the ham, tossed his head, and coyote and dog rolled over together. Almost at the same moment the second hound had the wolf by the throat, and, as Jack checked his horse, the big yellow dogs swept by him, and in an instant each had his hold and each stood braced back, pulling against the other five. A moment later Charley came up, and then Hugh, and all dismounted, while Charley made the hounds loose their hold, and horses and dogs stood about with lowered heads and heaving flanks.

"That fellow got too much of a start on us," said Charley, "I didn't think they'd catch him, and they wouldn't have done it either if he had not been a young one. He didn't really think they were after him until they'd come pretty close, and then it was too late for him to get away. His hide isn't very badly torn. I guess I'll take it along with me, and I'll get the bounty, even if I can't sell the hide." The time taken in skinning the wolf gave all the animals an opportunity to get their wind again, and when Charley had tied the hide on behind his saddle, all mounted and started on. Jack was full of enthusiasm for this sport. Never before had he enjoyed such a fast ride, or had before him something that he felt he must overtake, or felt so strong a sympathy with the pursuers as on this afternoon.

"Yes," said Charley, "It's lots of fun, but you want to see them when they get a good start on a wolf. Then, besides the fun of the chase, there's the excitement of the fight that's sure to take place at the end of the chase. We ran down an old wolf last fall that killed one of the dogs, crippled another, and beat off the whole pack. He ran again when we came up, but they stopped him, and we finally had to kill him with a six-shooter. The dogs would not tackle him he was so big and strong."

"I never saw anything like it," said Jack, "when that small hound, that seemed not to weigh half as much as the coyote, threw up his head, the coyote just turned a summersault and before I could think what was going to happen next, the other dog had him by the neck, and it seemed to be all over."

They had not finished exchanging opinions about this chase, when, as they rode down into a narrow gully, a great animal jumped up from the shade of a little bush, dashed across a ravine and up the other side, while yells from Charley and Hugh proclaimed this a wolf; but the dogs had disappeared over the edge of the ravine before the men got their horses started into a run. For a long way the prairie before them was smooth and level, and it seemed as if the whole chase must take place before their eyes. The dogs were running bunched up close at the heels of the wolf, the two blue dogs being only a little in the lead. Pawnee was running free, and nearly as fast as he could, for Jack never thought of checking him, or even of holding him up. The wolf seemed to be less swift than the coyote had been, and ran a little heavily, and the dogs were manifestly gaining on him, while Jack was gaining on the dogs. Very slowly but very steadily the pack, still keeping quite close together, crept up to the wolf, and at last the two blue dogs, this time side by side, forged up to his quarters. At the same moment, as it seemed, they reached out, and each catching him by a ham, gave him a little twitch and he rolled over, and before he could gain his feet was covered by the dogs. In a moment Jack was beside them, and, putting a strong pull on Pawnee, the horse plunged his forefeet into the ground, half threw himself on his haunches to stop, and Jack, unprepared for the sudden halt, flew out of the saddle, turned a summersault and came down heavily on his back, close to the struggling mass of dogs and wolf. He was a good deal jarred, but jumped to his feet and retreated a few yards. The struggle still continued, but in a moment more it was over, and the dogs had the wolf stretched out and were pulling against each other as he had seen them pull at the coyote. But there was one dog lying on the ground, breathing hard and bleeding freely from a horrible gash in his side. Charley and Hugh now came up, and the former, with his pistol in hand, stepped up to the dogs. The wolf was quite dead, but though he proved to be a young one he had badly damaged the pack before he died. Two or three of the dogs had bad cuts, and the bite that had disabled one of the yellow hounds had crushed two ribs and had probably entered the lungs, for the dog was bleeding at the mouth and nose, as an animal does that has been shot through the lungs. Charley felt badly over the injury to his pets, and declared that they could go no further that day, but that he must take the pack back to the ranch, and must carry the crippled dog on his horse. They bound up its wounds with such rough surgery as was possible, and then, placing it across Charley's horse, started slowly for the ranch.

They had gone but a mile or two when, as they were riding along, they noticed a faint odour of decaying meat. Hugh left them here, and telling them that he would soon rejoin them, rode away against the wind. Half or three quarters of an hour later he overtook them. For a little while he was busy filling and lighting his pipe, and then he turned to Charley and said, "Well, kid, if you want to start that new pack of hounds, I guess we can do it to-morrow. I have found the place where the old wolf has got her puppies, and, unless she moves them to-night, we ought to be able to dig them out to-morrow. I expect you'll all be glad to use a pick and shovel doing this, if for no other reason than to save your stock."

"Why, Hugh," said Jack, "how in the world did you find where they were?"

"Well," said Hugh, "you all noticed that smell of rotten meat back there a ways. I thought maybe it might come from the wolf's hole, or of course it might come from some animal that had died. I followed it up and it grew stronger and stronger, and at last I came to the edge of a ravine, where I could see the wolf's hole, and, from the carrion about it, I saw that they were still living there. To-morrow, if Powell feels like it, we'll go up there with the waggon and maybe get the pups."

"You bet, father'll feel like it," said Charley. "He'll do most anything to get rid of these wolves."

When they reached the ranch, the first thing to be done was to care for the wounded dogs. Two of them had to have stitches taken to close their cuts, while the one most badly hurt had his wound washed out, the fragments of shattered bone removed, and was then placed so that he could not move. There seemed a fair prospect of his recovery.

At supper that night Mr. Powell was told of the discovery of the wolf's den, and gladly promised that he would go over there with the waggon and plenty of tools, in the hope that the young wolves might be captured or destroyed.




Chapter XV

Digging Out A Wolf's Den


As all hands were down at the barn next morning, the two men hitching up the team and the boys saddling their horses, Hugh said, "I guess I'll ride in the waggon this morning and let old Baldy have a rest. I'm getting to be too old to race round over the prairie the way I've been doing the last two days. But I want you to look out for yourself to-day, son. I don't want anything bad to happen to you while we're off here away from the ranch. You seem to have a natural way of getting yourself into trouble. Two days ago you came pretty near being clawed by a lion, and yesterday you took a sort of a running jump into a scuffle between dogs and a wolf. You've got to look out for yourself and try to keep a head on your shoulders and think where you're going. When I saw you fly out of the saddle yesterday I could not help wondering whether you'd kill two or three dogs when you came down, or yourself. Do you feel pretty sore this morning?"

"Well," said Jack, "my shoulders are pretty lame, and my head aches a little, but I think I'll be all right after I've ridden a little way."

They started off all together, the boys riding soberly just ahead of the waggon. The prairie was rough with sage-brush and the team could only advance at a walk; so it took them nearly two hours to get to the ravine where the wolf's hole was. If Jack had been alone he would not have been able to find the place, but Charley seemed to know just where it was, and when Jack spoke to him about this he said, "Oh, it's easy enough. You see, I am riding all the time, and I know pretty nearly every hill and ravine within ten miles of the ranch, in any direction. Then, of course, there's the big high hills for landmarks, and even if I don't know the precise place that I am going to I can always ride toward the hill that I know lies beyond it. Then of course, the sun always gives a fellow his direction, and often the wind too, though you can't depend on that, for sometimes the hills make eddies, and the wind seems to change its direction."

"Why did you leave all the dogs at home?" said Jack, "I should think they might be useful in case you find the old wolf near the den."

"We ain't likely to do that," said Charley. "She's fed her puppies early this morning, and is probably lying up on some hill, quite a little way from the hole, and will see us and sneak off long before we get to it. Besides that, the dogs have had hard work for the last three or four days, and some of them are cut up too badly to take out, and even those that are well are likely to get tender-footed if they are run too often."

When they reached the ravine where the hole was, they drove down into it and stopped the team on the windward side. Hugh went up to look at the place, and returning, announced that he believed the pups were still there. They picketed out the horses where they could feed, and then carried up near to the hole the picks and spades, and a slatted box that had been prepared to hold the puppies, if they caught them, some sacks and a lot of leather strings, and a long slim pole that Hugh had cut that morning.

"Now," said Hugh, "I am going to try and find the direction this hole takes, and while I am doing that it would be good for you boys to cover up this mess."

The mouth of the hole was foul with decaying meat, old bones, parts of calves, colts, and rabbits that had been brought there by the old wolf for the young to eat and play with, and a little fresh dirt thrown over all this made the place much pleasanter.

Hugh worked for some time with his pole, trying to determine the direction in which the hole ran, but without much success. He could thrust the stick in for five or six feet, but, twist it as he might, it would not go further than that. The two men, therefore, took their picks and vigorously attacked the side of the bank, breaking down the dirt, which they afterward shovelled out. The bank was steep, and in order to make room to work they had to loosen and remove a considerable quantity of dirt, so that their progress was slow. The morning was warm, and the work gradually grew harder and harder. About six feet from the entrance the hole took a sharp upward turn, and then seemed to run straight in. Probing it with his pole, Hugh felt something soft, and then pushing it in a little further, reached a wall of dirt, which he pronounced the end of the den. By moving the point of the pole from side to side he could feel the young wolves, and once, when he gave a sharp push, a sound like the yelping of a pup in pain came from the hole.

"Now, Powell," said Hugh, "if we can make this hole a little larger, so that I can work my pole, I'll put a rope on the end of it and try and snare some of them puppies. We've got to go pretty careful, though. I expect these little fellows are pretty good size by now, and they're likely as not to make a bolt out of the hole when we get close to them, and maybe get off. Wish we had one of the dogs here. I'll tell you what you two boys do: you get your gun, son, and Charley, you take your six-shooter, and stand just behind us, and if anything runs out, you try to kill it, but look out you don't shoot your father nor me, and look out you don't shoot the horses. These pups can't run very fast yet, and you'll have plenty of time to take a careful sight at them, and get them."

The boys did as they were told, and while the work with pick and shovel progressed, waited and watched. Nothing came out, however, and after a time Hugh declared that he was going to try to snare the pups. He fastened a short rope to the end of his pole and made in it a running noose about a foot in diameter. Then he lay down and began to angle for the little wolves. For some time he worked without success, but at length, giving a quick jerk, he rose to his feet, declaring, "I've got one," and dragged to the light a kicking, yelping puppy, caught by a hind leg. It was a dull white, woolly little beast, sharp-nosed and thick-legged, and about as big as a three months' old Newfoundland pup. As soon as it appeared, it was seized by Mr. Powell, who had wisely put on his heavy leather gloves. The creature fought like a little demon, and bit, and kicked, and struggled, and yelled, but soon a string of buckskin was tied about its muzzle, confining its jaws, its four legs were tied together, and it was thrown in a gunny sack, which was tied up and put in the slatted box. Again and again Hugh tried to get another, but without success, and finally, in disgust, he threw his pole aside, and the men attacked the bank again. Another hour's work enabled them to look into the hole, and to see a mass of grey huddled together, almost within arm's length of the opening. Hugh declared that if one of his arms were only six feet long, instead of three, he would reach in and haul the puppies out one by one with his hand. The entrance to the hole was now so large that either of the boys might have crawled in, as both proposed to do, but the men declined to permit this. Cutting off his pole to about the depth of the hole, Hugh again began to try to noose the pups, and this time with success, for one by one he hauled out three more, which were disposed of as the first had been. The last pup, taking advantage of a moment when he had moved away from the hole, bolted out, but was struck a mighty blow with the spade by Mr. Powell and killed on the spot.

"Well," said Powell, "I calculate that's a mighty good day's job. Those five pups during the winter would have eaten five hundred dollars' worth of beef, and might have killed five thousand dollars' worth. It seems like I ought to make you men a good present for what you have done to help get rid of these varmints."

"Pshaw!" said Hugh, "we've been mighty glad to do it, and I expect son, here, would be mighty glad to take his pay in one or two of them pups that's in the waggon."

"Yes, indeed, Mr. Powell," said Jack, "we've been glad to help, and it's been great fun. Of course, if you and Charley don't want all these pups, I'd like one of them for myself, to see if I could not tame him and make a dog of him. It would be great fun to walk up and down the streets of New York, leading a real wolf at the end of a chain. I expect he'd take first prize at all the dog shows."

"I expect likely he would," said Mr. Powell, "and you'd be certain sure he had a good straight pedigree, running back to the first wolf that ever came to America."

Mrs. Powell had put a lunch in the waggon, but before this could be eaten water must be found. Charley said that not more than a half-mile away there was a good clear spring, running out from under a rock in the bank, and when they went to the place they spent a pleasant hour eating their lunch, and lying in the shade of the waggon. Jack and Charley looked once or twice at the wolf pups, to see that they were still alive and still properly tied, and, at length, as the sun began to fall toward the western horizon, the party started for the ranch.

When they got there, it was necessary to make a permanent cage for the wolf puppies, as no box or rope would hold them long after their jaws were free. Charley asked Hugh what they had better do. They could build a log pen, but if they did that the pups would be likely to dig out under the logs. Hugh studied for a while and at length said, "I'll tell you what we've got to do; we've got to build a regular cage, with walls so smooth and high that the pups can't climb up them, and running down into the ground so far that they won't be likely to dig out under them. Now, you go and ask your pa if we can use a lot of fence poles from that pile he has over there. We'll sharpen them and drive them down as far as we can into the dirt, close together in a circle, and then we'll saw them off about three feet high and wire a roof of poles to the top of them; but, before we do that we'll pave the cage with a lot of big flat stones. I reckon if we do that we'll have the bulge on these fellows, and they can't get away from us."

The plan was adopted. A circle was traced in the ground and the earth loosened all about its borders. Then a lot of fence poles were cut into four-feet lengths, sharpened at one end and driven firmly into the ground, close together about the circle. Next the boys brought flat stones from the prairie and made a neat pavement on the ground inside the cage. Other poles cut to a proper length were laid across the top of the cage and firmly wired down, all except the last two, which were left loose. The box containing the wolf pups was now brought up, the little fellows one by one were taken out of their sacks, their lashings cut, and they were dropped into the cage, and then the last two poles were placed in position and fastened. Several heavy sticks were laid across the roof to hold it down, so that the roof poles should remain firm, even though considerable force were exerted on them. They all drew back when the work was done, and eyed it with satisfaction, and for a time watched the four puppies within, restlessly trotting about the cage and constantly pushing their noses between the poles in the endeavour to squeeze out. Everything seemed to be firm, however, and they left the pups to their own devices.

"Seems to me there's one thing we've forgotten, Charley," said Hugh. "How are you going to feed and water them puppies? I did forget all about that, didn't I? You can stick food in anywhere between the poles, but we'll have to take off part of the roof again and put a dish in for them to drink out of. When that is there it can be filled as often as they need it, from the outside." By the time this change had been made it was supper time, and all hands went to the house.




Chapter XVI

Birds And Their Nests


The next day Hugh and Jack set out to return to the ranch. Before leaving, all hands went out and took a look at the wolf puppies. They seemed to be all right, but had evidently made some attempts to gnaw their way out, but their young teeth could not make much impression in the tough spruce sticks which formed their cage.

"After they get a little bigger," said Hugh to Charley, "unless they should grow tame, you will either have to drive more poles into the ground or else you'll have to kill the pups. They're so big now that I think it's pretty doubtful whether they ever get tame at all, and of course if they don't get tame, the only thing to do is to kill them. I've seen a heap of wolf and coyote puppies caught, but they've got to be mighty young ever to lose their wildness, and to get so that you can do anything with them. We'll have to leave our pup here until it gets a little older and we see whether they are likely to get tame or not."

They bade good-bye to the Powell family, with cordial thanks for all their kindness, and invitations for them to come over to the ranch and visit them for a few days.

Jack said to Charley, "After awhile, when the elks' horns get big, and they get fat, come over with the waggon and we'll go out and kill two or three, and you can take back the meat with you. Hugh says we only have to go two or three miles from the house upon the mountain, to get all the elk we want."

On their way back they rode down the bluffs, not far from where Jack had killed the lion, and here, as they were going along, Jack suddenly saw, not far in front of him, a queer, dark grey object, shaped somewhat like a big tortoise, running along on the prairie in front of him. In a moment he recognised that it was a sage grouse, with wings partly extended and body held low, and for a moment he did not know what to make of the bird's action.

"Hold on, son," said Hugh, "there's where she started from;" and he pointed to a low sage-bush a little to one side. "Get off your horse and go and look under that, and see what there is there." Jack did so, and saw a hollow in the ground, scantily lined with bits of grass, in which were thirteen greyish eggs, not so large as an ordinary hen's egg.

"Oh, Hugh!" he called back, "There are thirteen eggs; can't we take them along?" Hugh rode up to the spot, leading Jack's horse, and looked at the nest. "Well, now," he said, "seems to me I would not bother with that nest; we've got a long way to go yet, and the chances are we'd smash the eggs before we got home, and if we didn't do that, they'd be pretty sure to get cold, and wouldn't hatch. Let's leave that old hen alone, and some day we'll hunt up a nest right close to home, and get a setting of eggs there. 'Tain't no use to take these eggs without they're going to do us some good."

"Well, all right," said Jack, rather reluctantly, as he turned away. "We've got a long way to go, but do you suppose we'll be able to find another nest near the ranch?"

"I expect we will," was the answer; "though of course it isn't any sure thing; it's getting pretty late to find eggs now; we won't have any trouble finding young ones, though."

Jack mounted, and from the saddle looked about to try to see the old hen, but she had disappeared; so they went on.

The supper horn sounded that night just as they were riding up the valley, toward the house, and before they had unsaddled all hands were seated at the table. Before the meal was ended, Jack had to tell the story of his killing the lion, and of the death of the wolf; and after supper he brought in his roll of hides, and spread out both the lion and the wolf skin on the floor, so that all might see them. The men were loud in their congratulations, and Joe declared that he would have given a horse to have been in Jack's place. "You're in the biggest kind of luck, Jack," he said. "I've been riding the range right around here now for five years and I never caught a glimpse of a lion yet. I've helped to rope three bears, but of course that's no trick at all if you know your horse. I roped a cow elk once, and what's more, brought her into the ranch. I had better luck that time than old Vicente, down below here. He roped a bull elk, just on the edge of the rocky ground. His horse was small and the elk drug him a little way, and he got scared and turned his rope loose, and the elk went off up the mountain, dragging a twelve-dollar raw-hide rope behind him. But I'd have liked almighty well to have been along with you fellows, and had a chance to have a shot at that lion. You were sure in great luck."

"Well," said Jack, "I don't believe I'd have had a chance myself if it hadn't been for Pawnee; he ran just as hard as he could, and got away ahead of the other horses, and so I had the luck to get the shot."

"Well," said Joe, "you made the most of your chance, anyhow. Maybe it isn't every fellow that would have shot as straight as you did, if he'd had the chance to shoot at all."

Mr. Sturgis, too, had words of congratulation for Jack; but later in the evening he cautioned him not to let his excitement carry him into dangerous places. "You see, Jack," he said, "just as Hugh feels responsible to me for your safety, so I feel responsible to your father and mother. You might live out here for two or three years without ever getting close to a lion, but you managed to do it after you'd been here only a couple of months. The life here is as safe as it is anywhere, but a man must use the same precautions against danger that he would in any other part of the world. He must use common sense, and not expose himself to the risk of being clawed by a lion, or run over by a team, or hurt by a fighting cow. You've been lucky enough so far, and have carried yourself well, but I want you to use as much discretion as you can."

"All right, Uncle Will," said Jack, "I'll try to remember what you and Hugh tell me. I confess that when I was galloping after the lion, or again after the wolf, I didn't think of a single thing except trying to get as close to the animal as I could; but when the lion jumped out of the tree at me, I was a little frightened. I didn't have time to be much frightened, because Pawnee jumped so quickly and took me out of the beast's way."

"What do you think, Uncle Will, about the wolf puppy that we left at Mr. Powell's," Jack went on. "Will it ever get tame? I should like to own a wolf that was as tame as a dog, and to take it back to New York with me. Wouldn't it make people stare! I don't believe half the people would believe it was a wolf."

"You'd better ask that question of Hugh," said his uncle; "he knows more about those things than I. I have never seen a tame wolf, myself, though I have heard of many of them; but I fancy that pups that are caught as old as he seemed to be do not ever really get tame. I do not believe that this wolf puppy will ever be of any particular use to you. But if you are going to start the menagerie we talked of before we came out here, it is time you began. The antelope kids can be got now, and if I were you I would try to get two or three. Then there are some ducks' nests down by the lake that you might rob, and bring the eggs up to be hatched out at the house. There are two old hens out here now, I believe, that want to set, and you might try each of them with a lot of wild ducks' eggs. Rube found the nests day before yesterday, and I think would like to go down there and help you get them. In the course of two or three days the horse roundup will be here, and for a day or two we'll all be busy cutting out horses and branding colts. After that, Antonio is going to ride some wild horses, and I suppose you want to be here for that; so you had better get your ducks' eggs now, or the first thing you know they'll be swimming in the lake and you'll never get your hands on them."

"All right, Uncle Will," said Jack. "If Rube will go with me, we'll start right after breakfast to-morrow morning."

"Well," said his uncle, "you ask him to-morrow morning at breakfast. He'll go with you if he can."

After breakfast next morning, Rube and Jack went down to the lake, each carrying a small wooden box, partly filled with hay. The ducks' nests were easily found. One of them belonged to quite a small bird, which flew off close to the ground as the riders approached. They found that this nest contained nine roundish eggs, about the colour of old ivory, that is yellowish white. The other nest, which was not far off, belonged to a larger bird, and in this there were eleven somewhat larger eggs. All the eggs from the first nest were placed in one box, and those from the second in another, and they returned to the house, riding very slowly and carefully, carrying the boxes in their hands, so that they should not be jarred or shaken. In the hen-house the two old hens were provided with good nests of clean hay, each in a barrel, which was covered at night so as to prevent anything from disturbing them, and one setting of eggs was put under each hen. Rube declared that he didn't feel quite safe about those hens, they were so big and the eggs were so small that he was afraid they would break them. "And if they don't break them," he said, "they're liable to step on the young ones when they hatch out, and kill half of them. Still, I suppose we've got to take that risk."

The morning had only half gone when the eggs were disposed of, and Jack looked about to see what else he could do. There was no one about the house except Mrs. Carter, who was sewing, and Rube, who had gone down to the stable and was working there. Jack threw himself on the grass just outside the house door, and lay there in the warm sun. For a while he did nothing except to think over the last few days, and remember what fun he had had. He determined that before night he would write a long letter to his father, telling him that he would rather not go back and go to school and college, for he wanted to be a ranchman.

After a time he noticed some swallows circling about over the grass near him. They were very small and did not look like the swallows that he had seen back east, most of which have breasts about the colour of iron rust. These little fellows were wonderfully quick, so much so that sometimes it was hard for the eye to follow them. They made wide circles out over the grass, or again flew so close to the house that it seemed as if they must dash themselves against the logs. Suddenly, one of them flew squarely toward the house, but when he had almost reached it, turned upward and alighted on one of the roof poles, where he sat, twittering faintly, and occasionally arranging his feathers. Sometimes the little bird walked a few inches, turning himself this way and that, and then Jack could see that his back was almost the colour of a peacock's tail, shining green in some places, and shining purple in others. He felt sure that he could describe this bird well enough so that his uncle could tell him what it was. All at once, to his surprise, the swallow walked into a hole between two of the roof poles, and was not seen again, but a moment afterward another little bird, just like the first, except that its back was dull brown, walked out of the hole and flew away over the valley.

Jack did not know very much about birds, but he decided that this last one was the female, and that these two little swallows had a nest somewhere in the roof. He determined too that he would watch them and see what they did every day, for they were so pretty and so quick and graceful that it was fun to look at them. About noon he saw his uncle and Hugh ride up to the barn and unsaddle, and before long he was asking about the swallows.

"Why yes," said his uncle, "those birds build there every year. They are a pair of violet green swallows; there are lots of them here in the mountains, and they build in little holes in the dead trees, or in the rocks; but these two have a nest somewhere up in the roof, every summer. I think it was last year that the young ones, when they were about full-grown, flew out of the nest and fell into the muslin that forms the ceiling of the sitting-room. They scrambled around there for nearly a whole day, and made so much noise that finally we cut a hole in the muslin and got them out. They were about as big as the old ones, and full feathered, and the next morning we took them out and put them on the roof, and the old ones at once fed them and began to teach them to fly. If you want to find out what birds there are about here, you had better take my bird book down from the shelf and study it a little each day. I can help you, for I know the names of most of the common birds." Saying this, his uncle went into the house.

"How are the calves, Hugh?" said Jack. "Have the coyotes been bothering them at all?"

"Not a bit," said Hugh; "they are all right, and big and strong. I expect in the course of a month now your uncle will be bringing them over to the corrals to brand, but we won't do that until after we've got through with the horses. The roundup ought to be along here most any time now, and when it gets here you'll see quite a lot of fun when we get to working them."




Chapter XVII

Hunting On The Mountain


For several days the people at the ranch kept looking for the arrival of the horse roundup, but it did not come. One morning at breakfast Mr. Sturgis said to Hugh, "Well, Hugh, instead of sitting about here any longer, you might go up to-day on to the mountain and look around to find some good strong corral poles and posts. Some of the poles in the big corral are getting pretty weak, and as soon as the roundup has passed, we may as well make that corral over. Try to find poles that are easy got out, and of course as near home as you can; and if you get a chance, you might kill a heifer or a young bull, if you should see one."

"All right," said Hugh. "I'll be glad to take a little ride; I'm getting tired of sitting round waiting for them horses. Son," he continued, speaking to Jack, "do you want to go along?"

"Yes, indeed, Hugh, I'd like to first-class," was the reply.

After breakfast they started, and began to climb the mountain behind the house, following a steep trail which led up the side of a deep, narrow valley, down which a large brook flowed. Jack had never ridden in this direction before, but he had often wondered what there was on top of the mountain, and he was glad to have a chance to go there. Pawnee followed close after old Baldy up the narrow trail, and not much was said by the riders, but Jack's eyes were busy looking at the rough mountain side and at the precipices of red rock that overhung the way. After some time they crossed a narrow side valley, where there was a little grass and underbrush and a few tall pines. As they were riding through this, Jack suddenly saw quite a large bird running along before them. It seemed to be hurt; its wings were trailing on the ground, it ran half crouched down, and every now and then it would fall over on its side, and then recover itself and struggle along a little further.

"Oh, Hugh!" he called out, "see that bird! Wait a minute, I want to catch it."

Hugh stopped his horse, and Jack, jumping down, ran after the bird and almost put his hand on it. It just managed to struggle out of his fingers and ran along before him, tottering as if it were very feeble. He followed it for twenty or thirty yards further, not quite catching it, when suddenly, with a great whirr of wings, it rose from the ground and flew off up the mountain side. Jack stopped and watched it with open mouth, and then turned to go back to his horse. When he reached it Hugh said to him with a smile:

"Where's your bird?"

"That's the most mysterious thing I ever saw," said Jack. "I almost had that bird three or four times, and suddenly it flew off as if nothing was the matter with it."

"Well," said Hugh, "didn't you ever see that before? That's an old blue grouse, and her young ones are scattered around on the ground right where we're standing. She just pretended she was hurt to lead you away from them, and as soon as we are gone she will come back to them. You'd better look out where you put your foot down, or you might step on one. They're here right close, and yet we might look for half a day and not be able to find one of them."

"Well," said Jack, "that's curious. I think I have heard my uncle tell about birds doing that sort of thing, but I never saw it until to-day. That was a pretty big bird, but not as big as a sage hen, is it?"

"No," said Hugh, "they're quite a little bit smaller than a sage hen, and still they're lots bigger than a pheasant, and they're awful good eating, too."

Jack mounted and they rode on up the trail.

After quite a long scramble up the steep mountain trail they came to a rolling, grassy plateau, interrupted here and there by clumps of pines, and occasionally by great knobs of red granite rock. They rode for several miles over this upland without seeing anything that was interesting, until, as they were approaching one of these tall knobs of rock, they heard a loud piercing whistle come from it.

Hugh stopped his horse, and when Jack rode up beside him, said:

"Now, let's watch them rocks for a little while, and see whether we can see that fellow."

"What fellow do you mean, Hugh," said Jack; "the thing that made that noise?"

"Yes," said Hugh, "that's what some folks call a mountain marmot, but I call it a woodchuck, because it looks just like the woodchucks I used to see when I was a boy down in Kentucky, only it's considerable bigger, and it's got a kind of a yellow belly. It can make more noise for its size than most any beast I know of."

They sat there for a few moments and watched the rock about which the hot air was dancing, when suddenly Hugh said, "I believe I see him; I think he just stuck his head out of that crack in the rock. Do you see there, near the top? Follow that crack along with your eye and you'll notice a little grey knob that was not there a minute ago."

"Oh, I see it," said Jack.

"Well," said Hugh, "now watch that and see if it don't move."

After a few seconds the knob moved, and, in a minute an animal came out of the crevice in the rock and sat up.

"That would be a good shot," said Hugh, "if we had not come up here to try to hunt; but your uncle wants us to try to kill him some meat, if we can; so we won't shoot at woodchuck. Let's ride on and when we get a little nearer to him he'll give one them whistles of his and then dodge into that crack in the rock."

It happened just as Hugh had said, and soon after they began to move forward, the animal gave another shrill whistle and again disappeared from view.

"There's quite a piece of burnt timber about a half mile off here to the north; let's go over and look at that, and see if we can get the fence-poles that we need; then we'll leave our horses and go afoot a little way, to see if we can see any elk."

They rode over to the timber which had been killed by fire some years before. Hugh spent some little time looking at it, but at length rode out into an open park, unsaddled his horse and tied its rope to a little tree, Jack doing the same. They took their rifles and started off along the edge of the timber on foot.

"I see some elk sign in this timber, and some of it is right fresh, but if you see any elk before I do, don't shoot. I don't want to kill any old cows now, because their calves are right young and they'd be liable to starve to death. If we can find a heifer we'll kill one; she'll be in a pretty good order, and just what they want at the ranch." They had not gone far before Jack noticed in the dirt some tracks, and just as he was about to speak of them, Hugh stopped and said:

"Now, son, I want you to look at these tracks: you see they look considerable like cattle tracks, but they ain't, they're elk. Now, look at this track here," he said, pointing to one of the largest, "that looks a good deal like the track of a two-year-old critter, but just see how long it steps; that will show you that it's an elk; the sign shows that it's a bull, but a young one. These other tracks you see here, they're cows and heifers and a yearling or two. Now, you see, these tracks are fresh; just notice how the dirt in each one seems kind of shining and polished. A big heavy animal putting its hoof down hard on the dirt makes the place where its weight rested look like that. Now, this track that I told you was a bull's, looks different; you can see that for yourself; it isn't polished but it looks kind of dull. The reason for that is that the wind has blown the dust about in the hoof mark and has partly covered it up. On dry ground like this an old track can always be told by that. Now, over there," he continued, pointing, "are some tracks made in the spring, when the ground was wet. Of course, you see that they sink in deep, as any tracks would that were made in the mud. It ain't much use for me to tell you about these things, except to make you notice quicker what the difference is in the different tracks you see. A man's got to study tracks a heap before ever he can become a good trailer. There isn't anything but experience that'll teach you what a track means, but often they tell a pretty plain story to a man who knows how to read them. It's wonderful to me to go out up in the mountains when there's a fresh snow on the ground. You can see just what all the birds and animals have been doing since the snow fell; and often from the tracks you see you can tell just what they were thinking about."

"Yes, indeed, Hugh," said Jack, "Uncle Will has talked to me about that, and he told me, too, that you were the best trailer he'd ever seen. I want to keep my eyes open and try to learn from you as much as I can."

"Well," replied Hugh, "I have been learning for a good many years, and you can't expect to pick it all up in a few months. I'm mighty glad though to tell you all I know."

From here they went on, and soon, turning to the right, followed a narrow game trail which led along the top of a deep ravine, down which flowed a brook that they could hear splashing and bubbling among the rocks. They had not gone very far when a stick cracked down below them by the brook, and Hugh stopped and stood listening. He slipped a cartridge into his gun, and Jack imitated him, and then both crouched in the trail and listened. A moment later something was heard climbing the bank toward them, and Hugh, turning to Jack, whispered, "It's a bear. Get ready." Jack cocked his gun and looked with all his eyes, and presently, not twenty yards below, he saw a brown animal step out of the bushes. "Shoot," said Hugh; and Jack, aiming at the point of the bear's shoulder, fired. The animal dropped and rolled out of sight among the bushes; but in a moment he re-appeared, galloping toward them. "Shoot," said Hugh again, and Jack threw the rifle to his shoulder and fired, but the bear kept on. "Shoot again," said Hugh; "carefully, this time." And again Jack aimed at the bear, now not ten yards from them, and fired. This time the animal doubled up and rolled down the hill again, but before it reached the fringe of bushes its motion stopped and it lay stretched out in the sunlight.

"Good boy," said Hugh, "I believe you missed him with your second shot, but the third one was all right. Did you feel like running?"

"No," said Jack, "I don't believe I did. I was too busy shoving cartridges into my rifle, and trying to hit the right spot, to think about anything else. But was he charging us, Hugh?"

"No," said Hugh, "I don't expect he was. You see, he hadn't no idea that we were 'round until your first shot hit him, and he didn't know where that came from, and was just trying to get away. He happened to run in our direction, that was all. I don't think he wanted to be mean. Well, you've killed your first bear, son, and you're surely getting to be a real old hunter. You take to it in the right way, and I'm right glad you do. If you and me could travel together for a year or two, I'd guarantee to make a hunter of you. Well now, let's go down and skin that little fellow."

They found the bear quite dead and with only two bullet holes in his hide. The first one showed that Jack's first shot had been a bad one; he had fired at the point of the bear's shoulder, but had hit it in the top of the head, just grazing the skull. There was nothing to show where the second shot had gone, but the third one had pierced his chest and had gone lengthwise through his body.

"There," said Hugh, "you see what I told you; that first shot gave him a rap on the head and sort o' stunned and dazed him, and I don't believe he knew which way he was running. I suppose you'd like to take off his hide, because he's the first bear you've ever killed, but it ain't in very good order. You see, he's partly shed off, and what's left of his old winter coat is all sunburned. Still, we may as well skin him. You can use the hide for a while, and then, if you like you can cut off his front paws, just to keep the long claws. You see, he's a little fellow, just about the size of the one your uncle killed that day we came out from town."

Jack helped to skin the bear, and found that it was hard, slow work.

"Yes," said Hugh, to whom he spoke of this, "skinning a bear is some like skinning a beaver; you can't strip the hide at all, you've got to cut every inch."

After the hide had been removed they carried it up to the trail and made a bundle of it, and then, going down to the brook, washed the blood from their hands, and Hugh sat down and smoked. As they sat there Jack noticed two or three birds fly down toward where the bear lay, and then two or three more. He asked Hugh what these were, but Hugh had not seen them. He proposed that they should go up to the trail where the bear-skin lay, and from which they could see the carcass and the birds that visited it. They climbed the bank and were hardly seated on the trail when a small grey bird pitched down out of a pine tree on to the carcass, and began to peck at the meat. It was at once followed by two or three others.

"Now, those birds," said Hugh, "are what I call meat hawks; some calls them camp robbers. I expect they're a kind of a winter bird, anyhow there's lots of them 'round in winter; they're the tamest creatures you ever see. I've seen it sometimes when I was skinning a deer, hung up, that they'd 'light on the legs of the deer and peck at the meat, and sometimes they'd flutter right down to the ground at my feet and eat the scraps that fell from my knife. They're dreadful easy caught, too, if anybody was to take the trouble, and when you catch 'em they don't seem a mite scared, but just peck and fight and claw you as if they were as big as you are. There, that one," he continued, as a large dark brown bird with a beautiful long crest flew down to the carcass, "is a kind of a blue jay, I reckon. Anyway, he looks some like the blue jays I used to see back in the States when I was a boy, except that he's kind of brownish blue instead of being light blue. Those camp robbers are afraid of him, and they leave until he gets through, but if a magpie comes along, then the blue jay leaves, and of course if a raven or an eagle comes, the magpie has to do the waiting." Just as he spoke, a queer, chippering noise was heard in one of the pines, and two beautiful magpies, with glossy black heads and tails and white under parts, came to the ground, and after hopping gracefully about for a moment or two, began to feed on the carcass.

"Well," said Hugh, "we might stop here all day, watching these birds, but we'd better be moving. We'll go back to the horses another way, and, as I've got to pack this bear hide, you'll have to kill an elk, if we see any."

Their way back was through beautiful green timber, free from underbrush, the ground being covered with a soft black mould of decaying pine needles. They had been walking briskly for some little time, and Jack thought they must be getting near the horses, when suddenly Hugh stopped and said; "Son, look around you and see whether you see anything."

Jack thought there must be something special to see, and looked carefully about. He could see only the green pines, their grey trunks, and the black earth, sometimes brightened by shafts of sunlight which came through openings in the green canopy above them. After a minute he said, "No, Hugh, I don't see anything."

"Well," said Hugh, "there's something to see, and I expect it's something that you never saw before. Let's go on a little way."

He stepped forward, turning a little to his right, and walked up to the foot of a large tree, where Jack had noticed a patch of sunlight; but when they got to the foot of the tree, to his astonishment and delight, the boy saw lying there a little bright red, white spotted animal, which he knew must be a calf elk. It looked a good deal like a very young fawn, but was three or four times as large. Jack was on his knees beside it in a moment, patting it and smoothing its skin, and declaring it was the prettiest thing he had ever seen. It lay there absolutely without motion, and as he lifted its legs one by one, and let them go again, they dropped back limp as if the animal were dead.

"Well, son, I don't know what we're going to do with this calf," said Hugh; "it's most too big for you to carry, and I can't pack both the calf and the bear hide. Do you want to take it with you or to leave it here?"

"Oh, Hugh," said Jack, "let's take it along; I think I can carry it, and we can't be very far from the horses now."

"No," said Hugh, "we ain't. I guess we'll manage to pack it to them, then it will be easy to get it down the hill. Do you think you could carry it? Take it right across your shoulders, holding the fore legs in one hand and the hind legs in the other. I'll lift it up for you, but I reckon it's too heavy for you to pack far."

Jack took the calf on his back, but, as Hugh had said, it was pretty heavy, and before long he had to put it down. Hugh left him there, watching the calf and the bear-skin, went on to where the horses were and brought them back. From behind his saddle he took a gunny sack, in which he put the calf, cutting a hole in the side through which its head protruded, and then tying the sack in front of Jack's saddle, and putting the bear-skin behind his own, they started for the house. When they came out on the trail where they could overlook the valley, they saw near the ranch a great herd of animals, and Hugh said, "Well, there's the horse roundup at last. Now we'll have plenty of work for the next few days, cutting out these horses and branding our own colts."




Chapter XVIII

With The Horse Roundup


When Hugh and Jack reached the house, after putting the young elk in a calf-pen in the stable, they found a number of strangers there, and all the corrals seemed to be overflowing with horses. In one some men were still working, but when the supper horn sounded all hands came to the house.

The supper table that night was longer than it had been since Jack had been at the ranch. There were nine strange cowboys there, all of whom, however, seemed to be well acquainted with Mr. Sturgis and Hugh and Rube and Joe. Still, they were not very talkative at supper, but after it was over and they were sitting about outside the house, smoking, many stories were told of the daily happenings of the last two or three weeks while they had been gathering the horses. Jack would have enjoyed sitting about to listen to this talk, but when Hugh suggested that they should go down to the corrals and walk through the horses, he readily accompanied him. In the first pen that they entered the horses stood crowded so close together that it looked at first as if they could not push their way through them, but as they went on, the animals crowded to one side and made a narrow lane through which they could walk. Two months before, when Jack had first come to the ranch, it would have made him nervous to be so close to the heads and heels of these wild horses, but now he scarcely thought of it. Hugh looked the horses over and talked about them with the enthusiasm of a real horseman. He pointed out the beauties of this one and that, and called attention to one colt after another, telling which mare was its mother, and having some little story about each one.

One of the corrals seemed to be occupied chiefly by mares and colts, with some young horses, and of these a number of the mares seemed to recognise Hugh, and pushed their way up to him, reaching out their noses to be patted, and sometimes thrusting their heads over his shoulder. He explained to Jack that these were old horses that had been long on the place, and were accustomed to being brought up and held in the corral, where they were gentled and petted a little, and that they seemed not to forget this, and were always willing to make friends whenever they were brought up. He said, too, that their foals and yearlings and two and three-year olds, which often all followed the mother, themselves grew gentle and liked to be noticed by the men, and that, of course, animals that were tame were much more easily handled and broken to saddle or to harness than the wild colts that had been running on the range all their lives.

Two or three of the yearlings in this corral were cripples, with twisted, misshapen limbs, and Jack asked Hugh whether these would ever recover, and if not, what they were good for.

"No," said Hugh, "they won't never get well, and they ain't worth nothing. It's a shame to use colts so that they break down like that. That comes of running a little young colt hard for twenty-five or thirty miles on the roundup. Of course these little fellows after they get some strength can travel pretty nearly as well as an old horse, but if you run them too far or too fast in bringing in the horses, their soft, gristly little bones get bent and twisted, and they don't ever get straight again. There's a heap of good foals ruined every year, just because a lot of fool cow punchers want to get a bunch of horses into the corral in an hour and a half, when by rights they ought to take three hours to do it in. All them crippled yearlings ought to be killed, they're no good now, and they'll never be any better than they are. They just eat the grass that might support a good horse."

After an hour or two in the corrals, as it began to grow dark, Hugh and Jack went back toward the house. On the way Jack stopped in at the hen-house to look at his setting hens and put the covers on the barrels in which their nests were. As he was doing this he heard from beneath one of the hens a faint, peeping sound, and lifting up one wing he saw beneath it the tiniest little duckling that he had ever seen. It was too dark to see much, and he had to leave the hen-house without finding how many of his eggs had hatched, but he made up his mind that the next morning, no matter what happened, he must prepare a coop for this brood of ducks. When they reached the house they found that a number of the tired cowboys were already rolled up in their blankets, and sleeping. There were four in the bunk-house, three on the floor of the dining-room, and the others were just taking their blankets over to the barn, to sleep in the soft, sweet-smelling hay. Hugh said to Jack, "You'd better turn in, too, son; to-morrow will begin pretty early in the morning, and you won't have any too much time to sleep if you go to bed now."

It was not yet light next morning when Jack heard the bustle which announced that all hands were astir, and he at once got up and dressed, to find himself only just in time for breakfast. It was plain daylight by the time the meal was over, and most of the men at once went down to the corrals. Jack hurried down to the hen-house, but, on looking at his ducks' eggs, found that only a part of one setting had hatched, and putting a little food near the hen's nest, he left them, determining to postpone the building of his coop until the following day. He went on down to the corral and found that the men were busy turning out the horses on to the prairie, where they were to be herded by two riders. Some of the men had brought wood to the big round corral, and just outside it, and close to the fence, some were kindling fires, while others were chopping poles and logs into wood small enough to be used on these fires. A great lot of iron bars, four or five feet long, stood against the corral fence, and on looking closely at these, Jack saw that each had a handle on one end and an iron letter on the other. These, he supposed, must be the branding irons, and these fires were for heating them.

After a time most of the horses had been turned out, but a large number, almost all of them old mares, with their colts, had been cut out and confined in a series of pens that were connected by a gate with the round corral, outside which the fires were burning. By the time these were going well, and the various branding irons had been put in them to heat, three or four of the men drove into the big corral a bunch of thirty or forty mares, whose little colts stayed close by their sides. Many of these mares seemed quite wild, and all raced around the walls of the pen, as if very much frightened. It seemed to Jack as if these little colts, some of which hardly looked bigger than jack rabbits, must all be killed by being stepped on. Yet each colt kept close to its own mother's side, and a little bit under her, so that it was well protected from being harmed by any other mare that crowded close upon it.

Two or three men with ropes now entered the corral and, as the horses ran about them, each one threw his rope over a colt, and as soon as the rope caught a colt's neck, a couple of men quickly dragged it out into the middle of the corral, and taking hold of it, threw it down, holding it so that it should not injure itself in its struggles; then one of the men ran to the fence and called for a particular iron, bearing the brand which showed on the mother of the colt. When this was given him he ran back to where the colt lay and carefully pressed it on its shoulder or neck or hip, and held it there. The hair and skin hissed under the hot iron, a little smoke arose, the colt tried to struggle, and then, after the brand had been properly placed, it was allowed to spring to its feet and to run back to the bunch. Meantime, its mother had been whinnying, calling, and sometimes running out from the circle of the horses, almost up to the men who were holding down her colt. When it was freed and ran back to her, she nosed it all over and then contentedly took her place with the other old mares.

The work of branding went on rapidly. Now and then some man would catch a colt with too large a loop, the little animal's head and forequarters would pass through it and it would be caught around the body. When held in this way it was of course much harder to handle than when caught by the neck, and before the men got their hands on it, it would go through a series of extraordinary antics, rearing, plunging, bucking and dancing; but at last it would be caught, thrown down and treated like the others. A man who caught a colt in this fashion was much laughed at by the other cowboys and advised to take lessons in roping. As soon as all the colts in the corral had been branded, the horses there were turned out and a fresh lot of mares and colts brought in. All through the morning this went on. Jack, though at first he sat on the top rail of the corral and watched, was soon called down from his lofty perch and set to work. For some time he passed the hot irons in to the men who were doing the branding, then he was sent to get more wood, and afterwards for a bucket of water. The cowboys were all good-natured and very friendly with him, and chaffed him as he ran here and there, trying to carry out their orders.

After dinner the work continued, and one thing happened that made Jack feel badly. A little colt, frightened at something, had run a few steps in front of its mother, as all the horses were racing about the pen, and just as the rope caught its neck, it stopped. The mother, lumbering along behind it, tripped over the tightened rope and fell on the colt, and when it got up one of its fore-legs swung loose.

"There's a dead colt," said one of the men, and in a minute they caught it and threw it down.

Then one of the older men took the hurt leg and moved it backward and forward, while he held his ear close to the animal's shoulder.

"Yes," he said, "its shoulder is smashed, I can hear the bones grate. Hand me that hatchet, Jim."

The hatchet was passed to him, and he struck the little colt twice with it in the head, and two of the men carried the carcass to the fence and passed it through. Jack did not understand this, which had happened so quickly, and asked Hugh, who happened to be standing near him, why they killed the colt.

"Why," said Hugh, "when the mare fell on it she broke its shoulder, and it couldn't never have got well, in fact, it couldn't even have followed its mother around, it would just have had to suffer for a few days and then die; so of course it was better to kill it now."

"What a pity!" said Jack, as he looked at the pretty little animal lying at his feet, whose eyes were already glazing. "Wasn't there any way to have cured it?"

"No," said Hugh, "I expect not, and it would have cost more to try to cure it than it could ever have been worth; I expect it was better to kill it off right now."

When supper time had come that night, all the colts had been branded, and orders were given that after Mr. Sturgis's horses had been cut out of the bunch, next morning, the roundup should move on.

After supper that night, Jack sat down near three or four of the cowboys who were smoking their pipes and cigarettes by the corner of the house, and listened to their talk. One of them seemed to be telling a story.

"I tell you," he said, "it was about the funniest thing I ever saw. You see, we'd run the bear may be a mile and a half, and two or three of us had put our ropes on him, but he always managed to slip out. It was a pretty hot day, and his tongue was hangin' out about a yard, and toward the end he was pretty mad, and when we got close, he'd turn round and charge back on us. One time when he did this he passed pretty close to Mat, who was on a slow horse, and Mat managed to catch him by the hind leg, and the rope stayed; but when Mat tried to hold him, the bear turned round and charged, and Mat got kind o' scared, and just turned the rope loose from his saddle and ran, and the bear went on. Well, pretty quick, we came to a little pile of rocks, with three or four cedars growing around them, and the bear stopped at these rocks and wouldn't run no further. We run up pretty close to him and tried to rope him, but he was sort o' half under the rocks and we couldn't catch him. He had Mat's rope on his hind leg yet, and it was lying out on the prairie, and we commenced to make fun of Mat, and to tell him to ride in there and pick up his rope and drag the bear out, but of course we didn't expect he'd try to do no such fool thing as that, but we kept on making fun of him, and the first thing we knew he started to ride by the bear and pick up his rope. When he got right close, just as he was goin' to stoop for the rope, there comes the bear sailing out after him, and lookin' mighty savage, I tell ye. He turned his old horse and run, and the bear run, and when he looked around and saw the bear not very far off, he rode his horse under one of them cedar trees, and just reached up and caught hold of a branch and curled up over it, and his horse ran on, and he went climbing on toward the top of the tree. We just set there on our horses and laughed at Mat, so long and so hard that the bear ran on and went plumb out of the country, carrying Mat's rope, and we never see him again."

Soon after the sun rose next morning Mr. Sturgis's horses were being cut out of the bunch and turned into one of the big corrals, and by ten o'clock the horse roundup had started on its way again, and all the strangers with it.

That afternoon Hugh and Jack busied themselves making a pen for the little ducks, all of which had now hatched out. Each of the old hens was put in a coop, which stood at opposite corners of the pen, and boards standing on their sides made a fence and prevented the newly hatched birds from wandering away, yet gave them a little space of grass, over which they could walk and feed. Jack had never seen such little bits of ducklings as some of these were, and Hugh told him that he thought they must be teal. After the pen was finished he spent some little time catching small grasshoppers, which he threw to the birds, and it was comical to see the excitement which they showed and the way in which they fought over this food.

They also gave a lesson to the little calf elk. Up to this time it had paid no attention to them, but had wandered about its pen with slow steps, constantly looking for a place to get out. Now, however, when Jack reached his hand over to pat it, it caught the sleeve of his shirt in its mouth and chewed it a little, and when he put his hand near to its nose, it tried to take the whole hand into its mouth.

"Oh," said Hugh, "that fellow's getting hungry; he's about ready to drink now. Put your fingers in his mouth and I'll go and get some milk and we'll teach him how to drink."

Hugh went up to the house, and soon returned with a small pail, holding about a pint of warm milk. "Now," he said to Jack, "get inside the pen and hold the can in your left hand, and then lower the hand he's sucking until it's in the milk, so that he'll draw some milk into his mouth when he sucks." Jack did so, and as soon as the calf began to taste the milk it showed quite a little excitement, shaking its body and pushing with its head against the can, and pretty soon it pushed so hard that it almost knocked the can out of Jack's hand, and spilt most of the milk. He kept up the work until the calf had drunk all the milk in the pail, but it was not nearly satisfied, and bawled after Jack as he went out of the barn.

"Now," said Hugh, "we must give it another drink before supper, and then another just before dark. Just as soon as we can learn it to drink it will be perfectly tame, and you can turn it out to wander around the house. You'll have to watch it, though, for if it goes off a little way from the house the coyotes are liable to catch it. Fact is, I think we'd better make a little corral for it, out in the brush, and leave it out there days where it can get plenty of sunlight and learn how to pick grass a little, and then shut it up here every night where it will be safe. It will be tame though, from now on."

As they were going up to the house, Hugh said, "Well, I expect you'll be ready to see Tony go at the broncs to-morrow morning. I heard your uncle say we'd start in the first thing in the morning."

"Yes, indeed, Hugh," said Jack, "that's something I want very much to see, and I expect to have a lot of fun. Do you suppose any of those wild horses will throw Tony?"

"It's hard to say," replied Hugh; "he's an awful good rider, and I don't expect he gets thrown very often, but every man that follows bronco busting is liable to get thrown and killed every time he gets on a wild horse. I've ridden plenty of wild horses in my time, but I don't ride no more. It's boy's work, that's what it is."

"I am going up to take another look at the little ducks, Hugh," said Jack; and he went on toward the pen. In a minute Hugh heard his name called loudly, and went on up toward the duck pen.

"Oh, Hugh," said Jack, as he drew near, "something's killed three of those littlest ducks already, and here is blood on the top of one of the coops. What can it be?"

Hugh looked about and apparently saw no sign, but in a moment he lifted his finger to call Jack's attention, and stood listening. Jack heard faintly a bird's call, which sounded familiar, but at first he could not think where he had heard it.

"That's what it is," said Hugh; "them durned magpies have found these ducks, and now they'll kill them all, unless we kill them. You stop here a minute or two while I go to the house and get your uncle's shot-gun and your rifle, and we'll see if we can't ambush them fellows."

Jack felt very badly as he stood there waiting; three of these dear little ducks had gone in an hour; at this rate they would not last very long. Presently Hugh came back with the gun, and, giving Jack his rifle, he loaded the shot gun, and they sat down in the bushes not far from the pen.

"Now," said Hugh, "them magpies will be back pretty quick, and we'll have to lie here right quiet. If you get a chance at one sitting on a branch, kill him, and I'll try to take any others that may be there, as they fly away. There may be only one or two of them, and if we kill them and hang them up around the pen, that'll likely scare off any other, that may come."

They had not been waiting more than a few moments before they heard the magpies calling not far off, and presently one, almost at once followed by two others, appeared in the branches of one of the aspens close to the ducks' pen. They peered down at it curiously, and Jack, seizing a moment when one of them stood still, fired, and the bird dropped. The other two rose in the air, but Hugh, standing up, shot first one and then the other, and both fell into the bushes. Hugh got three long sticks and, sharpening an end of each, stuck them in the ground about the pen, and to each one tied one of the dead magpies, which swung to and fro in the breeze, and would be likely to act as scarecrows to any others that might come.




Chapter XIX

Busting Broncos


After breakfast next morning, Jack hurried down to the corrals and climbed up on the fence, whence he could see all that was going on. Crowded in one corner of the large corral stood the horses, most of them with heads down and dull and sleepy looks. Rube and Joe were in the stables, saddling the ponies that they were to ride, and as Mr. Sturgis and Hugh came down from the house, the two boys led their horses up near the gate of the smaller round corral and tied them to the fence. Soon all the men entered the round corral, the gate between that and the large corral was opened and two of the men went toward one end of the bunch of horses. A wild bay colt started to run away from them, and the other horses tried to follow it, but Rube ran forward, headed them off and turned them back, so that all except the bay remained huddled in the corner. This one trotted swiftly along close to the corral fence until he reached the open gate leading into the smaller corral. He turned into that and the men ran forward, passed through and shut the gate. The bay horse trotted swiftly several times about the corral and made a pretty picture. He held his head high and his ears forward; his neck was arched, his coat shone in the sun and his long black tail was spread out behind him, and almost swept the ground. He was a real beauty. Suddenly Joe stepped forward with a rope in his hand and swung the loop about his head, and as he did so the horse, frightened, broke into a gallop. In a moment the loop of the rope flew out, not toward the horse's head, as Jack had expected, but toward the ground in front of it. Joe's hand was thrown up in the air and in a moment the young horse was standing on his hind legs pawing the air with fore feet, which were held together by the rope, while Joe, and in a moment Hugh and Rube, were pulling back on it with all their might. It had all happened so quickly that Jack did not at all understand how it had been done.

If the young horse had been frightened before, he was terrified now. In vain he strove to free himself from this rope which was gripping his fore feet and holding them tightly together. He reared again and again on his hind legs, walking on them and striking with his forefeet; then he came down on all fours and tried to run, but still he was held fast. For a moment or two he flew about with his head toward the men, but at length he turned his side toward them, and as they pulled on the rope, he lost his balance and fell heavily on the soft dust which covered the ground. The men kept the rope taut, and Rube, letting go, ran swiftly to the animal's head and sat on it. The others ran around to the horse's feet, pulled back the front ones, cast a loop of the rope around the hind ones and drew them forward, and in a moment all four feet were tied together, and the men, breathing a little quickly from the exertion, stood back and looked at him.

"He's a nice one," said Hugh.

"Yes," said Rube, "he's a good 'un. He'll make you hunt timber, Tony, you bet."

"Maybe;" said Antonio, who had just come from the stable carrying on one arm his saddle, blanket, hackamore and quirt. He wore his spurs and about each thigh was tied a buckskin wrapper which enveloped the whole leg above the knee. The horse, after some ineffectual struggles, lay still, breathing heavily, and with the sweat starting from his skin.

Jack had by this time jumped down from the fence and approached the group of men.

"Keep behind him, son, and near his head; then he can't kick you, even if he does get his feet free," said Hugh.

"Why does Rube sit on his head, Hugh?" asked Jack.

"So's to keep him from getting up," was the reply. "Don't you know that if a horse is lying on his side, he can't get up unless he raises his head first. So when you throw a horse, if you don't want him to get up, just sit on his head."

While they were talking, Joe had spread the hackamore, and in a moment the horse's head had been lifted from the ground and the hackamore slipped over it. Then the blind -- a strip of black leather -- was tied to the cheek pieces of the hackamore on each side, completely covering the horse's eyes.

"Turn him loose now, boys, and let him get up," said Mr. Sturgis, "and we'll see if we can get him out of the gate."

The rope was quickly cast off the feet, and another put around the neck, and the horse, as soon as he felt that he was free, stood up, but as the blind entirely covered his eyes, he could see nothing and stood perfectly still. For a few moments Antonio worked about him, first going to his head and taking his muzzle in both hands while he breathed several times into the horse's nostrils, then patting him and smoothing his skin on neck, shoulders, and body on both sides. At first the horse flinched each time the man's hand touched him, but as Antonio spoke soothingly to him, and he found that he was not hurt, he seemed to grow used to the handling and to be less frightened.

Then Antonio said: "Pretty quick I goin' raise blind. Maybe you lead him out gate."

With more soothing words he worked around to the horse's head, shoved him about so that his head was toward the gate, and pushed the blind up a little so that the animal could see the ground at his feet. One of the boys slapped the horse's quarters with a rope and it made a plunge or two forward, which carried it through the gate, where it stood still again, and Antonio pushed down the blind, looking carefully at it to see that the animal's eyes were entirely covered.

"Why doesn't he move when his eyes are covered, Hugh?" said Jack. "I know he can't see, but I should think he would kick and plunge even if he did nothing else."

"Well now, son," said Hugh slowly, "I want you to think a little bit and see if you can't answer that question yourself. Of course you don't know much about this country or its ways, but I shouldn't think you would have to ask that question. Just you think about it till we git this horse started, and then I'll talk to you about it."

Meantime Antonio had again been patting the horse, and at length had taken his saddle blanket and held it under the horse's nose so that he might smell it. Then he rubbed the blanket along the neck on both sides, on the withers and flanks, laid it over the neck and pushed it down on the back. The horse flinched and snorted whenever the blanket touched him in a new place, but seemed quickly to lose his fear and stood still. Soon Antonio began to whip the horse with the blanket all over. Then he folded the blanket and tossed it lightly on the horse's back. The animal flinched again with a sidewise motion and groaned, but Antonio patted it, and the blanket remained there. One of the boys went to the off side and held the blanket in place, and in a moment Antonio came up with the saddle, which he placed on the blanket, the man on the off side letting down the stirrup and the cinch gently, so as to frighten the horse as little as possible. Antonio cautiously reached under the belly, caught the cinch, and, passing the latigo through the rings, by a slow pull drew it tightly against the belly. As the horse felt the relentless tightening of the broad band it squealed in fright and kicked viciously at first with both hind feet and then with each separately, but its fore feet did not leave the ground.

"Goin' to tie the stirrups, Tony?" said Joe.

"No, dees hawse quiet. You see;" was the reply, as Antonio gathered up the reins of the hackamore and put his foot in the stirrup. He raised himself slowly until his full weight rested on it, and though at first the horse yielded he made no move, and the rider threw his leg over the saddle and settled himself firmly in the seat. Joe and Rube ran to their horses and mounted and took a position on either side and a little behind Antonio, and so close to him that they could reach his horse with their whips. Then Antonio reached slowly forward on either side the bay colt's head, pushed up the blind, sat back in the saddle and, with a wild yell, brought down the quirt on the horse's flank. The yell was echoed by the hazers on either side, and they plied their quirts. The horse, blinded and confused by the sudden light, the noise and the pain, gave a few wild plunges, and then he realised that the first thing he must do was to get rid of the terrible weight that was bearing him down and crushing in his sides. He lowered his head, arched his back, and putting his feet together began to shoot into the air and come down stiff legged. At this the yells and the whipping of the hazers increased, and the group of onlookers by the corral shouted laughter and cheers for horse and man. The bucking lasted only for a short time, and soon the horse, forced to it by the quirting, started off in a swift run over the prairie. The hazers followed him for half a mile, to see that he was going well, and then, stopping on a little hill, continued to watch him. Meantime, Mr. Sturgis, Jack and Hugh went into the corral again, cut out another horse and put it in the round corral. Then Jack, and Hugh went outside and sat on the ground in the sun, with their backs against the corral fence, and Hugh filled his pipe and smoked. When Hugh's pipe was going, Jack said:

"Now, Hugh, I wish you'd tell me why the horse stands still when he's blindfolded. He didn't stand quite still all the time though, for he kicked like the mischief when they were saddling him, and how he jumped when Antonio pushed the blind off."

"Well now, son, ain't you thought that out yet?" replied Hugh. "I expect I'll have to tell you then. It's so that the colt kicked when he felt the cinch gripping him, but you took notice, I expect, that his front feet never left the ground. He didn't move out of his tracks, even if he did let out with his heels.

"Now, I want you to listen to what I have to say, and think about it, for it may help you some time to see for yourself other things that seem blind, and save you asking questions that might make people think you didn't know nothing. Now, here's this yer horse," he continued, waving his pipe toward the prairie, "he's a four-year-old, as I told you, born and raised on the prairie, likely never had a rope on more'n once in his life, maybe driven up here once a year with the roundup. But all his life he's been running free; he's wild. All his life he's depended on his eyes and nose to tell him what's dangerous, and on his legs to take him away from it. All this time he's been able to use these things. There never was a night so dark that he couldn't use 'em all. Now, all of a sudden his legs are tied up so he can't run, a hackamore is put round his nose so he can't hardly smell nor breathe, and his eyes are shut up so it's all black to him; he can't see nothing. He's so scared that he don't know what to do. Even when his legs is free he still can't see nothing, and he knows he can't travel without his eyes; he's had falls enough when he was a colt to know that a horse needs eyes to run with. So it is that he stands still. It's the same with an old horse. If you want to put anything on him that he don't like to carry, just blind him, and he'll stand still till the blind's taken off."

"I never thought of that, Hugh, that a horse can see in the dark, but the dark even of a dark night must be very different from a blind."

"It sure is," replied Hugh. "Hello, there comes Tony and the horse; mighty quiet too."

The horse as it drew near was seen to be white with lather on its breast and neck, and dripping with sweat over its whole body. It trotted along slowly and the fight was all gone out of it. Every now and then it would bore with its head, or would try to turn off to one side, but the firm hand of the rider always brought its head around again, and it trotted on toward the corral. Arrived there, Antonio reached forward and pulled the blind down over its eyes, and then springing from the saddle, began to take it off. One of the boys put a rope about the horse's neck and then pulled the long hair of the tail out, to show that it had been ridden, and it was led to the big corral and turned loose with the wild horses.

The boys joked Antonio about the horse, but he only smiled and answered that the horse was too gentle.

This could not be said of the next one, however, a big iron-grey, which fought from the moment it felt the rope on its forefeet. It was quiet while it was being saddled, but as soon as the blind was raised, it went into a perfect fury of squealing, bucking, kicking, and fighting. None of this stirred Antonio from his seat, but two or three times the animal reared up so straight that those who were watching involuntarily called, "Look out," and saw the rider grasp the saddle horn and loosen one foot from the stirrup, prepared to slip off if the horse fell over backward. At length, however, urged on by the hazers, it started off and ran half a mile and then stopping short, again began to buck furiously, but soon started on again and disappeared over the hills, the hazers close behind.

It was a long time before Antonio returned, with the boys still riding behind him, and horse and man both seemed tired by the fierce battle that they had been through, but, though exhausted by the struggle, the horse's eye rolled fiercely, while the rider's face was stern and set and his hand firm as he guided the big grey up to the corral gate.

"Well, Tony," called out Hugh, "that's a hard one. He'll need a heap of riding yet, before he's right gentle."

"Yes, sir," was the reply, "he big strong hawse; shake me pretty hard when he comin' down; pitch all different ways. Maybe some time he get me off."

The next horse was a contrast to both the others. After he had been blinded and untied, he would not stand up until he had been hit hard with the rope, and after being saddled and mounted he would not move, and when quirted he just stood still and grunted. After ten minutes of vain effort to start him, Antonio declared that he had never before seen a horse like this one, and that it was fit only for a pack horse. The animal was unsaddled and taken to another corral, where a pack saddle was cinched on him, and he was left to spend the day there alone.

All through the day the work of breaking went on, and all day Jack sat on the corral bars and watched it, and at night when supper time came, Antonio acknowledged to Jack, who asked him the question, that he was pretty tired.

"It's hard work," said Hugh, "almighty hard, and slow. It's slower here than most places, but we get a heap better horses, breaking 'em this way -- kinder gentling 'em the way you saw before we put the saddle on. Ef there was time to do it, and there wan't so many horses, they'd all ought to be gentled from colts up. No trouble to break 'em that way, and never no horses spoiled like they is this way. Now you take that grey this morning; ef he ain't handled just so, he's going to be a regular devil. But Tony here is an awful good rider, and he's got a good disposition too, and I reckon he'll bring the grey through all right."

The work of gentling the horses went on day after day for a week or more, and Jack never wearied of watching the work. The patience shown by Antonio in handling the horses surprised him, for he had noticed that Joe and Rube sometimes got angry at the horses they rode, and swore at them and lashed them with their ropes. He asked his uncle why there was such a difference.

"I always thought Mexicans got angry easily, but Tony never seems to. I should think sometimes he'd get mad."

"Tony has good judgment," said his uncle, "and that's the reason I have him ride these colts. It is very easy to spoil any horse by fighting with him, and if he comes to look on a man as his enemy, he will never be worth much. I have these horses broken as gently as I can, and I find that people are willing to pay me more for a saddle horse than they pay people who just break their horses any way at all. It is profitable to use care in breaking horses."




Chapter XX

A Trip To Smith's Hole


Some weeks passed. The work of the ranch went on. Jack was now becoming a useful member of the society there, for he had come to feel so much at home that there were many things that he could do about the place. Every day he gained more confidence in himself and it was no longer thought necessary that he should have some one with him when he rode out away from the ranch on the prairie. One night his uncle had suggested that he should go out and bring in the milk cows, and he did so, and after this it became his regular duty to look for them, if they did not come up to the corral to be milked at night. A little later Joe had asked him one morning to go out and bring in the saddle horses, which were feeding high up in the mountain, but could be seen from the house. He did so, and after a few days this became a part of his regular work. For such riding as this he did not use Pawnee, but rode, instead, old Grey, or the Pilot, or any one of three or four other gentle horses that were always close about the ranch. He remembered Hugh's advice, given to him soon after he had come out, and always carried his gun with him. During these rides he had killed two coyotes and a badger, the skins of which he had taken off and stretched quite nicely, under Hugh's direction. He had had two or three chances to shoot antelope, too, but always close to the house, and so he had not fired at them, for Mr. Sturgis liked to see these wild creatures of the prairie near the ranch, and had asked that no hunting be done close at home. Jack had tended his live stock, and his ducks were now quite large and full feathered birds, and were very tame, and pretty well able to take care of themselves. When they were still little bits of fluffy things, Hugh had advised him to cut off the tip of one wing from each, and he had done so. The birds, therefore, could not fly, and wandered about on foot, feeding with the hens and dabbling in the brook. Hugh warned him that he would have to look out for them when the weather got cool, or else they might start off to go south on foot, and if they ever wandered off on the prairie the coyotes would surely pick them up at once. The calf elk had grown very large, and was annoyingly tame. It was sure to be where it was not wanted, and Mrs. Carter once declared to Jack that she wished some one would kill the little brute, for if she left the kitchen door open it would go in, and put its nose into every dish in the place.

Although he had many things to do, they did not take up all Jack's time. He spent many hours lying on the hills, watching the beasts and the birds and the insects, and this seemed to him better fun than anything about the ranch, except the long talks that he had with Hugh, whose stories of old times were always interesting. He had gotten down his uncle's bird book from the shelf in the sitting-room, and had learned the names of many birds of the prairie, and from Hugh he had learned also how the larger beasts and birds lived, and what they did in summer and autumn and winter and spring.

One evening as Hugh and Jack were sitting on the steps of the bunk-house, watching the lengthening shadows of the mountains creep further and further out over the prairie, Hugh said to Jack:

"Son, your uncle wants me to go off and get a horse load of meat, and I am thinking of going over to Smith's Hole, to see if I can't kill a couple of blacktail bucks; they ought to be getting pretty fat by this time. I expect I'll have to be gone two or three days, and I thought maybe you'd like to go, if you can get Joe and Rube to look after your live stock. What do you say?"

"Oh, Hugh," said Jack, "that would be fine. Do you know, I have been out here now nearly four months and I've never slept out of doors yet. I don't know what a camp is. I'd love to go over there with you, and it would be splendid to see these deer. You see, I have never seen a deer since I have been here."

"Well," said Hugh, "I expected maybe you'd like to go, and I'd surely like to have you come. We'll speak to your uncle about it. I expect we'd better start day after to-morrow, because I've got to look over them pack riggings, and see if they're all in order. I expect we'd better take two pack horses. We won't have much of anything to carry going, besides our beds, but if we get two or three deer, the horses will both have loads coming back, and I'd rather lead a pack horse than walk and lead my own horse loaded with meat."

Mr. Sturgis was quite willing that Jack should go. The following day was devoted to putting in order the pack saddles, blankets and necessary ropes, and the morning after, they started.

Hugh rode old Baldy, and Jack, Pawnee. One of the pack horses had nothing on his saddle, while the other carried the blankets, their few cooking utensils and provisions. Hugh and Rube put the load on the pack horse, and threw ropes about it and pulled them tight in a very short time, but although Jack watched closely, he had no idea how the ropes went over the load, nor why they held it fast. When they were ready, Hugh mounted, and, taking the rope of the pack horse, started on, while Jack followed, leading the unloaded animal.

Half the morning had passed without a word having been exchanged between the two riders, when Hugh, halting in a sheltered spot out of the wind, dismounted, threw down his rope and his bridle rein, and felt in his pocket for his pipe. "'Light down," he said to Jack, as he came up, "and let the horses rest a while. I want to smoke."

Jack was quite willing to do so, for he felt as if his right arm would soon be pulled out of the socket, with the labour of dragging the lazy pack horse.

"What's the matter with you?" continued Hugh. "Arm tired?"

"Yes," said Jack, "that horse pulls back so he nearly drags me out of the saddle."

"Sho!" said Hugh. "You ought to put a hackamore on him, and then pass the rope under your leg and take a turn of it round the saddle horn. If he pulls back then, it cuts off his wind, and he won't do it very long."

"I'll do it," said Jack; "wish I'd thought of it before. I'd almost made up my mind to turn him loose and drive him."

"We'll do that after we get a little further," said Hugh. "We can't drive that horse you're leading yet awhile, he'd keep trying to turn back and go home, and make us more trouble than it is to lead him."

"Hugh, I wish you'd tell me how you tied that load on this morning," said Jack. "It seems to be firm, and yet I should think the ropes would come loose and you'd have to tie it up every little while."

"Well," said Hugh, "that's something you've got to learn, of course, packing; it's a regular trade, and when you know how to do it right, your load stays on your horse; if you don't know how to do it, your load comes loose and makes you trouble from the time you start in the morning till you get into camp at night. I calculated that that would be one of the things you'd learn something about on this trip. You see, it takes two to pack a horse; one man on the nigh side and one on the off side. Now, we'll probably get into camp early to-night, and have a chance to look round a little bit and see if there's any deer in the hills right close to where we camp, and if there ain't, we'll move on five or six miles further to-morrow, and then I'll give you your first lesson in packing. Let's look at this load now;" and he rose to his feet. They went up to the pack horse, and Hugh, taking Jack in front of it, told him to look at the two loads that hung on either side of the animal. "You see," he said, "they just balance each other, and that is the main secret of packing, to put the loads on the two sides of the horse so that each pulls against the other. If either one is heavier than the other, it is pulling down all the time upon its side, and makes the saddle and everything swing over that way; that tends to loosen the ropes, and is likely to make the horse's back sore besides. You'll notice that when I make up the side packs to-morrow morning, I'll weigh them in my hands, and if I find that one is lighter than the other, I'll put something into it to make the weights even. But I can tell you more in five minutes by showing you, than I can in an hour by talking, so let's move on; but first we'll make a hackamore for that horse of yours."

Hugh showed Jack how to fix his rope around the horse's head and nose, so that it made a sort of headstall for it, like a halter; then when Jack mounted, he passed the rope under his leg, took a couple of turns around the saddle, and the pack animal, after pulling back once or twice, gave it up and followed readily enough close to Pawnee's hips.

It was three o'clock in the afternoon when, after passing over some low hills, they rode down to a little spring, near which stood a grove of small cottonwoods. Beyond was a great stretch of rough, broken, bad land country where there seemed to be no grass, and which looked like a jumble of steep naked hills, separated by deep ravines.

"That's the Hole," said Hugh, "and it's a terrible good hunting-ground for deer and elk in winter."

"Why," said Jack, "it doesn't look to me as if there were grass enough there to feed a jack rabbit, let alone an elk."

"Well," said Hugh, "that's so; it does look pretty barren, but there's lots of feed there, all the same. There's little fine grass grows on them hills, and the wind keeps them always bare through the winter. Besides that, it's a heap sight warmer over here than it is on the prairie, close to the house. You wouldn't think there'd be much difference, but there's lots. Then, down in the bottom of these ravines there's worlds of good feed. It's a great wintering place for the elk and the deer that summers over on the mountains back of the house."

They stopped their horses on a little level spot, close to the trees, and dismounted there.

"Throw down your bridle rein, son," said Hugh, "and come and help me take off this pack. Whenever you're travelling with a pack train, and stop to camp, the first thing is to take off the packs, and after the pack animals have all been attended to, you can unsaddle your own horse. Now, look here!"

Jack went up to Hugh, who was standing on the nigh side of the loaded pack horse, and saw him untie the end of the rope from the cinch, and throw it off the load in front.

"Now," said Hugh, "you go around to the off side and loosen up that rope, so that I can get it off this side."

Jack did so; first pulling at two or three different parts of the rope, and as he pulled at each, Hugh called: "No." At last he pulled on a rope which came easily to him, and as the part slacked toward him, the rope dropped off the forward corner of the pack.

"Now," said Hugh, "take it off the hinder corner;" and when Jack took hold of the rope about the hinder corner, it was loose and slipped off. Hugh pulled the slack toward him and freed the pack on his side, and then threw the big rope off the horse. "Now," he said, "stand under that bundle and let it down easy when I untie the swings;" and in a moment more the bundle dropped into Jack's arms and he put it on the ground.

They unsaddled all the horses and picketed them out. Hugh put the saddles and all their camp furniture in the brush, saying: "We won't make camp until we come back. Let's go out now and see what the prospect is for game."




Chapter XXI

Jack's First Camp-Fire


Hugh and Jack walked a quarter of a mile down the ravine, at whose head they had left the horses, without seeing any sign of game. Then, clambering up the steep bank to the north, they crossed a hill and entered another ravine. Jack saw that there was good grass in the narrow bottoms of these water-courses, as Hugh had said, and in almost each one of several that they crossed a little stream flowed. The sun was getting low and the air cooler, when, as they topped one of these hills to descend into another ravine Hugh stopped, made a motion of warning with his hand, and then, slowly lowered his head and backed away from the ridge.

"There's two deer just below us, feeding in the creek bottom, and I believe they're near enough to the ridge to shoot. We'll go round about opposite them and take a look and see what the chances are. I wouldn't be a bit surprised if we could get a good shot at them."

"How far below us are they, Hugh?" said Jack. "Not more than a hundred yards," was the reply. "I think we can see them from the ridge, and get one, or maybe both of them. But, now there's one thing I want to say to you: look out you don't over-shoot. When a man's shooting downhill, the way we may have to do from here, he's terrible likely to draw his sight too coarse, and to shoot too high. If you get a chance to shoot, draw your sight down just as fine as you can, and hold low down on the animal. It is better to shoot under than it is to shoot over, anyhow; don't forget this."

They walked briskly along, and in a very few moments Hugh said, "Hold on now; I'll go up and take a look." He did so, cautiously peering over the ridge, with bared head, and then, bending down, he motioned Jack to his side.

"They're right there," he whispered, "and it's an easy shot. You take the big buck and I'll try the little fellow when he runs. Remember now, hold low and steady. If the deer is standing with his tail toward you, aim about for his loin, and try to break his back."

They crept forward on hands and knees, and not until they had reached the very crown of the hill did they raise their heads. Then they saw the wished-for game, two fine mule deer bucks, busily feeding on the green grass that grew near the stream. They were graceful creatures, one of them much larger than the other and with a fine head of horns; the other had small horns and was evidently young. Their ears were very large, and their tails, which were white, all except a black tip, were constantly in motion. Both deer stood broadside on; the larger one somewhat in advance of the other.

"You shoot first," said Hugh. "Take the big one, and remember, hold low."

Jack put his rifle to his shoulder, feeling as cool and steady as ever he did in his life, and aiming just behind the big buck's elbow, fired, and the deer dropped in his tracks. The little fellow made one or two jumps, and then stood looking, when Hugh's ball pierced his breast, and he too fell to the ground.

"Well," said Hugh, "that's a good job, son. If I'd thought we were going to get meat so quick, I'd a fetched a pack horse along, but I didn't much think we would. So I'll go down and butcher them deer, and you go back to camp and put a pack saddle on one of the pack horses and fetch it over here. Mind you take the saddle and the blanket and the lash rope that goes together; don't mix up the riggings. You'd better bring the pack horse you led; it hasn't had nothing to do all day except to pack its saddle, and it might as well work for its grub now. You can't see the camp from here, but I don't expect there's any danger of your losing your way. You know we crossed four of these gulches coming, and when you get to the fifth you want to turn to your right and follow up the creek, and soon you'll come in sight of the camp. Keep the sun on your right hand all the time. Do you think you can do it?"

"Oh, I guess so, Hugh," said Jack; "now that you've told me how many ravines we crossed; I didn't notice, myself, I only knew we'd crossed a number of them."

"Well," said Hugh, "you've got to learn to take notice of just them things, if you're going to be a prairie man. Now mind, if you should not be able to find your way to camp, and think you're lost, don't keep on travelling; just climb up to the top of the nearest hill and set there, and before night you'll see or hear me. But I don't expect but what you'll find your way back to camp all right."

Hugh went on downhill toward the deer, and Jack set out on his return to camp. He kept count of the ravines as he crossed them, and when he came to the fifth, looked around to see if there was anything there that he could recognise. It all looked strange to him, but he turned to his right and followed the stream up, and, before he had gone very far, he noticed a clump of willows that he remembered they had passed soon after leaving camp. A few steps beyond this a grove of trees appeared, and a moment later he saw the horses. "Now, the question is," he said to himself, as he hurried toward camp, "can I find my way back to Hugh? I'll try hard, anyhow."

He loosened the pack horse from its picket pin, led it to the saddles, and choosing the right rigging, saddled the animal and tied the lash rope to the saddle. It was the first time he had ever put a pack saddle on a horse, and he did not feel sure that he had done it right, but he spent little time over it, thinking that the important thing now was to get the horse to Hugh, so that they could bring their meat to camp before the sun set. He found his way back without difficulty to the place they had shot from, and from there saw Hugh, who had finished butchering, smoking his pipe by the two carcasses. When Jack reached him, Hugh said, "Well, you didn't have no trouble, did you?"

"Not a bit," said Jack. "I'd a notion at one time that maybe I was lost, for the ravine that we came down looked strange to me on my way back, but I followed it up and got to camp all right."

"Well," said Hugh, "it's a mighty good plan, when you're going along in a strange country, to stop every now and then and take a look behind you, and see how the country looks after you pass through it. Of course as you go along you see how things look ahead of you, but sometimes they look mighty different from the other side. I'd ought to have spoken to you about that before. Say," he continued, as he rose to his feet and looked at the pack horse, "who saddled that horse?"

"Why, I did, of course," answered Jack; "what's the matter with it? I kind o' felt as if there was something wrong when I started, but I was in a rush to get back here, and so hurried along without stopping to think about it."

"Well," said Hugh, "there is something wrong, but we ain't got time now to let you find out what it is. Don't you see you've got the saddle on hind side before? You must have cinched the horse up from the off side instead of from the near."

"Of course," said Jack, "I see it now. That must be what made it seem so queer when I was saddling; but you see, both ends of the pack saddle look alike. I don't think I would have made that mistake with a riding saddle."

"No, I expect not," said Hugh, "if you had, you'd probably have found it out when you tried to mount. Now, I'll put this saddle on right and then we'll take these deer to camp as quick as we can. The sun will be down before long, and we want daylight to cook supper and spread our beds by."

They packed the two deer on the horse. Hugh did most of the work of packing, but Jack helped now and then by holding up the load on one side, and pulling a rope or two. As they drew near the camp Hugh said, "We've got lots of daylight yet and can make a nice camp here, and to-morrow morning we'll hunt a little way on horseback. We don't want to have too good luck right at the start, if we do we'll have to go back home again too soon."

Hugh hung up the two deer to the branches of a tree, and then told Jack to go down to the stream and dip up a bucket of water, while he would gather wood and start the supper. By the time the water had been brought, the fire was blazing, and Hugh had their small mess box open on the ground and had taken from it a little piece of bacon, the coffee and sugar in the two cans, and a sack which contained several loaves of bread.

"Now, you see," he said, "we're in luck this trip, for Mrs. Carter gave us a sack full of bread, so we won't have to bake none while we're out. All we've got to do now is to fry a little meat and cook a cup of coffee, and our supper's ready. You fill that coffee kettle with water and set it on to boil while I cut some of that fat deer meat." By the time the water was boiling, fat ribs of one of the deer were sizzling in the frying-pan, giving out an odour that made Jack feel very hungry. Hugh put the coffee into the hot water, let it boil for two or three minutes, then stood it off the fire but close to it, where it would keep warm, and told Jack to cut some slices of bread. When he had done this, Hugh told him to set the table, which made Jack look rather blank, for he did not know precisely what Hugh meant, but he laid out two of the tin plates, two cups, and for each a knife, fork and spoon, and Hugh nodded, as much as to say that this was right. The deer meat, the bread and the hot coffee, with plenty of sugar in it, seemed to Jack to make about the best meal that he had ever tasted.

When they had finished eating, Hugh said, "Now, let's unroll our beds and get ready to sleep, and then we won't have anything more to do except to sit by the fire here until we get sleepy." He pointed out to Jack a good place for his bed, where the grass was smooth and there were no stones or roots or bits of stick lying on the ground, and the bed was soon unrolled and ready for occupancy. Hugh made his own bed and then returned to the fire and again lit his pipe.

The sun had set, and the air was so cool as to make the warmth of the fire very pleasant. Jack lay down by it and stretched out his legs in the comfortable heat. "Better put your coat on, son," said Hugh; "it gets cool mighty fast after the sun goes down. It's good for you to keep right warm until you turn into your blankets. If you go to bed feeling chilly, it's liable to take you a long time to go to sleep."

Jack followed this advice, and after putting on his coat lay down again by the fire, for he was tired and a little bit sleepy. "Tell me something about these deer that we killed, Hugh," he said; "they don't look like any of the deer that I ever saw in Central Park; their ears are big, and their tails are different. Are these the regular deer that we have in the east?"

"I expect not," said Hugh; "these are what we call blacktails out here. You took notice, I expect, that the tips of their tails were black; I guess that's what gives them the name. They've got another name, though. I have heard your uncle call them mule deer, and he says that that name comes from their having such big ears. They've got sure enough big ears, all right, and I guess that's a pretty good name for 'em. I have heard him say that 'way over west, toward the coast, there's another kind of deer that's the real blacktail; it's got a big tail that's black all over. These deer here are good meat, but they're a kind of a fool animal, after all. Sometimes if you shoot one, the others with it will just kind of jump round, looking to see where the noise comes from; they don't seem to have sense enough to run away; but I expect that don't mean much except that they haven't been hunted. I've seen elk and mountain sheep do the same thing, and of course buffalo will stand and let you shoot at them as long as you want to. 'Pears to me always as if deer and elk didn't depend much on their eyes. If a man keeps right still they don't seem to see him; or, anyway, they ain't afraid of him; but if they once get a smell of him, they don't wait to ask no questions, but just light out of the country.

"You killed that deer mighty well, son," he went on, "you're getting to be steady as anybody need be. I wondered, when you drew up to shoot, whether you'd have any trouble catching your sight. I thought maybe you would, because this was the first deer you'd shot at; but you didn't seem to be a mite flustered."

"No," said Jack, "I didn't feel excited. Of course I wanted to kill the deer, but I was thinking hard about what you had told me of the danger of over-shooting. I don't believe I thought of anything else."

They were sitting by the fire, not talking, when suddenly from the hills to the north, sounded a series of frightful yells and howls, which made Jack sit up very straight. "What in the world's that, Hugh?" he said, seeing that Hugh had not changed his position nor apparently heard this dreadful noise.

"That yelling?" said Hugh. "Why I forgot that you'd never been in camp before. Now, what do you expect that is?"

"Why, I don't know," said Jack; "it sounded like a lot of demons fighting."

"Well, I'll tell you what it is," said Hugh, "it's just some miserable coyote that's found the place where we butchered them deer, and is telling all the other coyotes about it."

"But, Hugh," said Jack, "there must be at least a hundred there, from the noise they make."

"Not so," said Hugh; "I don't believe there's more than one. I told you the other day that one of them woodchucks could make more noise for its size than any beast I knew; but when I said that, I expect I must have forgot the coyote. Sometimes if two or three get together and howl, you'd think there was a thousand. They'd be a terrible beast to hear at night if one was anyway scary."

"I should think so," said Jack; "I didn't know what was going to happen when I heard that fellow begin just now."

"Well," said Hugh, "he and his partners will have a good feast to-night; but I expect you're getting sleepy, and we want to be up with the sun to-morrow, so maybe we might as well turn in now."

"All right, Hugh, I am getting sleepy and I guess I'd like to go to bed."

"Say we do," said Hugh. "One thing I'll tell ye, seeing that you've never slept out of doors before; when you go to bed, take off your coat, your pants and your shoes; the less a man has on him when he is in bed the better he rests."

Hugh filled his pipe again and put some more wood on the fire, which blazed up brightly; and Jack, sitting on the edge of his bed, began to undress.

"Put your shoes and the clothes that you take off under the head of your bed," said Hugh, "then, if it should come on to rain or snow during the night, they won't get wet. You've got a lot of little odds and ends of things to learn about being in camp, and I want to tell you all of them that I can think of, because if you know them you'll be a heap more comfortable than you will if you don't."

Before long, Jack was snugly wrapped in his blankets, watching the flickering fire and the bright stars that shone out of the black sky above him. Presently Hugh turned into his blankets, and the fire went down.

Jack had been sleepy when he went to bed, but now he felt wakeful. He could hear queer little things moving about in the grass close to his head; the leaves of the trees rustled in the gentle breeze; the horses cropped the grass and walked about not far off, and each one of these sounds seemed loud to him. Every now and then there would be a burst of howling from the hills, and altogether, Jack felt strange. But soon he slept.




Chapter XXII

A Load Of Blacktail


"Wake up, son, it's getting toward morning, and I want to get started. Levez, as the Frenchmen say up north."

Jack opened his eyes very slowly, and pushed the blankets down from his head and saw the bright light of the fire and Hugh moving about it; but the stars still shone brightly from the black sky above, and there was nothing to show that it was not the middle of the night.

"Is it time to get up, Hugh?" Jack asked; "I'm awful sleepy."

"Yes, you've got to get up if you're going hunting with me. If you'd rather, you can lie in your blankets till the sun gets up, but you can't hunt if you do that," was the reply.

Jack pushed down the blankets, but the air was cold, and he hated to get up.

"Put on your shoes," said Hugh, "and come over and dress here by the fire where it's warm. The nights are getting mighty cool now, and I expect you feel it."

"Isn't it cold, though," said Jack, as he drew on his shoes, and with his clothes in his arms ran over to the fire. "This is nice and warm, isn't it?"

"Well, you've got to hurry up now and dress; breakfast is near ready."

Jack saw that meat was sputtering in the frying pan, and that the coffee-pot was standing by the fire, and hurried into his clothes.

"Now," said Hugh, "I expect you want to wash your face. Hold your hands and I'll pour." He dipped a cup into the bucket of water, and, while Jack held his hands together, poured a tiny stream into them, while the boy washed his hands and face.

"Well," said Jack, "that's a new kind of a wash basin to me."

"Is it?" said Hugh. "Well, it saves you washing in the dark down by the spring. You may as well go down there though and get a bucket of fresh water, and we'll heat that while we're eating, so that we can wash up the dishes before we start."

Jack did as he was bade, and by the time he had returned with the water, Hugh had taken the food off the fire, and they began their breakfast. After the meal was over Jack went out and brought in the saddle horses, while Hugh was washing up the dishes, and after saddling his own, rolled up his bed and was ready to start. A few moments later, Hugh was in the saddle, and they rode off over the prairie, nearly in the direction that they had gone the night before, but keeping away from the Hole, so as to go around the heads of all the ravines.

"I wanted to get out early," said Hugh, "so's to go over here a couple of miles and get up on top of a high hill by sunrise. From there we can see a long distance, and if there's any deer feeding, we can see them and figure how to get up to them."

It was still dark, but now in the east there was a streak of pale light along the horizon, and the stars above it were growing dim. They galloped briskly along over the dark prairie, now and then hearing a rush of feet and the stamping and blowing of antelope which they had started. Before they reached the hill of which Hugh had spoken the dawn was fairly upon them, and the eastern sky was red. They left their horses in a little hollow, and on foot climbed to the top of the hill, but it was not yet light enough for them to see very much. Before long, however, the limb of the sun appeared over the eastern horizon, and at once the air seemed to clear, and they could see a long distance.

"Oh, look at that, Hugh," said Jack, pointing north-west, "there's a big animal out there, and a little one near it. What are they? Why I believe that's an elk."

Hugh looked in the direction to which Jack pointed, and said: "Yes, that's an elk all right, and a calf with her; we don't want anything of her. I don't see exactly what she's doing down here on the prairie with that little calf; she ought to be up in the hills. There's four antelope right close, almost within gunshot; but we don't want antelope either. What we came after is deer; and there they are," he continued, pointing toward the Hole, where, in a depression at the head of a ravine, three dark coloured animals were feeding. They were a long way off, and Jack could not tell whether they had horns or not; in fact, he would not have known what they were, but he saw that they were not elk nor antelope; their colour told him so much. They could not be wolves, for they stood too high on their legs, and had no tails that he could see; so it seemed certain that they must be deer, or some other animal that he had not seen.

"What had we better do, Hugh?" he said; "do you think we can get up to them?"

"Yes," said Hugh, "there won't be no trouble about that, but what I'd like to know now is, which way this wind is going to blow. The easiest way to get at them is to go around north of them. I think that ridge would bring us within shot, but if the wind starts up to blow from the west or north or north-west, they'd sure smell us, and we wouldn't get no shot. I'd rather set here a spell and see what the wind is goin' to do. They'll feed for two hours, maybe three, yet before they lie down. Let's just keep our eye on 'em and see how they act."

Hugh filled his pipe and smoked, and waited for the wind. For some time this did not come, and the smoke from his pipe went straight upward. Presently, however, a gentle air from the north-west carried away a big puff of smoke, and then it was calm once more. But soon the breeze began to blow very gently from the north-west, and Hugh, as he finished his pipe and knocked the ashes out from it, said:

"Well, I thought that was likely the way it would act. Now, we've got to go round them deer and try to get up on them from toward the Hole."

They mounted and rode briskly back the way they had come, for some little distance, and then, turning east, toward the rim of the Hole, went more slowly. When they reached the edge of the prairie, from which they could look down on the broken bad lands, where they had been the evening before, they followed the rim north, keeping a sharp look-out ahead for any possible game that might start there, and also watching closely the ravines which ran down into the Hole.

At length Hugh said: "'Pears to me that we ought to be pretty close to where them deer is. Let's go slow and careful now, and look the ground over."

The next two ridges were passed very cautiously, but on reaching the summit of the third, Hugh dropped his head and said, "There they are; we're too far down. Let's take our horses back to the next ravine, and come up here and watch the deer. They'll likely work this way before very long."

After they had left their horses, Hugh took Jack up to the crest of the hill and pointed out the deer to him. They were feeding on a hillside, a quarter of a mile away, but their heads were pointed toward the Hole, and Hugh felt sure that with a little patience they would get a shot. They sat there waiting, for more than an hour, while the deer fed about, almost in the same place. At last the biggest of them raised his head and took a long look down the ravine, and then one to either side; then he started, walking slowly toward the Hole. The other two did not seem to pay any attention to him, but after the leader had gone fifty or seventy-five yards, one of the others stopped feeding and trotted after him, and these two walked along together, directly toward the hunters. The third deer remained where he was; he had evidently found something that he greatly liked and did not intend to leave it; but at last, finding that he was being deserted, he too raised his head and trotted after the others. He had not come up with them when they passed within seventy-five yards of the hunters, and Hugh said:

"Raise up now and kill the big one. I'll stop him, and as soon as he stops, you shoot."

Jack slowly raised himself, and resting his left elbow on his knee, aimed at the leading buck. The other deer was walking by the big buck's side.

As Jack brought his rifle to his shoulder, Hugh bleated, in imitation of a fawn, and both deer stopped and turned their heads toward him.

"Now," said Hugh. And as Jack's rifle sounded, both deer fell to the ground. Hugh said, "Slip another cartridge in quick; that other fellow may get up and run off;" and they started down toward the fallen animals. The third deer turned, bounded gracefully up the hill, paused for a moment on its crest to look, and then disappeared.

"But Hugh," said Jack, as he hurried down the hill, "what made the other deer fall; did I hit both? I couldn't have done that for I only aimed at one."

"Well, son," said Hugh, "it looks to me as if your ball went through the big deer and killed the little one too; but we'll soon know."

In a moment they stood by the deer, and Hugh, seizing the smaller one by one of its horns, thrust his knife into its chest.

"Well," said he, "we've got him anyhow." Then he bled the other deer, and then they looked for the bullet holes.

It was as Hugh had said, Jack had not remembered what Hugh had told him the night before about aiming low when he was shooting downhill, and had hit the big buck a little higher up than he had intended, but low enough to kill him. The ball had passed between the ribs, out on the other side, and had passed through the heart of the further deer.

"That's a pretty lucky shot," said Hugh; "you might hunt a good many years and not do that over again. You've beaten me all hollow this trip, and have killed three times as many deer as I have. I expect you're what I call a lucky hunter, and if you only keep on trying hard, and don't get to feeling too big about your good luck, you'll do well right along."

"I'm surely going to try hard, Hugh. I don't think I have done anything very bad since that first day when I tried to hunt antelope alone. I think I learned a heap that day, and I have been glad a good many times since that I didn't kill those first antelope."

"That's right," said Hugh; "I believe that was an awful good lesson for you, and I hope you'll always remember it. I ain't a mite uneasy but what you'll always do well in your hunting, for you're mighty cool headed. I have hunted with a heap of men that couldn't stand it to see game. Seems like whenever they saw an animal standing near 'em, they just got crazy right off. Why, I have seen men that would tremble and shake like they had the ague, if they had a chance like you had just now. Well," he went on, "I believe we might as well butcher, and then start back and pack up our camp. We'll put one deer on one of the pack horses and then bring the whole outfit over here and pack the other three deer on the other horse. We've got all the meat we want, and we can start now and get back to the ranch by night. I did expect to be gone three or four days but we've had such terrible fine luck that we've got all the meat we need, and it's no use stopping. If we do we're likely to kill something more, and we haven't got no way to pack it."

The work of butchering the deer did not take long; they dragged the carcasses a little way up the hill, turned them over to drain, and left them lying on the prairie. Twenty minutes' ride brought them to the camp, where the pack horses were soon saddled. The beds and the mess outfit were put on one of them, and here Hugh gave Jack his first lesson in packing, showing him how the bundles were put on in the swing ropes, and then how the diamond hitch was thrown. After half a dozen trials, Jack thought he understood how the rope should go, and which ones the packer on either side should pull.

"That's enough for one lesson," said Hugh; "now, before we fasten this load on with the last rope, we'll throw one of them deer carcasses on top, and put the lash rope over it." This was done, and Jack for the first time helped to pack a horse, working on the off side.

"You're pretty small," Hugh said, "to pack yet a while. A fellow's got to be tall enough to reach up, so that he can put up a bundle on top of the pack, and so that he can get a good pull on the ropes, forward and backward. Your legs are a little mite short for that part of the work yet. After this, when you and me go out, if you're going to help pack, we'll have to pick short-legged pack ponies."

"Well," said Jack, "I suppose my legs will get longer after a while."

"You bet," said Hugh, "they'll be all right after a little while, and it ain't needful that you should do much packing yet, but it's mighty handy to know how to do it."

The other deer was put on the second pack horse, and roughly lashed in place, and when they reached the two animals killed that morning, one deer was hung on either side of the saddle, while the third was put on top. Jack helped to pack this load too, and did his work better because the horse was standing on a side hill, which added six or eight inches to the boy's apparent height.

"Now," said Hugh, as they were ready to start, "we don't need to haul these animals behind us all day long; we'll just tie up their ropes and drive them; they'll travel good going home."

Hugh coiled up the rope of each horse and made it fast to the lash rope on top of the pack. Then, mounting, they started the pack animals across the prairie in the direction of the ranch. When they had gone two or three miles they crossed a ravine, from the side of which bubbled a clear, cold spring, and here they stopped and took a long, refreshing drink. At the edge of the water were some tracks in the wet earth, which to Jack looked like the tracks of a small dog. He asked Hugh what they were, and Hugh told him they were the tracks of coyote puppies.

"They've only just left here," said Hugh; "likely they heard us coming and skipped out."

They had hardly come up on to the prairie from this ravine when they saw three half-grown coyote puppies shambling along only a short distance in front of them. The puppies saw the men at once, and galloped off, with drooping tails, and heads turned back over their shoulders, looking for all the world like three little dogs that expected to have a stone thrown after them.

"I wouldn't shoot at them," said Hugh, as Jack reached down his hand to draw his rifle from its scabbard: "I don't know how these pack horses are about shooting, and if you were to fire a shot, it might make one of 'em buck, and get us into some little trouble."

It was nearly night before the ranch house was seen.




Chapter XXIII

Occupations Of A Cripple


A few days after their return from Smith's Hole, Jack met with quite a bad accident. Joe had driven the waggon around on to the mountain to get a load of poles, and Hugh and Jack rode up by the short trail to help him. While they were loading the waggon, Jack carelessly dropped the end of a heavy pole on to his foot, and crushed it quite badly. Hugh at once took off his shoe and stocking and examined the foot, but did not find that any bones were broken. He bandaged it with a couple of handkerchiefs, wet with cold water, and putting Jack on his horse, they returned to the ranch. The ride down the mountain side was very painful for the boy, but whenever they passed a brook, Hugh bathed the foot in cold water, which somewhat relieved the pain.

When they reached the ranch Jack's foot was badly swollen, and he was at once put to bed, where he stayed for two days. After that he was allowed to sit up, with his foot resting on a chair, and the next two days he spent chiefly in reading, though his uncle and the men often came in and talked with him, giving him the news. Hugh made a crutch for him, and on the fifth day he was allowed to hobble about with that, but was warned not to put his foot to the ground, unless he wanted to go to bed again.

It was pretty dull work doing nothing, for Jack greatly preferred riding over the prairie to sitting on a chair in front of the ranch door.

The first day that he used the crutch, Jack amused himself for a time by calling his flock of tame wild ducks about him and feeding them; but after a while, the ducks having had all the grain they wanted, walked off in single file to the brush, and left him alone. He thought of getting one of the men to bring the elk to him, but this was such a stupid beast that he thought it would prove a poor companion.

As the men were leaving the house after dinner, Jack called to Hugh and said, "Hugh, can't you think of something for me to do? I'm getting awful tired of staying right here in one place."

"Well," said Hugh, "I wish it was so you could get on your horse and ride with me this afternoon. I'm going over into the pasture and then down round by the lake. I'd like right well to stop here and talk with you all the afternoon, but I can't do it. Them cows has got to be looked after. You surely ought to have some one to keep you company, though. I'll tell you what it is; I'll go down to the barn and fetch up Pawnee, and picket him around here close to you. Maybe he'd be sort of company for you."

"That's just the thing," said Jack; "I wish you'd do it. It's nearly a week now since I've seen him."

Hugh went down to the barn, and after a little while returned, leading the horse with Jack's rope about its neck. He drove a picket pin into the sod, not far in front of the boy's chair, and fastened the rope to it. Then he went into the house, and came out again with a cup in which were a dozen lumps of sugar.

"Now, son," he said, "I've got a job for you that'll keep you busy all the afternoon, and it's something that you'll like to do, and something that may some day be right useful to you. You put in your time this afternoon teaching this horse to come to you when you whistle to him. You can't much more than make a start to-day, but if you keep it up for a few days, you can make him so that he'll come to you just as far as he can hear you whistle."

"That'll be splendid, Hugh, if I can only do it; but how can I teach him? I remember reading a book once about a man who lived in Mexico, and he had trained his horse just that way; and I remember that whenever he had left his horse and was on foot, and his enemies got after him, he'd whistle, and the horse would come dashing up, and he'd jump into the saddle and ride away. You see, his was the fastest horse in all that country, and they never could catch him."

"Well, now," said Hugh, "there's no reason why you shouldn't teach yours to do just that same thing, and yours is just about the fastest one in all this country; so you might be just like the fellow you read about in the book. Now, after a while, when the horse is feeding quite a little way from you, you whistle to him, and then pull on his rope and make him come up to you and give him a lump of sugar. Don't give him only one, and then let him wander off and pick grass again, and the next time he gets pretty well toward the end of his rope, whistle to him again, and draw in on the rope and bring him up close to you and give him another lump of sugar. Do that half a dozen times, not too close together, and the first thing you know you'll see him start toward you just as soon as you whistle. Mind you always whistle to him the same way. Are you a pretty good whistler? Can you whistle loud?"

"No, I can't whistle very loud," said Jack. "I can whistle a little, but I can't whistle real shrill."

"Well, hold on now; what will we do for a whistle? Seems to me your uncle's got a dog whistle somewhere in the house, that he always used with old Dan, that bird dog that he hunted with. I think I saw that whistle this winter in the cigar box on top of the book shelves. Hold on a minute."

Hugh went into the house and a few minutes later came out again with the dog whistle and gave it to Jack. "Now," he said, "if you're going to teach the horse to mind that whistle, you'll have to get your uncle to give it to you, and carry it with you all the time. If he gets to learn one sound he'll mind that and no other. Try him now, before I start off."

Pawnee was busy eating grass, nearly at the full length of the rope, when Jack gave a long shrill blast on his whistle, and, at the unusual sound, the horse raised his head and looked about. Jack began to gather in the rope, and Pawnee, following it, walked up to him and stuck out his nose. Jack offered him a piece of the sugar, at which he at first sniffed rather suspiciously, and then ate and seemed to enjoy. He reached out his nose for more, but Jack threw down the rope and turned away, and presently the horse walked back and began to eat the grass again.

"That's all right," said Hugh, "you'll see that before night he'll come quick when you blow that whistle. Well, so long; I must be going;" and Hugh walked away to the corral to get his horse.

Jack sat there most of the afternoon, and from his chair trained his horse, and it proved as Hugh had said, that before supper time Pawnee knew that a blast on the whistle meant that he was to be offered a lump of sugar, which he was always ready to take. Jack was perfectly delighted with his success, and determined that he would keep up this education of the horse until it had been so thoroughly trained that it would seek him at the whistle wherever he might be. The interest that he felt in this lightened up the next two or three days wonderfully. Each day he hopped about on his crutch a little more easily, and at last he was able to put his injured foot to the ground without much pain. He worked with Pawnee down in the corral and out on the flat in front of the house, and at last he took the rope off the animal and turned it loose, letting it wander where it would, and when he found that he could call the loose horse from a distance of a quarter of a mile, and it came galloping or trotting toward him at the sound of the whistle, he felt that he had really accomplished a great feat.

Hugh congratulated him heartily on his success. "I had a horse once," he said, "that I trained to do this, and there was lots of times when it was mighty handy to me. Most folks think that a horse is just a fool and don't know nothing; but it ain't so. A horse, if you treat it right, is a mighty knowledgeable critter, but most people don't know enough to see what there is in one, and think you can't get nothing out of it without you use a quirt, spurs, and maybe a club. Of course it's a mighty nervous animal, and it's always been used to being chased, and so it is scary, but there's lots of sense to a horse if you take it right."

At length Jack's foot was well enough for him to ride; but his first two or three rides were close about the ranch and on old Grey, which could be trusted not to make any sudden movements, and so not to oblige Jack to use his lame foot, which, however, was recovering rapidly, the cold water treatment, which Hugh had insisted on giving it having proved very effective.

During this period of his confinement, Jack had seen more of Shep, the ranch dog, than he ever had before. This was a big yellow shaggy shepherd dog, very affectionate and a very good watch dog, but rather a foolish, puppy-like beast, that was not especially popular with anyone. Hugh had said of him, "That dog there thinks he's a runner, and he thinks he's a fighter too, and he ain't neither one nor the other. He'll start off and chase an antelope or a jack rabbit, like he thought he was going to catch it without any trouble, but the things run off ahead of him, not a bit scared, and he just runs himself down and comes back with his tongue hanging out a yard, looking, and I expect feeling, like a fool. He ain't never caught nothing yet, and I don't expect he ever will catch anything."

It was after dark one evening, when Jack and Hugh were sitting before the ranch door, and Shep was lying at Hugh's feet, that they heard a coyote howl right close to the house. The dog sprang to his feet and rushed around the corner of the house to where the sound had come from, and they could hear the patter of his feet as he raced down toward the blacksmith's shop. Suddenly from the shop there came a tumult of growling, yelling and worrying, a noise as if a lot of dogs were fighting.

"By George!" said Hugh, "I believe that fool dog has ran into a nest of coyotes." Hugh ran around the corner of the house, and toward the sounds, which still continued, and Jack, grasping his crutch, half ran, half hopped, after him. In a moment he heard Hugh shouting, the noise of the fighting ceased, and as Jack reached the corner of the blacksmith's shop, he met Hugh coming back with Shep running before him.

"Well, now, what do you suppose I found when I got down there?" said Hugh. "Just inside the garden fence was this dog and six or eight coyotes on top of him, just everlastingly making the fur fly. It's mighty lucky for him that he's got so much of this long yellow hair; if he hadn't had, he'd have been eaten up before I got there. I expect he's some cut up as it is." They took Shep into the kitchen, and by the light of the lamp looked over him, and found that, as Hugh had said, he was bitten and cut in a dozen places. None of the wounds were very serious, but only his shaggy coat had protected him.

"Do you know," said Hugh, after they were again seated in the bright moonlight, "I believe that was just a scheme of them coyotes to kill this dog. You took notice, didn't you, how close that one that howled was to us? I never saw a coyote come so close to the house before. I believe he just came up here to tole Shep down behind the blacksmith's shop, where his partners were waiting. It was a pretty sharp trick now, wasn't it?"

A few days after this, Hugh and Mr. Sturgis looked at Jack's foot and pronounced it well. It no longer pained him at all, but sometimes he thought it felt a little stiff as he walked. He now resumed his riding after the saddle horses and the milk cows, and besides this, went out almost daily with Hugh or with his uncle on their excursions in one direction or another, after horses and cattle.

One day, the cows that had been kept in the pasture were brought up to the corrals, in order that the calves might be branded. They were all put in one of the large corrals and then, one by one, the cows were cut out and driven through a chute into another large corral, leaving all the calves together; then the branding began. Fires were built just outside the corral fence, and the branding irons put in them to heat. Then, one by one the calves were roped, thrown and held down until the hot iron had been put on them. It took a long time to brand the hundred and four calves in this bunch, and by the time the work had been finished all hands were hot, tired and covered with dust. It was a relief to every one when the gates were opened and the calves and their mothers allowed to come together again.

"I'll tell you what it is, son," said Hugh, "working cattle and horses isn't all fun; there's a heap of hard work to it, and I believe I'm getting pretty old to do work of that kind. Fact is, you see, I wasn't raised to this sort of business. We didn't have no cattle in this country till about ten or a dozen years ago. That's the reason I always said I ain't no cowman and won't never be. A man's got to be brung up to the business to do it well."




Chapter XXIV

A Berrying Party


One afternoon as Jack was up on the side of the mountain gathering saddle horses he saw far off over the prairie a waggon and two riders coming toward the ranch. He did not know who it could be. Since the horse roundup had left, no strangers had been seen. Soon after he had unsaddled, the team came in sight over the hill, and at length it was near enough for him to recognise that one of the riders was a woman, and that there were two people in the waggon. A little later, the party reached the barn and proved to be Mr. and Mrs. Powell and Charley and the little girl. They had come over to visit Mr. Sturgis. Mr. Powell wanted to kill some meat, and Mrs. Powell said that she had determined to come with him and to ask Mrs. Carter if she would not go up on the mountains with her, berrying. The visitors were made welcome. While they were attending to the horses, Jack said to Charley, "How are the wolf puppies getting along? Have they got tame yet?"

"No," said Charley, "I can't do nothing with them. They're just as afraid of me now as they were the day we got them; but there's something mighty queer about them. With mother and Bess they're right tame; they seem to like to see them, and they take meat out of their hands, and like to have their heads patted and to be scratched. But just as soon as I get near the cage, they all huddle together on the other side of it, and if I go around to that side they run away to the other. Same way with father. They seem to be afraid of a man, but they don't mind a woman a mite. Two or three times I've been going to kill them all, but Bess begged so hard for me to keep them that I haven't done anything. She says she reckons she can make 'em right tame, but that won't do no good if they're always scared of a man."

"Maybe they haven't forgotten that you and your father caught 'em," said Jack.

"Maybe they haven't," said Charley; "anyhow they're awful afraid of father and me; they're doing right well, though, growing big and sleek and handsome. They make friends with the dogs too. Often I see one of the dogs with his nose close up to the bars of the pen, and the puppies all standing there smelling at him and wagging their tails. I believe some day I'll put on one of Bessie's dresses and go down there and see if they won't be friendly with me. Let's ask Hugh what we can do to tame them." As the boys walked to the house they overtook Hugh and put this question to him.

"Well, I don't know," said Hugh. "I've seen mighty few tame wolves. Fact is, I don't know that I ever saw any, but I've talked with men that claimed to have had 'em, and they all said that it wan't no use to try to tame 'em without you caught 'em when they was little bits of fellows; a good deal smaller than these were when we caught 'em. I did know one man that had a wolf that he said followed him round just like a dog, but he caught that one when it was a little mite of a thing, before it had its eyes open. You might try starving these of yours, Charley; not give 'em anything to eat for three or four days, and then take some food down to 'em and make 'em take it out of your hand; that might make 'em lose that shyness, but I don't know as it would. Anyhow, it's worth trying. But I expect they'd make a heap o' noise nights while you were starving 'em; might cut your sleep short a little bit."

"I believe I'll try that, Hugh," said Charley, "when we get back. They'll be kind o' used to being fed by Tom while we're away, and maybe they'll strike up some sort of a friendship with him, and that'll make it easier for me when we get back."

"It does seem kind o' curious," said Hugh, "that they should have taken to the gal that way."

"Yes, indeed," said Charley; "they're just as friendly with her as can be. You ask her to tell you about how they act."

The three sat down on the grass near the kitchen door, and Charley called to his sister, who came out and sat down with them.

"Tell me about them wolf puppies of yourn, Sis," said Hugh; "Charley says you've made 'em right tame to you, but they won't come near him. How did ye do it?"

"Why, I don't know, Mr. Hugh," said Bess. "I used to go down and sit by the pen and watch them, and at first when I did that, they'd all crowd over to the opposite side and watch me, but after I'd been doing it a little while they seemed to kind o' get used to me and forget that I was there. They'd walk round and keep trying to get out, and sometimes they'd play with each other, just like puppies, and sometimes they'd get angry and get to fighting. Sometimes, when Charley was away, I used to take their food down to them, and at last I got into the way of handing them bits of meat in my fingers. At first they wouldn't touch it, but after a while they got so they'd take it, and they've been getting tamer ever since. I can put my hand into the cage now and pat them and there isn't one of them that will snap at me."

"Sho," said Hugh, "you must have a mighty good way with animals."

"That's so," said Charley; "she has. Two years ago she took a bucking colt that we had, that nobody could ride without getting all jarred up, and commenced to fool with it, and now it's her saddle horse, the one she rode when she came up to-day."

"Sho," said Hugh; "didn't it hurt you when he bucked with you, Sis?"

"Why, no, he never did buck. The first time I got on him he went off as quiet as could be. But I didn't try to ride him for quite a while, until after I'd made friends with him. Then when he got right tame, I used to take him up to the horse block and get on it and pat him all over, and at last one day I jumped on him and sat there for a little while and then jumped off, and did this for a good many days, and then I tried riding him a little way."

"See there now," said Hugh, "that's what it is to understand how to treat an animal. If we had a few girls like you, Bess, working the horses on these prairies, there wouldn't be so many of 'em mean to ride."

Before supper was ended that evening it had been agreed that all hands should spend the next day on the mountain, gathering raspberries, which grew there in great abundance. It was arranged that the women should make an early start, and with Joe as driver should go up by the waggon road, while the others, on saddle horses, should ride up by the short trail. They would lunch and spend the day on the heights, returning in time for supper in the evening, with their berries.

By nine o'clock next morning, those who had climbed the mountain by the trail were scattered out through the raspberry patch, hard at work filling their buckets with the delicious fruit. An hour or two later the waggon arrived, and by midday all the pails were filled.

When Mrs. Carter and Mrs. Powell began to unpack their lunch, Hugh said to them, "If you'll wait half an hour before calling people to eat, I'll bring you something that you haven't seen for a long time, and that maybe will help you out with your drinking, if not with your eating." He called Jack and Charley to follow, and taking a couple of gunny sacks in his hand, strode off through the timber. The three climbed briskly the tall rocky hill, and emerging from the forest on to the slope above, found themselves standing at the edge of a deep and narrow gorge, in the bottom of which still lay a snowdrift. "Now," said Hugh, "let's jump down there and fill these sacks with this snow, and take it back to the women. I know Mrs. Carter fetched a jug of cream along, and a lot of sugar, and if we take them back some of this clean snow, maybe she can make some ice-cream. How would that go with the berries, eh?"

"First class," said both the boys. Jumping down into the snow they scraped away the dusty surface and partly filled the sacks with clean white snow. Then Hugh shouldered the heavier of the two, and Charley Powell the lighter one and they made their way down the hill to the party again.

When Mrs. Carter saw the snow she declared at once that she would give them ice-cream for their lunch, and before long all hands were enjoying the unusual luxury.

Toward the middle of the afternoon the party separated again, the waggon carrying the women back by the road, while the others began slowly to saddle up to return by the trail. Bess was the first to mount, and set out down the mountain, closely followed by Shep, the ranch dog, which seemed to have taken a great fancy to her. The others followed, but had not overtaken the little girl when suddenly they heard Shep bark furiously, and Bessie's voice calling eagerly, "Oh, hurry, hurry! Here's a bob-cat up in a tree."

Jack was the first to arrive on the scene, to find Bess sitting on her horse, pointing up into a big pine, at the foot of which Shep stood looking up in great excitement, barking angrily at a wildcat that was perched among the branches, half way up the tree. Jack's first impulse was to shoot the brute, but before he did so, he had a thought, and jumping off his horse he walked up to Bessie and said, "Wouldn't you like to shoot it, Bessie? Take my gun if you would."

By this time Hugh and Charley were there, and the latter was about to shoot at the cat with his pistol, but Hugh said, "Hold on, boy; let's see whether Bessie don't want to kill it."

Bess said, "I'd like real well to shoot it, Jack, if you'll let me. I don't like bob-cats. This spring, one of 'em carried off one of my setting hens, and all the little chickens died."

"Well," said Hugh, "you better hop off and shoot it; it's liable not to stay there much longer."

Bessie jumped to the ground and took the rifle.

Jack said to her, "Draw it down just as fine as you can, and try to shoot him just back of the shoulder and low down."

The little girl put the gun to her shoulder as if she were used to it, and in a moment it rang out, and the wildcat, jumping far out from the branches, fell to the ground and was at once pounced on by Shep. When they walked up to it, it was quite dead. "Now," said Jack, "we'll take him to the ranch and skin him, and you can take the hide home with you when you go."

"Yes," said Hugh, "it'll make you a nice mat, only it's a pity the fur's so thin; it ain't begun to get good yet. Two months from now it will be right thick and warm, but the winter coat hasn't hardly started yet."

Bess felt very proud of her shot and wanted to have the wildcat tied on behind her saddle, but Charley said, "No, I'm afraid it might make that horse buck, and I don't want to get you thrown off on this side hill." Finally Hugh took the cat, and they went on to the ranch.

When they reached the house Jack and Charley skinned the cat and pegged the hide out on the grass to dry. After this had been done, Jack took Bess and Charley and showed them the calf elk, which was now quite big and had lost its summer coat and its spots. Bess admired it greatly. "It isn't nearly as pretty," she said, "as the young antelope, and it carries its head in a clumsy way, but it seems strong and graceful, and isn't it tame?"

"Yes," said Jack, "it's tame enough, and it looks nicely enough, but it's a stupid beast; it seems to have no sense, and not to care for anything except just eating. I like even my ducks better than this elk. Let's go and try to find them; they wander about so that I never know just where they are; but maybe we can find them somewhere along the brook." After a good deal of searching and calling, the ducks were discovered a long distance down the brook. They were now as large as old birds, and fully feathered, and were pretty, graceful little creatures. Charley declared that the small ones were teal, for he had killed some like them the fall before.

"Yes," said Jack, "they're teal all right enough; I looked them up in my Uncle Will's bird book. They're what the book calls cinnamon teal. It's a kind of duck that we don't have in the east; it only lives out here in the Rocky Mountains and toward the Pacific Ocean."

That night Bess had a fine time telling the story of how the bob-cat had been killed. It had been started from near to the trail by the dog, which followed it so fast that it ran up a tree almost before Bess saw it. Then she had called to the others.

As Jack was going to bed that night Mr. Sturgis shook hands with him and said: "It was very nice of you, Jack, to let the little girl shoot that bob-cat, instead of doing it yourself. I like to see a boy do a thing of that kind."




Chapter XXV

An Elk Hunt


At breakfast next morning, Mr. Powell said to Hugh: "Do you suppose you could take them two boys up on to the mountain and kill three or four elk? I want to talk with Mr. Sturgis to-day about getting some of these saddle horses of his, and I'd like to go on home to-morrow, but I want to take some meat with me. If you and the boys can kill it, I'll stay down here at the ranch while you're gone."

"Well," said Hugh, "I don't know why the three of us can't kill what you need, as well as four, and if Mr. Sturgis hasn't anything else for me to do, I'll take the boys up on the hill and we'll see what we can find."

Mr. Sturgis told them by all means to go. Charley got his rifle out of the wagon, Hugh and Jack caught and saddled a couple of pack horses, and they were soon climbing the trail.

When they had reached the plateau, they rode north for three miles until they had come to a little open park, where there was a spring and good grass. Here they picketed out all the horses to feed, and set out to hunt on foot. They passed through a piece of dead timber and soon came upon signs of elk. Most of the tracks were old, and they had gone some little distance before they saw anything showing that game had passed along recently. The country here became more rough and broken, and the green timber grew in scattering clumps. As each ridge was reached, a pause was made, and the ravine below carefully looked over before they showed themselves above the hill. There were great masses of red granite and scattering pines and groves of quaking aspens, which made good cover, but all this ground had to be carefully looked over, so that their advance was slow. Both Jack and Charley had hunted enough now so that they did not talk, or, if they spoke, they did so in very low tones. After a time, Hugh, who was ahead, came upon a fresh trail made by eight or ten elk, and this they followed. The animals were moving along slowly, but feeding as they moved. Sometimes they would scatter out a little to nibble at the tufts of grass growing among the rocks, or to crop the tender twigs of the young aspens, but they did not loiter much. The trail was fresh and showed that it had been made within a few hours -- since the sun had risen. Hugh told the boys that they would have to go very slowly and carefully, for they would probably come on the game soon after noon, when it was lying down, and that this was the worst time at which to approach any game, for then it has nothing to do except to watch for the approach of its enemies.

They followed the trail, hurrying where they could, but being very cautious as they went over the hills; but though the trail grew fresher, so that at one place where they crossed a little stream, the muddy water was still standing in the tracks of the elk, they saw nothing of them. They had gone down into a valley wider than most of those that they had crossed, and were approaching the little creek which flowed down through it. Along the stream bed grew a narrow belt of tall pines, and beyond this was some dead standing timber with young pines growing among it only three or four feet high. As the hunters approached the belt of green timber, a stick cracked just beyond it, and, at the same moment, something was seen to move. A moment later, Jack, who was a little to the right of Hugh, and behind him, saw an elk, and without a second's delay, raised his rifle to his shoulder and fired, and the elk hobbled off a hundred yards and fell among some low junipers. Meantime, Hugh and Charley had run through the belt of timber and saw half a dozen elk among the dead trees beyond. There were a cow and calf, a young bull and three heifers. At the sound of Jack's gun the animals jumped here and there, apparently unable to tell where the noise had come from.

Hugh pitched his gun to his shoulder and fired at the bull, whose shoulder he could just see through a narrow opening between two trees. Charley fired at a heifer, but did not see her fall, and then, slipping in another cartridge, he fired again at a fat cow that was dashing along through the low brush and over the down timber at a rate that would soon have carried her out of sight. The cow fell, and Hugh, turning, called to the boys not to shoot again. "We've got three elk," he said, "maybe four; all the meat Powell wants, and all that we can carry down the hill in one load."

The boys came toward him, and they started to look over the ground to see what they had killed. The bull was dead; so were Jack's heifer and the two that Charley had shot at.

"Well," said Hugh, "we've pretty near got more than we know what to do with, but I guess we can take it all down, but we'll have to pack the saddle horses. Now, son, can you go back to where the horses are and bring them on, while Charley and I butcher?"

"Yes, I'm pretty sure I can find them," replied Jack. "I noticed which way we came and I don't think I'll have any trouble."

"All right," said Hugh, "we've got quite a job here, butchering, and I'd like to keep Charley because he knows something about it; but if you think you can't find the horses, you'd better stay here and let Charley go and get 'em."

"No," said Jack, "I'm sure I can find them, and I'll bring them." Jack started; the distance was greater than he had supposed, but he had watched the country as they were following the elk trail and he had no trouble in getting back to where the horses were. He tied up the rope of one of the pack animals and fastened it to the saddle, put the reins of the two saddle horses over the saddle horns, mounted Pawnee, and, leading one pack horse, started back toward his companions. The three loose animals followed very well, and he had no trouble with them, and it was not long before all five were tied up in a little park close to where Hugh and Charley were at work. These had butchered and cut up the elk, and had dragged the meat up to the edge of this park.

Before packing the horses, Hugh sat down and filled his pipe. From the park where they were sitting they could see, through an opening in the trees, the broad valley where the ranch stood. The wide stretch of gray, brown and yellow was marked here and there by winding lines of vivid green, showing the courses of the little brooks; the tiny lakes, blue as the sky which they reflected, lay like gems in the sombre setting. Far beyond were the white bluffs, and again to the south the brick red point of a tall mountain, running up to black pine-clad ridges. It was very still. No breeze stirred the sprays of the pines; even the leaves of the aspens hung motionless. The air was fragrant with the odour of pine and sage, and soft and smoky, like an Indian summer day. It was a time for being lazy, and Hugh smoked slowly, as if he wanted to make his pipe last as long as possible.

At length it was smoked out, and he rose to his feet, saying, "Well, I'd like to set here all day, but we've got to get this meat to camp."

The heavy loads were put on the pack horses, and then, using their lariats, they slung a pair of elk hams across the saddle of each riding animal, and, on foot, started for the ranch.

"I expect, son," said Hugh, as they moved off, "you'd have liked to bring that bull's head along."

"Yes," said Jack, "I thought of that. It isn't a very big one and I didn't kill it myself, but still I would like to save it."

"Well," said Hugh, "we might have brung it if we hadn't killed so much meat, but you see these horses now are all pretty well loaded, and we've got some timber to go through, and an elk's head's a mighty unhandy thing to pack, anyhow, and it ain't a very big head, so I thought maybe we'd leave it. You'll have plenty of chances before long to get a better one."

"All right," said Jack; "but I want to get a big head before I start back east. I'd like to get one bigger than Uncle Will has back there; that always looked awful big to me, and I'd feel proud if I could kill a bigger one."

"Yes," said Hugh, "that was a nice head. I mind when he killed it. I expect he was pretty proud of that, himself. Your uncle was pretty keen to hunt when he first came out into this country, but he don't seem to care much for it now; except bear, he always likes to kill bear, and I expect he likes to kill sheep, too."

"Tell you what it is, Jack," said Charley, "we've got a mighty good head on top of the barn, over at our place, and if you don't get one that suits you before you go, if you come over, you can have that one. We don't want it, and it's a mighty good one, I tell you. Three or four men that's come by the place have wanted to buy it, but father wouldn't sell it to 'em. He'd be tickled, though, if you'd take it. He thinks a whole lot of you."

"Thank you, Charley," said Jack; "maybe I'll do it, if I don't get a good head; but I want one that I've killed myself."

"Yes, of course," said Charley; "but I mean if you don't happen to kill one."

They had almost reached the park, leading to the trail, when, crossing through some dense green timber, where the ground was wet underfoot, Hugh stopped and said: "Come up here, son; here are some birds you never saw before." Jack dropped the reins of his horse and stepped up beside Hugh, who pointed out to him four or five birds, smaller than chickens, standing beneath a great pine, and two or three more perched on its lower limbs. "Those," said Hugh, "are what we call fool hens, they're some like blue grouse, but not near so large. They're the gentlest birds in the mountains. Just walk up to them slowly, and see how close you can get to them before they move."

Jack approached the birds with slow, cautious steps, and not until he was within ten feet of them did they seem to notice him; then, one or two of them stretched up their necks and looked at him, ruffling up the feathers about their heads in a curious way. The birds sitting on a limb of the tree still paid no attention to him, but seemed half asleep, their necks drawn in, and their feathers puffed out. As Jack advanced still nearer, two or three of the birds on the ground walked away from him, while two others sprang up into the low limbs of the pine, and stood there with necks outstretched, gazing at him.

"Now," said Hugh, "we ain't got no time now to fool with them birds, but if we had, you could cut a stick, and put a string with a noose on the end of it, and drop it over their heads and catch one or two of 'em, maybe more. That's what gives 'em their name; they're so gentle that folks just call them fool hens."

Charley, who had come up, said, "I believe if I had a rock or two I could kill those fellows; but there ain't no rocks here, it's all just this muck, under foot."

"Oh, let 'em alone," said Hugh; "we've killed meat enough for one day."

"Well," said Mr. Powell, when they reached the ranch that night, "you youngsters have done well, and I've got my meat without working for it. I expect you all had a hand in this killing."

"Yes," said Jack, "but Charley did the best of any of us; he killed two, and Hugh and I only got one apiece."

"Yes," said Hugh, "Charley done well. By rights, though, we hadn't ought to have killed more than one elk apiece, but I knew you wanted meat, and there wasn't much time to talk about it when the elk jumped up. By rights I oughtn't to have shot at all, for I might have known these boys could do the killing, but I saw the bull, and I knew he'd be in good order, and so I killed him; but as soon as I saw what was down, and spoke to the boys, they stopped right off. They're good boys to hunt with; I don't want to see any better. I don't know who taught Charley how to hunt, but he understands himself pretty well."

The meat was hung up to cool where it would be out of the reach of the coyotes and the next morning, with a loaded waggon, Mr. Powell and his wife drove off toward their ranch. Bess and Charley stopped behind for a little while, talking with Jack, who promised that if he could, he would ride over to the ranch once more before he went back east.

At last the young people mounted and started. Just as they did so, Jack called out: "Do the best you can to tame those wolf puppies, Charley. I want to take one of them east with me, if I possibly can."




Chapter XXVI

Jack Rides A Wild Horse


Jack had noticed that the horns of the bull elk, killed the day before by Hugh, were white and polished, and that the rough part near the base seemed to be full of little fragments of bark, while at the very base, where the horns joined the head, there were bits of dried, thin skin, and marks of blood. He spoke to Hugh about this, and asked if these horns were not now full grown.

"Yes," said Hugh, "they're hard now, and the velvet has been rubbed off, and when the velvet is gone they don't grow no more. A bull carries his horns until along toward spring, say in March, and then they drop off. I expect likely your uncle has told you how these horns grow, and I mind that you killed a bull, yourself, along in the spring, when the horns hadn't much more than started."

"Yes," answered Jack. "Uncle Will has told me all about how the horns grow. It would be hard to believe, if one didn't know that it was so, that these great big horns grow in just a few months."

"That's what they do," said Hugh, "and as soon as they are hard, and the velvet has been cleaned off them, the bulls begin to travel about and gather up their families. It's wonderful to see the way an old bull will travel over the country, hunting it just as careful as can be, to find cows, and when he gets one or two or three, he rounds 'em up and drives 'em ahead of him over the country that he's hunting. I've watched a bull all day long, travel along the foot of a range of high hills, going up every ravine and hunting it out, just about as faithful as a hunting dog would, and a few days after, I have ridden in that same range of country and found the same old bull, with a bunch of eighteen or twenty cows and calves and heifers, that he'd managed to gather up in that time."

"This is the time of year when they whistle, isn't it, Hugh?" said Jack.

"Yes, for about a month now, sometimes for longer, you can hear 'em whistle to each other on the hills. I expect it's a kind of a brag; one saying, 'Here I am; I'm the boss of this range,' and another, on another hill, calling out, 'Here I am; I'm the boss.' I've seen it where you could hear a dozen bulls whistling at the same time. It's a mighty nice sound when you hear it a little way off, but if you're close to the bull that's calling, it sounds more like a part of the neighing of a horse, and ain't nice or pretty."

"Then the elk are travelling around a good deal now, are they, Hugh?"

"No, not right now," said Hugh; "but in the course of a week they'll be travelling and whistling. Just about now the bulls are in the finest kind of order, fat as beef steers, but just as soon as they begin to travel and hunt for cows, and fight, they begin to lose their fat; and along about next month, say the middle of October, they get right poor, and ain't fit to eat. You see, at this time of the year the bull has his work cut out for him; he's got to hunt up cows, keep 'em together, drive off the young bulls, and fight the old ones."

"Did you ever see a fight, Hugh?" said Jack.

"Plenty of 'em," was the reply. "They charge each other, head on, and push and push, as hard as you ever see two range bulls push. Their horns clatter right smart when they come together, and there they stand, head to head, noses down, and just shove and shove. If both of 'em are the same size they may keep that up for an hour or two, but if one is considerable bigger than the other, he will push the little fellow back, slowly at first, but gradually faster and faster, until he gets a side push on him, and then the little fellow's got to be mighty spry, to get out of the way before the big one hits him with his horns."

"It must be great to see a fight like that," said Jack.

"Well, you'd think so; two big animals and with big horns like that, but really, it ain't much fun; they fight so slow; there's no jumping around, no quick work. I'd sooner see a pair of range bulls fight; they've got more go to 'em."

"Still, I'd like mighty well to see it," said Jack.

"Well," said Hugh, "maybe we'll get to see it before this month's over; we can't tell, though. There's one thing I don't want to do, and that is, to camp in among a lot of elk at this time of year; they make so much noise with their whistling, and their running around, and their splashing water (if it's near a lake or a creek), a man don't get no chance to sleep. I've seen it where I've had to get up at night and fire my rifle in the direction of the elk to see if I couldn't drive 'em away."

"Hugh, if I were to tell that at home, in the east, I don't think people would believe me."

"Well, of course," said Hugh, "there's lots of things happens out in this western country that seems strange to people that live back east there. I suppose they could tell me a lot of things that happens back there that I'd find it pretty hard to swallow."

Later in the day, Joe said to Jack, "Jack, you're getting to be quite a cow puncher, but there's one thing you ain't done yet; you ain't ridden a wild horse."

"That's so, Joe; but I'm afraid my legs are pretty short to hold on to a bucking horse."

"Well, yes," said Joe, "they are a little short, but we've got a wild horse out here, or anyhow, a horse that ain't never been ridden, that I believe you could ride. Don't you want to try it now, and surprise your uncle and the old man?"

"Why, of course, Joe; I'd like to do that, if I thought I could stick on, but I wouldn't like to get thrown off."

"Well, now look here," said Joe, "you know that orphan colt? He's coming three years old, and he's just as tame as tame can be. Let's you and me get him into the corral and put a saddle on him, anyhow, and see what he does. I don't believe he'll be a mite afraid of the saddle, and I expect he'd carry you right off as gentle as can be. You'd feel kind of good if you could ride him up to the house and show him to your uncle and Hugh, and say that you'd broke him yourself."

"Yes, indeed, Joe, that would be fine; I'd like that, sure."

"Well, let's go down and try him now; he's over there in the pasture, and we can get him in and saddle him up, anyhow."

They had no trouble whatever in getting the orphan into the corral. His mother had died when he was a little fellow, and he had been reared by hand. After he was in the corral they walked up to him and put a rope about his neck, and led him back and forth. Then Joe got Jack's saddle and bridle, and both were put on the colt without any trouble. He stood perfectly still, but, as the cinch was being drawn tight, he turned his head and looked back at himself, as if he wondered what in the world they were trying to do with him. After the saddle had been put on, he was led up and down, and although he walked awkwardly, he still made no signs of giving trouble.

"Now," said Joe, "I know he ain't going to do anything. If you like, I'll get on him and ride him round a little bit, myself, just to see how he acts, but of course if I do that then you can't say you were the first man to mount him."

"No," said Jack, "he seems quiet; I'll get on him, myself; but let's take him out of the corral and on to the grass, where it will be softer if he throws me."

"All right," said Joe; and they led the colt to the gate and out on to the smooth, level flat, where the sod was soft and springy.

"Now," said Joe, "you can mount here, if you want to, or maybe I'd better run him about a little, so that he can feel the string and stirrups flapping against his sides, and get used to 'em."

Joe ran a quarter of a mile down the valley, leading the horse, which galloped after him quietly enough, except that now and then, when one of the stirrups knocked hard against his side, he pranced and sheered off to one side. When Joe reached Jack again, he said: "He's as awkward as can be, and don't know nothing. Of course, he may throw you, or he may fall with you, but I don't believe he will. You better try him anyhow. Get on, and I'll try and keep along with you. Just start in slowly at first." Jack mounted, and the horse stood perfectly still. He kept on standing still, for when Jack lifted the bridle and clucked to him, and stuck his heels into his ribs, the colt, not knowing what these signs meant, did not move.

"Hold on," said Joe, "I'll hit him behind with the rope; maybe that'll start him." He did so, and the horse took a jump or two forward, and then again stood fast.

"I'll tell you what we've got to do," said Joe; "I'll have to lead him for a while."

"That'll be a queer sort of horse-breaking," said Jack; "me sitting on the horse and you leading him around."

"Never you mind," said Joe; "it ain't breaking this horse needs, it's education, but he needs that a whole lot."

He put the rope around the horse's neck, and when Jack again lifted his bridle rein, and dug his heels into the animal's ribs, Joe pulled on the rope, and the colt started. This was repeated a good many times, and at last the orphan seemed to realize something of what was wanted of him, and Jack found that he could ride him about the flat at a walk, without difficulty. By this time he was feeling quite at home on the colt's back, and wanted to go faster, and once, when the horse was walking, he said:

"Now, Joe, I'm going to try to start him into a lope, so when I stick my heels into his side, you hit him with the rope."

Joe did so, and the colt started off at a clumsy gallop, but as he was not in the least bridle wise, Jack could not guide him, and in a moment he stepped with his right forefoot into a little washout and awkwardly enough fell over onto his right side, and lay there. His fall was so slow that if Jack had been a practiced horseman he could readily have sprung off, alighting on his feet, but he was not quick enough, and the horse fell upon the boy's right leg. Happily the ground was soft, and the large wooden stirrup kept the horse's body from pressing heavily on the confined leg. Joe was beside Jack in a moment, asking him if he were hurt, to which Jack replied:

"Not a bit."

"Can you get your leg out? Is the horse lying on it?" said Joe.

"Well," said Jack, "he's lying on it a little, but I think maybe I can work it out."

"Don't try for a minute," said Joe, "wait till I lift on the horn of the saddle." He took the horn in both hands, and lifting on it, raised the horse's body slowly, and Jack drew out his leg and stood up. Joe kicked the horse angrily, saying: "Get up, you fool brute," and the orphan rose to his feet.

"I'm mighty sorry he fell with you," said Joe, "but I'm mighty glad he didn't hurt you. Now, you wait here a moment until I go and get a quirt, and I'll get on that horse and teach him how to move."

"You go and get the quirt," said Jack, "and I'll get on the horse, and I think I can make him move. All he needs, I guess, is to be made to understand what is wanted of him."

With the quirt in his right hand, Jack mounted again, and again put the horse into a gallop, watching the ground ahead of him, and doing his best to guide him where it was smooth. In a half or three quarters of an hour the orphan had greatly improved in his method of travelling, and really seemed to understand what it was to carry a rider. A little later Mr. Sturgis and Hugh came riding over the hills, and when they reached the flat, Jack rode up to them on the orphan, and said to his uncle:

"You don't want to hire anybody to bust broncos for you, do you, Mr. Sturgis?"

"Why, Jack, what are you doing on the orphan? I didn't know that he'd ever had a saddle on him."

"He never did until this afternoon," said Joe, "but this new cowboy of ours thought he'd make a good saddle horse, and he's been riding him. He stayed with him good, you bet. The horse throwed himself once, but that didn't make a mite of difference to Jack, he just made the horse get up, and got on him, and put the quirt on to him, and rode him all over the flat."

"Well, my boy," said Mr. Sturgis, "I'm glad you had the pluck to try this fellow, and if he makes a good horse, I think we'll have to give him to you."

"Thank you, Uncle Will," said Jack, "that will be pretty fine to have a horse that's really my own."

They were still talking, when suddenly Hugh said, "By George! there's old John coming back," and looking toward the hill, they saw a rider, followed by two pack horses, coming down toward the ranch. It was John Monroe. He had left his daughter's home more than a week before, and was now on his way back to the north.

All at the ranch were glad to see him, and he, on his part, seemed delighted to meet them all again. He unpacked his horses at the bunk house, and turned them all loose, as if he expected to stay here for some time.

That evening Jack questioned him about the distance that he would have to travel before he reached his home. John said he didn't know how many miles it was, but he thought it would take him about twenty-five days' travel to reach the Piegan camp. Just where this camp would be he could not tell, but it would not be difficult to find, after he had come to the country in which the tribe ranged. He said that perhaps it might take longer if the weather should be bad, or if enemies should be met with who might try to take his horses, or even to kill him, but neither of these things was likely to happen. The season of the year promised good weather, and enemies could surely be avoided by watchfulness and care.

Hugh and John had much to say to each other about the doings of the old days, and the more Jack heard of their talk, the more eager he became to see something of this strange life, which seemed to him so much more wild, and so much more natural than even the life on the ranch.

John Monroe stayed at the ranch for ten days, before continuing his journey toward his northern home. Before he left he invited Hugh and Jack to come north the next summer and visit the Piegan tribe. He told Jack much about the summer life of these Indians, and assured him that if he would visit them he would be made welcome, not only by him, but by the whole tribe, and that, if he travelled about with them in their journeys after the buffalo, on which they subsisted, he would see a great deal that would be new and strange to him that he would enjoy. Jack was, of course, crazy to go. He even wanted to start now and spend the winter with the tribe, but Mr. Sturgis very positively vetoed any such proposition, although he said he thought it would be very good for Jack to make the trip next summer, if he could get away from the east for the length of time required for the trip. So when the time came for John's departure, they shook hands in the hope of meeting again another season.




Chapter XXVII

A Mysterious Cave


"Son, these blue grouse are getting to be a pretty good size now; why don't you take your rifle, or maybe your uncle's shot gun, and go out and try and get a mess this morning?" said Hugh to Jack. They were down at the barn saddling up. Hugh was going into town to get the mail, and Jack was at a loss what to do with himself during the two days of Hugh's absence.

"Where had I better go, Hugh? Up on the mountain?" said Jack.

"No," said Hugh, "you'll find the old hens and their broods along the little creeks, right close up to the mountain, but not high up on it. I wouldn't be a mite surprised if you could get quite a few birds right up on the heads of the creeks that run down through the pasture. But say; there's one thing you want to remember; if you take your rifle with you, only heads counts."

"What do you mean by that, Hugh?" said Jack.

"Why," said Hugh, "if you shoot with your rifle at one of them little birds, and hit it in the body, there ain't nothing left except a few feathers. You'll spoil all the meat. So I want you to shoot the heads off all the birds you see; don't aim at the bodies at all. Fire at the heads, or, if they have got their necks stretched up, aim at the neck, just below the head. You needn't be afraid that you'll lose many shots that way. Young birds are right gentle, and they'll let you fire half a dozen shots at 'em, and won't move without they're hit. Of course it would be better if you had one of them little pea rifles, that don't make no noise and shoot a mighty small ball, but your gun will do, and it's pretty good practice shooting the heads off grouse; you get to learn just when to pull your gun off. You have to get up pretty close to the birds, but they'll let you do that. Draw your sight down right fine, and aim at the neck, just under the head. You'll get so after a little that you can knock 'em every time."

Hugh finished saddling, rode up to the house, tied his bundle of mail behind his saddle and trotted off over the hills; while Jack filled his belt with cartridges, and then, mounting Pawnee, rode off toward the mountain.

Before long he passed down into the valley of a little brook, and followed it up, looking among the willows and along the hillside, to see if he could discover any birds. He had not gone far before he noticed above him, on the hillside, some small moving objects, which he soon made out to be young sage grouse. These were not just what he was after, but he thought they would do to practice on, and dismounting and throwing down his horse's rein, he walked toward them. In the brood there were eight or ten birds, about as large as hens, all keeping quite close together, and following their much larger mother. They paid no attention to him, and he walked up to within fifteen or twenty yards, and stood watching them, before beginning to shoot. They made their way slowly along the hillside, feeding as they went. Now and then one of them would run wildly about, chasing a grasshopper here and there, and at length capturing it, and sometimes two or three followed the same insect. As they walked along, they kept calling to each other with faint peeping cries, and if one got off a little to one side of the group, he soon turned and ran back to it.

It was rather pleasant to watch them, but Jack had come out to kill some birds, and, putting a cartridge into his gun, he made ready to shoot. At first they did not stand still long enough for him to catch sight on one, but he walked along slowly after them, and presently one of the grouse stretched up his neck and stood looking. Jack fired at it, and the bird fell to the ground, while all the others stretched their necks to their fullest lengths, and looked about to see what had made the noise. Before he could reload and fire again, they had resumed their feeding and moved on. Before long, however, he had another shot, but this time he missed. Again the birds looked about, and again started on. At his third shot the bird fired at, instead of dropping at once, made a great fluttering, and immediately the whole brood took wing and flew off over the ridge and were not seen again. Jack's first shot had been a capital one, cutting the bird's neck just below the head. His third shot had been too low, and had not killed the bird at once, and its fluttering and flouncing over the ground had frightened the others.

He tied the two grouse to his saddle and went on along the mountain side. Nothing was seen on the next two streams that he crossed, but as he looked down into the valley of the third, he saw, quite a long way off, something that at once arrested his attention. Down in the flat was a coyote, jumping and prancing about, as if in great excitement, and quite close to it, sometimes standing still, and again running toward the coyote, which retreated, was a badger. For two or three minutes Jack sat there watching them, wondering what they could be doing, but the strange game -- if it was a game -- was kept up. He determined that he would get off and watch; so leaving his horse behind the hill, he crept up to its crest and lay there, to try to discover what the animals were doing.

Sometimes the coyote ran very fast, almost up to the badger, which, in turn, ran toward the coyote, which then retreated, and when the badger had stopped his advance, the coyote lay down, rested his head on his paws, waved his tail from side to side, and sometimes rolled over. The badger then started to walk off, but before he had gone far the coyote got on his legs again and recommenced his play. This continued for quite a long time, during which the animals worked further and further away from Jack. The badger seemed to be trying to cross the valley and go up onto the next hillside, and the coyote seemed to be teasing him. It was rather a mysterious performance to Jack, and he determined that he would ask Hugh whether he had ever seen anything like it, and what it meant. When the two animals had got so far from him that he could no longer see them distinctly, he went back to his horse, mounted and rode on. As soon as the coyote saw him, he left the badger and ran up on the hill, where he watched Jack for a few moments, and then went off, while the badger trotted briskly along up on the hillside, and presently disappeared in a hole.

In a ravine not far beyond this Jack found his first brood of blue grouse. The birds were half grown, and he rode in among them before seeing them. They flew up the ravine, but he saw where some of them alighted, and, riding on until he was near the spot, he dismounted again. He walked along very cautiously, looking everywhere on the ground for the birds, but before he saw them, two rose, with a great fluttering of wings, almost beneath his feet, and flew on further up the ravine. He had been looking so carefully for these birds that he felt sure that they must be hiding, and not walking along, for if they had been moving he would certainly have seen them. A few steps further on, his eye suddenly caught a brown shape on the grey ground, which in an instant he saw was a grouse, crouching flat on the soil, its head and tail pressed against it, and its bright brown eye closely watching him. He slowly raised his rifle to his shoulder, and firing very carefully, cut off its head. A little further on, two that he had not seen flew, and then he saw another in the ground, but it flew before he had time to shoot. Then he saw another and raising his rifle just as he saw its shape, he pulled the trigger the instant his eye fell full upon it. It occurred to him now that the birds were watching him all the time, and that as soon as they caught his eye they realised that they were seen, and flew away. In this, Jack was quite right, for often one's face may be turned full toward a hiding bird, and one may all look around it without its moving, but if he looks fairly at its eye, the bird is almost sure to flush. Before long he had four of the young blue grouse, and going back to his horse, he mounted again.

By this time the morning was pretty well gone, and he hesitated whether to go home for dinner, or to spend the afternoon here beneath the cliffs. Finally he determined to ride up the ravine a little further, on the chance of seeing more of this scattered brood, and then, if he did not find any, to go home.

Following up the valley a short distance, a grouse rose under Pawnee's feet, and flew up the hillside, alighting among some low pines that grew at the very base of the cliff. Jack thought the bird might have gone into a tree, and clambered up on the chance of getting a shot. When he reached the pines he could not find the bird, and after looking for it a little while, he sat down to rest, and to watch some little striped squirrels that were playing among the rocks just above him. While he sat watching the squirrels, he suddenly heard a rushing sound, so close to his ear that he dodged, and a great hawk, with long tail and sharp pointed wings, darted over one of the squirrels, and in an instant rose in the air with the tiny creature in its talons. It had happened so quickly that Jack hardly realised the squirrel's capture until he saw the hawk rise, and with a few strong strokes of its wings, swing up and alight on a shelf of the cliff, above the tops of the tall pines that grew on the hillside. Here the blue rock was stained white, and Jack made up his mind that the hawk had a nest there. He determined to climb up and see if he could not get to it, and learn what was in it. There might be young birds, and these would make capital pets if they could be tamed. It seemed a long way up to where the hawk sat, and the cliff looked sheer as a wall, but here and there were crevices and places where the water had worn away the rock, and he thought that perhaps he could get up to the nest.

The climb to the base of the cliff was long and slow. When he reached it he saw that it would be impossible to get far up if he carried his gun with him, so he left it here, resting against a rock, and clambered up toward the nest for thirty or forty feet, and then he reached a place where he could get no further. But a little below, he had passed a narrow shelf, running out to one side, and going down to this, he made his way very carefully under the cliff to a crevice, up which he worked a short distance, and then this ran out and ended in a bare, smooth wall. He would have to give it up: the nest could not be reached. He thought it would be shorter and easier to follow the crevice down to the steep hillside at the foot of the cliff, instead of going back along the shelf, as he had come. Going down was easy, until he had almost reached the foot of the wall, and could see, five or six feet below him, ground on which he could walk. Here the crevice ended. It was rather a long jump down to the ground, and that sloped off so sharply that he did not feel sure that if he jumped he could stop himself. He turned around, therefore, and let himself down backward, feeling with his toes for some little knob of rock on which to rest his feet, but, as he let himself down the rock all seemed smooth, and he could find no foothold. He was now clinging by the ends of his fingers to the rock above, too far down to draw himself up again, and yet with his feet a foot or more above the ground. There was nothing for it but to let himself go, and he dropped. The slope which his feet struck was too steep for a foothold. He fell over backward, and rolled thirty or forty feet down the slope, bringing up in a clump of bushes.

Jack was a little shaken and bruised by his roll, but not hurt. He picked himself up and looked back at the way he had come, and congratulated himself that it had been no worse. He started to climb up the slope again to get his gun, but first it was necessary that he should get out of the brush into which he had rolled. To his right there seemed a place where the bushes were thinner than those over which he had passed on his way down, and he turned in this direction to make the ascent. He had gone only a few steps when he stopped, for there before him was a great dark hole in the side of the hill. It was shaped almost like a door, high, and not very wide, and within all seemed black. Grass and bushes grew up in the entrance, and there was no sign that anything ever passed in or out.

This hole looked rather mysterious to Jack, and he wondered what there could be in it. He walked up to it and looked as hard as he could into the blackness, but he could see nothing. He wanted very much to go in, yet it was useless to do so unless he could see something when he got there. "If I only had a lantern now," thought Jack, "or even a candle, I could go in and see what is there. I'll bet no one at the ranch knows of this cave, and I'd like to find out all about it and tell them. That would be a good story to take back." He thought for awhile, and decided that he must make a torch; but what could he make it of? For a little while he could think of nothing to use. He remembered that in the books that he had read, people had always had birch bark for torches, or fat with which to make candles, but he had neither. Then he thought of pine torches of which he had read. There were plenty of pines growing here on the mountain, but nothing that he could make a torch of. Suddenly he remembered that dried pine needles burn brightly, though only for a little while, and that on the ground not far from here he had seen a half dozen pine limbs, twisted off from one of the trees in some heavy wind storm. He thought if he could tie a good many bunches of these needles together, they would make a torch for him. He crept out of the underbrush and saw near by several of these pine limbs, with the dried red needles on them, and he picked a number of the bunches. Now he needed some string. "If I only had Pawnee here," he thought, "I could take the strings from my saddle;" but Pawnee was feeding far below him in the valley. As he cast his eye about him, in perplexity, he saw a yucca plant growing on the slope, and he remembered what Hugh had told him about using the fibre of this plant for thread. He climbed up to it, cut off a number of the long bayonet-shaped leaves, selected a straight dead stick, and went back to his pile of pine needles. Splitting the tough leaves of the yucca, he found that they could be used as strings, and with these strings he bound his bunches of pine needles, one beneath the other, to the stick, and soon had what he thought might perhaps serve him as a torch. Going back to the mouth of the cave, he again looked into it, and listened, but all was darkness and silence. He parted the low growing bushes at the entrance, and stepped in, and then, lighting a match, touched it to the top of his torch. The bunch of pine needles flared up for two or three seconds, and then went out, but the light was enough to show that for six or eight feet further in there was a smooth floor to the cave, paved with small stones. The walls above and on either side seemed high. A second match, touched to another bunch of pine needles, gave another flame, lasting only an instant. Plainly, the torch would not burn from the top downward. The only thing to do was to light it below, and let the flames run up the stick. Jack lighted another match, took two or three steps forward, and then touched the torch at its lower part. The pine needles flared up, the flame caught the next bunch above, and then the next. Jack could see on the ground before him some feathers, a half dozen slender sticks, and, far back, raised above the floor of the cave, was a pale, dim thing. There was a whirring sound, something struck his hat, something else struck the torch, he dropped it, and it went out.




Chapter XXVIII

What The Cave Held


There was something alive in the cave, and Jack did not wait to see what it was. With two or three long jumps he passed out of the entrance and stood again among the underbrush, through which the bright sun was sending down its long sheaves of light. Nothing more happened, and as he looked back into the cave it was all quiet there. He was breathing fast, startled and excited, yet not exactly frightened, and when he reached the open air and had recovered from his start, he felt curious to know what had made the strange noise and what had hit him. It did not seem that it could be anything very terrible, for if it had been, it would have struck him harder and made more noise. He looked back into the cave, but the darkness gave no answer to the question in his mind. He could see two or three tiny sparks faintly glowing, which went out one by one as he watched them. This was the remains of his torch. He wondered what that dim pale shape could be, that he had seen for an instant, but too indistinctly to tell what it was. Though he was anxious to know more about the cave, he did not feel like venturing into it again without a light, and he determined to go home and tell his uncle, and, in a day or two to return, better prepared for the investigation.

His mind was so full of what he had seen that he started down the hill toward his horse, altogether forgetting his gun, and when he remembered it, he had a long climb back to recover it.

It was the middle of the afternoon before he reached the house, and there was no one about to whom he could talk of his adventure except Mrs. Carter. To her he told his story, but she could throw no light on the matter, nor, indeed, could his uncle when he consulted him at supper.

"Why, Jack," said he; "that is very interesting, and you were lucky to find such a place. It was pretty keen of you too, to think of making the torch as you did. I fancy it would have served you better though, if you had put some wads of grass with your pine needles. It would have burned more slowly and steadily, and would have given you a pretty fair light. I do not wonder that you wanted to get out of the cave when you heard that noise and were hit. Were you much scared?"

"Yes, I guess I was, Uncle Will. My heart was beating hard when I got out, but the light seemed to cool me down right off. That's queer, isn't it?"

"Oh, I don't know," said his uncle; "it seems to me very natural. Wait till Hugh gets back, Jack, and then we three will go up on the hill, with plenty of lights, and will see what there is in the cave, and where it goes to." With this, Jack was forced to be content.

During the next two days Jack thought a great deal about the cave, and on the evening of the second day, when Hugh returned from town, Jack met him at the barn, and while he was unsaddling, poured into his ear the tale of his discovery.

Hugh seemed much impressed, but ventured no opinion, though he asked a number of questions. "What did the thing feel like that hit you on the head, son?" said he.

"Why, it was something soft, and not very big. It just hit my hat a light blow, not much more than enough to dent it in, I should think, but there was the queerest noise at the same time that I ever heard. I don't know how to describe it. It was like something moving quickly through the air. Just the faintest sound you can think of, but it seemed close to my ear."

"Well," said Hugh, "I reckon you're a great hand to have things happen to you. Now ain't it a queer thing that you should just about roll into this place, and me live about here all these years and never know that it was there. You done well to make the light you did, and to go in like you did. It kind o' makes a man go slow to see everything black ahead of him. We'll know to-morrow what there is there, unless your uncle wants me to do something else."

"No," said Jack, "I'm sure he don't, for he said that we'd all three go up there together and find out what there is in the cave."

"All right," said Hugh, "that will suit me first class. I expect when we get there maybe we won't find anything very strange, and then again, maybe we will. Caves ain't very common in this country, but I've seen a good many of 'em; some of 'em where the Indians have been in, and drawed all kinds of pictures on the walls. And then away south-west of here, up in the mountains, there's lots of caves that the Indians used to live in. Some of 'em are away high up on the cliffs, right hard places to get to, but those Indians lived there, and you can see their bed places, and where they have had their fires, and sometimes you'll find the pots that they used to cook in, and everywhere, all about, there's lots of pieces of broken pots. But all that was a long time ago. I expect the Indians that lived down on the prairie, at the foot of these cliffs, were likely hostile, and the fellows that had their houses up in the caves lived there so's to get away from them that was down on the plains. I reckon you've heard tell of the Pueblo people that live down there yet. They live in regular houses, built of 'dobes. Some of them houses are like three or four built on top of each other, and they haven't got a door nor a window on the outside. They climb up into 'em by ladders, that they haul up after 'em, and then they're just like they was in a fort. I expect they got to building them houses because people were hazing them, and they had to have protection, nights."

After breakfast next morning the three started for the cave, carrying two lanterns and some candles. When they came to the place where Jack had seen the badger and the coyote, he told Hugh about it, and asked him what sort of a game these two animals were playing. Mr. Sturgis laughed when the question was asked, and Hugh smiled, too. "Son," he said, "your uncle, here, asked me that same question about six years ago, when he first saw a badger and a coyote acting that way. I have seen it a heap of times, and I'll tell you what I believe it means. You know, in these days, since there ain't no buffalo, any more, the coyotes are pretty nearly always hungry. I believe that a coyote sometimes, when he finds a badger out on the prairie, just keeps a-bothering him and a-bothering him until he gets the badger right mad, and gets him so he wants to fight. You know, a badger ain't a very good-tempered animal, nohow. Well, after the coyote has pestered him a while, the badger gets so cross that he just wants to get hold of that coyote, and the coyote keeps pretty close to him, and the badger keeps following him, and so the coyote leads him along, until presently maybe he runs across two or three other coyotes, and then they all pitch into the badger and kill him, and eat him."

"That seems mighty queer, Hugh," said Jack. "I didn't suppose a coyote knew enough to make a plan like that."

"Well, of course," said Hugh, "I don't know that it is so; no coyote ever told me that it was, but I've seen them acting that way often, and I can't think of no other meaning to it except that. But a coyote is smart enough to do that, or most anything else. It may be that the coyote just enjoys teasing the badger, and making him fighting mad, but if that was so, I wouldn't look to see the thing happen as often as it does. A coyote's got a heap of meanness in him, though; I've seen a couple of 'em spend an hour or two just bothering a big wolf, and I'm certain they did that just for the fun of it. The wolf was crossing a big sheet of ice, where a creek had overflowed, and it was pretty slippery, and he could not handle himself very well, nor turn quick. One of the coyotes would run pretty close in front of him, and the wolf would make a grab at him, and while he was doing that, the other coyote would run up behind him and nip him. Why, them two little rascals had a heap of fun with that big wolf before he got off the ice and on to the bare ground, where he had a good footing."

Before long they reached the place where Jack told them they must leave their horses, and then they started up the hill. Hugh said, "We'd better all take our ropes with us; we don't know but what we might need 'em when we get up there." They clambered up the steep ascent, Jack in advance, and feeling quite important at the thought that he was now acting as guide for Hugh and his uncle. Once, when they stopped to rest, he pointed out where the hawk's nest was, and showed them where he had rolled down the hill and into the bushes.

"It's a wonder you didn't break your neck," said his uncle.

"Well," said Hugh, "it would be a wonder if we didn't know that boys are all the time getting into scrapes, where a grown man would be killed, and the boys come out of it without even getting scratched up." As he said this he looked hard at Jack, who thought he must be referring to his scrape with the mountain lion.

It was not long before they were all standing in the brush, at the entrance to the cave.

"Well," said Mr. Sturgis, as he peered into the opening, "it's black enough in there, certainly."

"Dark as a wolf's mouth," said Hugh.

They lighted the two lanterns, and giving Jack a candle, they prepared to go in.

"Do you want to lead the way, Jack?" said his uncle, "or shall one of us go first?"

"No," said Jack, "I'd like to be first to go in. You know, I feel as if this cave belonged to me."

"That's right, son," said Hugh; "you're the leader of this party. Go right in, and we'll follow you. Only I don't want you to go too fast, or too far ahead. I've seen these caves sometimes where there's a big drop off in the bottom, and I'd hate almightily to be following you and see you fall off into a big hole. You go ahead, but go mighty slow, and we'll be right close behind you. You two might leave your guns out here, I don't reckon there's nothing to hurt anybody inside. I don't see no signs where anybody has been in this cave this season, except where son walked the other day."

Mr. Sturgis and Jack left their guns here, but Hugh retained his. Then the three went into the cave, Jack a little in advance. They had made only two or three steps into it when Jack again heard the queer whirring noise, and saw Hugh suddenly strike at something with his hand, and then heard a faint, squeaking cry, and a sound as of something soft striking the ground.

"There's what hit you," said Hugh.

"Oh, what is it?" said Jack.

"Bats," said Hugh. "I suspicioned it was them, from what you said, but I wan't certain. They can't do no harm, but look here!" and Hugh stooped and picked up two or three feathers, and one of the slender sticks that Jack had noticed the day before, and said: "This has been a sacred place for the Indians. See these presents? These are eagle feathers, and here are a lot of arrows that have been given, maybe, to the Sun."

"But those look pretty old, Hugh," said Mr. Sturgis.

"Yes," was the reply, "these were left here a long time ago. Don't ye see they've got stone points? This here arrow looks like a Cheyenne arrow, but it's old."

"There, Uncle Will!" said Jack, interrupting, "There's that white thing. Let's see what that is."

They moved forward a little, very slowly, and in a moment saw that the cave was a small one, not more than forty feet long. On a bed of stones, raised above the floor lay a whitish bundle, about three feet long and two wide, tied up with leather thongs.

"Ha!" said Hugh.

"What is it, Hugh?" said Jack.

"Why don't you see?" said Hugh. "This here cave is a grave and that's the body of a person that was buried here."

"It must have been a little bit of a child, then," said Jack.

"Not so," Hugh answered, "that's a grown person, either a man or a woman. That's the way they tie 'em up in bundles when they bury 'em. I expect that Indian was put here a long time ago." Hugh put down his lantern, bent forward and took hold of the bundle by either end, and lifted it from the ground. It seemed to weigh very little, and as he replaced it on its bed of stones, he repeated, "A long time ago. Why, that bundle don't weigh nothing. There can't be nothing in it except just the very driest kind of bones, and that hide that it's wrapped in is just like paper; when I lifted it, my fingers went right through it."

Jack stared at the bundle, wondering how long it had been here, who it had been, and thinking of the life that it had led so long ago. Meantime, the other two had turned aside and were looking about the cave, which was only ten or twelve feet wide. Hugh picked up an earthenware pot, which stood at one end of the bed of stones, and calling Jack, showed it to him. By the light of the lantern it seemed to be dark red and grey, and it had once held something, as its sides and bottom, within, were dark with crusted dust. "I expect when they buried this fellow," said Hugh, "they left some grub for him to eat, in this pot." Near the pot, but resting on the floor of the cave, was a small sack made of what seemed like leather. This, when Jack felt of it, seemed heavy. The covering was hard and dry.

On the walls at either side of the cave were scratched in the rock, rude figures of men, a great circle with lines starting out from it, which Hugh said meant the Sun, and a rude figure of a bird with a great hooked beak -- the Thunder Bird.

After they had satisfied their curiosity, Mr. Sturgis and Hugh turned to go, but Jack lingered behind. "Oh, Hugh," he called, "can't we take this bundle with us? I'm sure it would be a greater curiosity, back east, than the mummies from Egypt that I have seen in the museum there."

"Well now, son," said Hugh, "I don't reckon I'd bother that fellow, if I was you. Fetch the pot and that little sack along with you, if you want 'em, and then come out here in the sunshine, and we'll talk about it." They sat down by the mouth of the cave, and Hugh and Mr. Sturgis filled their pipes.

"Now, look here, son," said Hugh, "how would you like it if some day some fellow was to come along to the place where your great-great-grandfather had been buried, and should talk about carrying off his bones for a curiosity?"

"Well," said Jack, "I don't suppose I'd like it very much."

"I don't expect you would," said Hugh, "and the Indians feel the same way about their dead grandfathers that you might feel about yours. You don't want that bundle in there for anything except because it's a curiosity, and if I was you, I wouldn't bother it. It can't do no one any harm for you to take these other things; they're real curiosities, because they're the old-time things the Indians used to make and use; but I wouldn't bother them bones. Let's see what you've got."

They opened the sack carefully, but the covering of hide tore to pieces as they tried to unwrap it. Hugh spread out his coat, so that nothing might be lost and all bent eagerly forward to see what the relics might be. The largest thing was a great pipe made of black carved stone; then there were eight arrow heads of black, white and brown flint, finely worked, and one smaller piece of flint, shaped a little like an arrow head, but which Hugh said was used in painting skins.

When they were all unwrapped, Hugh said: "There, son, you've sure got some real old relics, now. I don't know as I ever see a nicer lot of arrow points, and I'm sure I never see a pipe like that. Them things is mighty old. I wouldn't be a mite surprised if that fellow died before America was discovered."

Jack was delighted with the find. He still felt that he would like to have the bundle, and, above all, would like to know what there was inside of it, but he made up his mind that it was better to do as Hugh had said. After they had reached their horses, he wrapped the pot carefully up in his coat and tied it to the horn of his saddle, and all the way home he rode with his hand on it, so that it should not be jarred and broken.

When they reached home he spread his trophies out on the kitchen table to show to Mrs. Carter, and said to her, "Won't these make a great show in my room in New York?"




Chapter XXIX

Swiftfoot In New York


At last the time approached when Mr. Sturgis and Jack were to leave the ranch and take their departure for the distant east. The weather had long been growing cooler, and was now cold. The leaves of the aspens had turned yellow, and one by one had loosed their holds upon the trees, and twirled slowly toward the ground. The bull elk had ceased whistling. The deer had taken on their winter coats. The lake was frozen, and the migrating ducks and geese had gone. Snow storms were more frequent, and often the ground was white for days at a time, until some interval of mild weather melted the snow again.

One day, some weeks after the Powells' last visit, Charley had driven over in the waggon and brought Jack a wolf puppy, now large and well grown. It was a great grey animal, heavily coated, sleek, smooth, and in good condition, with a long, pointed head, which looked a little like that of a collie dog. Though perfectly tame with Charley, the wolf was shy of strangers, and at first, when approached by Jack or any of the men at the ranch, seemed timid, and shrank for protection behind young Powell. Charley had foreseen this, and had arranged to spend two or three days at the ranch, in order that the wolf might learn to know his master.

"If I leave him here strange to you, you see," he said, "he'll either leave you when I go away, and come back to the ranch, or else he'll run away and become wild, and I don't want to turn no wolves loose on this range. I tried what Hugh told me to with the pups, and now they're all tame as the dogs."

While Charley stayed, Jack devoted his whole time to making friends with the wolf, and everybody at the ranch was as kind to it as possible. After a day or two Hugh and Jack succeeded in overcoming the wolf's suspicions, and had no difficulty in calling it to them and in putting their hands on it. It did not like to be held, and, at first, if firmly grasped, would struggle and snap, in its effort to escape, but the biting seemed to be more a threat than an effort to really bite, and it soon learned that no harm was intended to it. After the wolf had come to be no longer afraid of Jack, Charley neglected it, paying it no attention, while Jack fed it, petted it, and played with it. He was surprised to find how much like a young dog it was, how readily it responded to his advances, and how precisely it resembled a dog in the way it showed pleasure, fear, or suspicion. Hugh made for the wolf a collar of raw-hide, to which, at first, it objected, trying hard to rub it off against the ground, and to push it from its neck with its paws, but after a little it became accustomed to this. Two or three times Jack and Charley ventured to ride out over the prairie with the wolf following them. Their rides, though short, were often fast, yet the wolf never seemed to have any trouble in keeping up with the horses, and sometimes when they were galloping quite fast it would trot along by the side of one of them without seeming at all hurried. From this, Jack called him Swiftfoot.

When it came time for Charley to go, he and Jack parted with not a little sadness on both sides. They had grown fond of each other during the summer, and both regretted Jack's coming absence. Charley looked back a good many times before the waggon disappeared over the hill, and Jack, who stood at the ranch door, holding Swiftfoot by his collar, did not turn away until his friend had quite disappeared from view. The wolf, too, seemed uneasy at the parting, and puzzled as well. He looked at the waggon, and then at Jack, and wagged his tail, and once or twice struggled to get away, as if he wished to follow Charley, but he soon forgot his doubts, and later in the day took great delight in a game of ball with Jack out on the flat.

A few days later, Mr. Sturgis and Jack left the ranch for the railroad. Again Hugh drove them in, and with the same team of horses that had taken them out six months before. Swiftfoot was placed in a wooden cage, immediately behind the seat of the waggon, where he would be close to Jack, who petted and talked to him until he had become a little used to his strange surroundings and to the motion of the waggon.

When the railroad station was reached, quite a crowd gathered on the platform to inspect Swiftfoot, but before long the train pulled in, and the crate holding the wolf was put in the baggage car. The train had scarcely started before Jack, who was anxious about his pet, proposed to his uncle that they should go forward and see how the wolf was getting along, and they did so. The baggage master seemed very glad to see them. He said to Mr. Sturgis, as soon as he entered the car: "See here, partner, I don't like that crate you put aboard here. 'Pears to me it's mighty flimsy, and if that animal in there takes a notion to break out, he might eat me up. I'm afraid of him."

"Oh," said Mr. Sturgis, "he can't get out, and if he could, he wouldn't hurt you. Look over there," and he pointed to Jack, who was sitting on the crate, talking to Swiftfoot, who had his nose through the bars, licking Jack's hand, and was beating a rapid tattoo on the sides of the crate with his wagging tail.

"Oh, Uncle Will!" called Jack, "can't I let him out? He's awful frightened in here, and I think if he had a chance to run up and down the car a few times, and to make friends with the baggage master, he wouldn't mind it so much."

"Hold on! hold on, young fellow!" said the baggage-master, "I don't want to make friends with him. You keep him behind them bars, and we'll be just as good friends as I want to be."

"Oh, I wish you'd let me take him out, just so that he can smell around. I'll put a rope on him, and won't let him get away. Come up here and pat him, and see how friendly he is. He was awful scared, though, when I first came in. He was all crouched up in one corner of the box, and his eyes were shining fearfully. He looked savage."

"Why," said the baggage master, who seemed to be recovering his nerves, "he does seem gentle, don't he?"

"Yes," said Mr. Sturgis, "he's perfectly tame. We've had him around the ranch there for a long time, but I presume he's frightened at all the noise and the motion. I really think if you would let the boy take him out and show him the inside of the car, and would try to make friends with him yourself, you'd get to like him. I'll make it worth your while if you do."

The man went up to the cage, and, after a little persuasion by Jack, patted the head of the wolf, which seemed grateful for attention and sympathy from anyone. Then he consented that the crate should be opened and the wolf led about the car by Jack, but while this was being done, he took his seat on top of a tall pile of trunks which reached nearly to the roof. Before long, however, he came down from there and was petting the wolf, seeming almost as much interested in him as his owner, and when at length Jack put Swiftfoot again in his crate, the wolf, although howling after him, no longer seemed terrified, as at first.

Jack made frequent visits to the baggage car, and at each change of baggage masters, the operation of introducing the new one to the wolf was repeated. So the journey was made between the West and New York, but before they reached that city Mr. Sturgis told Jack that Swiftfoot was by long odds the most expensive piece of baggage that he had ever carried with him on the road.

*       *       *       *       *

In the big depot in New York, where the train come hurrying in, and from which they hurry out, where there are always crowds of people going, and other crowds coming, and others, still, waiting for the arrival of friends, Mr. and Mrs. Danvers stood watching the passengers that were walking out from the nine-forty express.

"They ought to have come before this, John," said Mrs. Danvers. "Do you think they could have missed the train?"

"Wait a little;" said her husband; "there come some more people."

Far down the platform they could see a tall man hurrying along, and by his side a well grown boy, leading an enormous grey dog.

"That looks like Will, but it can't be he, for that isn't Johnny with him," said Mrs. Danvers.

"No," said her husband, "that isn't our boy."

They continued to watch the distant people as they approached, but Mrs. Danvers did not see her boy. Suddenly, she was half crushed by a vigorous embrace, and turning, saw beside her, her son, but a very different son from him who had left her in the spring. Then, he had been a little fellow; now, he seemed to her a young man. Then, he was white, slender and listless; now, he was brown, broad-shouldered and boisterous. By his side stood a great grey dog, with lowered head and tail, looking up with suspicious eyes at the hurrying crowds about him.

"Why, Johnny, Johnny," said his mother, "can this be you? It isn't; I am sure it isn't. Will Sturgis, what have you done? I want my boy again. You have brought me a big bear."

Jack's father was hardly less astonished and delighted, but he showed less excitement.

"Yes," said Mr. Sturgis to his sister, "I have brought you back a very different boy from the one I took away. I think after you have had a chance to see him, and to talk with him, you will find that he is a better boy all around. In fact, I think I can say that when Jack left here six months ago he stopped being a boy and began to be a man."

"What is that enormous creature you have there, Johnny?"

"Why, mother, that's Swiftfoot, my tame wolf. He's as gentle as can be, and I expect you'll find him a real good house dog."

"Come along," said Mr. Danvers; "let us walk home. The night is fine, and I hardly thought it worth while to have the carriage here. Bring your checks along and we'll send up for the baggage right away."

Jack and his mother found the walk home a very short one. Mrs. Danvers took her son's arm and leaned on it, while Jack carried his rifle and led Swiftfoot with the other hand. He was happy to see his mother again, and proud to be leading his wolf through New York streets. He thought what fun it would be to show Swiftfoot to his old schoolmates here, none of whom had ever seen a wolf, and of how much he would have to tell them of the western life, about which they knew nothing.

When they reached the house, Aunt Hannah was lying in wait to bid her boy welcome. She had nursed him from his tiniest babyhood, and he was not surprised to have her throw her arms around him and kiss him, while tears of gladness ran down her cheeks. After a moment of congratulation from her, he dragged Swiftfoot forward, and said, "Here Hannah, is a new friend that I want you to like. It's Swiftfoot, my tame wolf."

"A wolf!" shrieked Hannah. "Oh, lordy!" And she flew through the dining-room and slammed the pantry door behind her.

<eob>

Chronicles Of Avonlea

By

L. M. Montgomery



I. The Hurrying of Ludovic


Anne Shirley was curled up on the window-seat of Theodora Dix's sitting-room one Saturday evening, looking dreamily afar at some fair starland beyond the hills of sunset. Anne was visiting for a fortnight of her vacation at Echo Lodge, where Mr. and Mrs. Stephen Irving were spending the summer, and she often ran over to the old Dix homestead to chat for awhile with Theodora. They had had their chat out, on this particular evening, and Anne was giving herself over to the delight of building an air-castle. She leaned her shapely head, with its braided coronet of dark red hair, against the window-casing, and her gray eyes were like the moonlight gleam of shadowy pools.

Then she saw Ludovic Speed coming down the lane. He was yet far from the house, for the Dix lane was a long one, but Ludovic could be recognized as far as he could be seen. No one else in Middle Grafton had such a tall, gently-stooping, placidly-moving figure. In every kink and turn of it there was an individuality all Ludovic's own.

Anne roused herself from her dreams, thinking it would only be tactful to take her departure. Ludovic was courting Theodora. Everyone in Grafton knew that, or, if anyone were in ignorance of the fact, it was not because he had not had time to find out. Ludovic had been coming down that lane to see Theodora, in the same ruminating, unhastening fashion, for fifteen years!

When Anne, who was slim and girlish and romantic, rose to go, Theodora, who was plump and middle-aged and practical, said, with a twinkle in her eye:

"There isn't any hurry, child. Sit down and have your call out. You've seen Ludovic coming down the lane, and, I suppose, you think you'll be a crowd. But you won't. Ludovic rather likes a third person around, and so do I. It spurs up the conversation as it were. When a man has been coming to see you straight along, twice a week for fifteen years, you get rather talked out by spells."

Theodora never pretended to bashfulness where Ludovic was concerned. She was not at all shy of referring to him and his dilatory courtship. Indeed, it seemed to amuse her.

Anne sat down again and together they watched Ludovic coming down the lane, gazing calmly about him at the lush clover fields and the blue loops of the river winding in and out of the misty valley below.

Anne looked at Theodora's placid, finely-moulded face and tried to imagine what she herself would feel like if she were sitting there, waiting for an elderly lover who had, seemingly, taken so long to make up his mind. But even Anne's imagination failed her for this.

"Anyway," she thought, impatiently, "if I wanted him I think I'd find some way of hurrying him up. Ludovic SPEED! Was there ever such a misfit of a name? Such a name for such a man is a delusion and a snare."

Presently Ludovic got to the house, but stood so long on the doorstep in a brown study, gazing into the tangled green boskage of the cherry orchard, that Theodora finally went and opened the door before he knocked. As she brought him into the sitting-room she made a comical grimace at Anne over his shoulder.

Ludovic smiled pleasantly at Anne. He liked her; she was the only young girl he knew, for he generally avoided young girls -- they made him feel awkward and out of place. But Anne did not affect him in this fashion. She had a way of getting on with all sorts of people, and, although they had not known her very long, both Ludovic and Theodora looked upon her as an old friend.

Ludovic was tall and somewhat ungainly, but his unhesitating placidity gave him the appearance of a dignity that did not otherwise pertain to him. He had a drooping, silky, brown moustache, and a little curly tuft of imperial, -- a fashion which was regarded as eccentric in Grafton, where men had clean-shaven chins or went full-bearded. His eyes were dreamy and pleasant, with a touch of melancholy in their blue depths.

He sat down in the big bulgy old armchair that had belonged to Theodora's father. Ludovic always sat there, and Anne declared that the chair had come to look like him.

The conversation soon grew animated enough. Ludovic was a good talker when he had somebody to draw him out. He was well read, and frequently surprised Anne by his shrewd comments on men and matters out in the world, of which only the faint echoes reached Deland River. He had also a liking for religious arguments with Theodora, who did not care much for politics or the making of history, but was avid of doctrines, and read everything pertaining thereto. When the conversation drifted into an eddy of friendly wrangling between Ludovic and Theodora over Christian Science, Anne understood that her usefulness was ended for the time being, and that she would not be missed.

"It's star time and good-night time," she said, and went away quietly.

But she had to stop to laugh when she was well out of sight of the house, in a green meadow bestarred with the white and gold of daisies. A wind, odour-freighted, blew daintily across it. Anne leaned against a white birch tree in the corner and laughed heartily, as she was apt to do whenever she thought of Ludovic and Theodora. To her eager youth, this courtship of theirs seemed a very amusing thing. She liked Ludovic, but allowed herself to be provoked with him.

"The dear, big, irritating goose!" she said aloud. "There never was such a lovable idiot before. He's just like the alligator in the old rhyme, who wouldn't go along, and wouldn't keep still, but just kept bobbing up and down."

Two evenings later, when Anne went over to the Dix place, she and Theodora drifted into a conversation about Ludovic. Theodora, who was the most industrious soul alive, and had a mania for fancy work into the bargain, was busying her smooth, plump fingers with a very elaborate Battenburg lace centre-piece. Anne was lying back in a little rocker, with her slim hands folded in her lap, watching Theodora. She realized that Theodora was very handsome, in a stately, Juno-like fashion of firm, white flesh, large, clearly-chiselled outlines, and great, cowey, brown eyes. When Theodora was not smiling, she looked very imposing. Anne thought it likely that Ludovic held her in awe.

"Did you and Ludovic talk about Christian Science ALL Saturday evening?" she asked.

Theodora overflowed into a smile.

"Yes, and we even quarrelled over it. At least I did. Ludovic wouldn't quarrel with anyone. You have to fight air when you spar with him. I hate to square up to a person who won't hit back."

"Theodora," said Anne coaxingly, "I am going to be curious and impertinent. You can snub me if you like. Why don't you and Ludovic get married?"

Theodora laughed comfortably.

"That's the question Grafton folks have been asking for quite a while, I reckon, Anne. Well, I'd have no objection to marrying Ludovic. That's frank enough for you, isn't it? But it's not easy to marry a man unless he asks you. And Ludovic has never asked me."

"Is he too shy?" persisted Anne. Since Theodora was in the mood, she meant to sift this puzzling affair to the bottom.

Theodora dropped her work and looked meditatively out over the green slopes of the summer world.

"No, I don't think it is that. Ludovic isn't shy. It's just his way -- the Speed way. The Speeds are all dreadfully deliberate. They spend years thinking over a thing before they make up their minds to do it. Sometimes they get so much in the habit of thinking about it that they never get over it -- like old Alder Speed, who was always talking of going to England to see his brother, but never went, though there was no earthly reason why he shouldn't. They're not lazy, you know, but they love to take their time."

"And Ludovic is just an aggravated case of Speedism," suggested Anne.

"Exactly. He never hurried in his life. Why, he has been thinking for the last six years of getting his house painted. He talks it over with me every little while, and picks out the colour, and there the matter stays. He's fond of me, and he means to ask me to have him sometime. The only question is -- will the time ever come?"

"Why don't you hurry him up?" asked Anne impatiently.

Theodora went back to her stitches with another laugh.

"If Ludovic could be hurried up, I'm not the one to do it. I'm too shy. It sounds ridiculous to hear a woman of my age and inches say that, but it is true. Of course, I know it's the only way any Speed ever did make out to get married. For instance, there's a cousin of mine married to Ludovic's brother. I don't say she proposed to him out and out, but, mind you, Anne, it wasn't far from it. I couldn't do anything like that. I DID try once. When I realized that I was getting sere and mellow, and all the girls of my generation were going off on either hand, I tried to give Ludovic a hint. But it stuck in my throat. And now I don't mind. If I don't change Dix to Speed until I take the initiative, it will be Dix to the end of life. Ludovic doesn't realize that we are growing old, you know. He thinks we are giddy young folks yet, with plenty of time before us. That's the Speed failing. They never find out they're alive until they're dead."

"You're fond of Ludovic, aren't you?" asked Anne, detecting a note of real bitterness among Theodora's paradoxes.

"Laws, yes," said Theodora candidly. She did not think it worth while to blush over so settled a fact. "I think the world and all of Ludovic. And he certainly does need somebody to look after HIM. He's neglected -- he looks frayed. You can see that for yourself. That old aunt of his looks after his house in some fashion, but she doesn't look after him. And he's coming now to the age when a man needs to be looked after and coddled a bit. I'm lonesome here, and Ludovic is lonesome up there, and it does seem ridiculous, doesn't it? I don't wonder that we're the standing joke of Grafton. Goodness knows, I laugh at it enough myself. I've sometimes thought that if Ludovic could be made jealous it might spur him along. But I never could flirt and there's nobody to flirt with if I could. Everybody hereabouts looks upon me as Ludovic's property and nobody would dream of interfering with him."

"Theodora," cried Anne, "I have a plan!"

"Now, what are you going to do?" exclaimed Theodora.

Anne told her. At first Theodora laughed and protested. In the end, she yielded somewhat doubtfully, overborne by Anne's enthusiasm.

"Well, try it, then," she said, resignedly. "If Ludovic gets mad and leaves me, I'll be worse off than ever. But nothing venture, nothing win. And there is a fighting chance, I suppose. Besides, I must admit I'm tired of his dilly-dallying."

Anne went back to Echo Lodge tingling with delight in her plot. She hunted up Arnold Sherman, and told him what was required of him. Arnold Sherman listened and laughed. He was an elderly widower, an intimate friend of Stephen Irving, and had come down to spend part of the summer with him and his wife in Prince Edward Island. He was handsome in a mature style, and he had a dash of mischief in him still, so that he entered readily enough into Anne's plan. It amused him to think of hurrying Ludovic Speed, and he knew that Theodora Dix could be depended on to do her part. The comedy would not be dull, whatever its outcome.

The curtain rose on the first act after prayer meeting on the next Thursday night. It was bright moonlight when the people came out of church, and everybody saw it plainly. Arnold Sherman stood upon the steps close to the door, and Ludovic Speed leaned up against a corner of the graveyard fence, as he had done for years. The boys said he had worn the paint off that particular place. Ludovic knew of no reason why he should paste himself up against the church door. Theodora would come out as usual, and he would join her as she went past the corner.

This was what happened, Theodora came down the steps, her stately figure outlined in its darkness against the gush of lamplight from the porch. Arnold Sherman asked her if he might see her home. Theodora took his arm calmly, and together they swept past the stupefied Ludovic, who stood helplessly gazing after them as if unable to believe his eyes.

For a few moments he stood there limply; then he started down the road after his fickle lady and her new admirer. The boys and irresponsible young men crowded after, expecting some excitement, but they were disappointed. Ludovic strode on until he overtook Theodora and Arnold Sherman, and then fell meekly in behind them.

Theodora hardly enjoyed her walk home, although Arnold Sherman laid himself out to be especially entertaining. Her heart yearned after Ludovic, whose shuffling footsteps she heard behind her. She feared that she had been very cruel, but she was in for it now. She steeled herself by the reflection that it was all for his own good, and she talked to Arnold Sherman as if he were the one man in the world. Poor, deserted Ludovic, following humbly behind, heard her, and if Theodora had known how bitter the cup she was holding to his lips really was, she would never have been resolute enough to present it, no matter for what ultimate good.

When she and Arnold turned in at her gate, Ludovic had to stop. Theodora looked over her shoulder and saw him standing still on the road. His forlorn figure haunted her thoughts all night. If Anne had not run over the next day and bolstered up her convictions, she might have spoiled everything by prematurely relenting.

Ludovic, meanwhile, stood still on the road, quite oblivious to the hoots and comments of the vastly amused small boy contingent, until Theodora and his rival disappeared from his view under the firs in the hollow of her lane. Then he turned about and went home, not with his usual leisurely amble, but with a perturbed stride which proclaimed his inward disquiet.

He felt bewildered. If the world had come suddenly to an end or if the lazy, meandering Grafton River had turned about and flowed up hill, Ludovic could not have been more astonished. For fifteen years he had walked home from meetings with Theodora; and now this elderly stranger, with all the glamour of "the States" hanging about him, had coolly walked off with her under Ludovic's very nose. Worse -- most unkindest cut of all -- Theodora had gone with him willingly; nay, she had evidently enjoyed his company. Ludovic felt the stirring of a righteous anger in his easy-going soul.

When he reached the end of his lane, he paused at his gate, and looked at his house, set back from the lane in a crescent of birches. Even in the moonlight, its weather-worn aspect was plainly visible. He thought of the "palatial residence" rumour ascribed to Arnold Sherman in Boston, and stroked his chin nervously with his sunburnt fingers. Then he doubled up his fist and struck it smartly on the gate-post.

"Theodora needn't think she is going to jilt me in this fashion, after keeping company with me for fifteen years," he said. "I'LL have something to say to it, Arnold Sherman or no Arnold Sherman. The impudence of the puppy!"

The next morning Ludovic drove to Carmody and engaged Joshua Pye to come and paint his house, and that evening, although he was not due till Saturday night, he went down to see Theodora.

Arnold Sherman was there before him, and was actually sitting in Ludovic's own prescriptive chair. Ludovic had to deposit himself in Theodora's new wicker rocker, where he looked and felt lamentably out of place.

If Theodora felt the situation to be awkward, she carried it off superbly. She had never looked handsomer, and Ludovic perceived that she wore her second best silk dress. He wondered miserably if she had donned it in expectation of his rival's call. She had never put on silk dresses for him. Ludovic had always been the meekest and mildest of mortals, but he felt quite murderous as he sat mutely there and listened to Arnold Sherman's polished conversation.

"You should just have been here to see him glowering," Theodora told the delighted Anne the next day. "It may be wicked of me, but I felt real glad. I was afraid he might stay away and sulk. So long as he comes here and sulks I don't worry. But he is feeling badly enough, poor soul, and I'm really eaten up by remorse. He tried to outstay Mr. Sherman last night, but he didn't manage it. You never saw a more depressed-looking creature than he was as he hurried down the lane. Yes, he actually hurried."

The following Sunday evening Arnold Sherman walked to church with Theodora, and sat with her. When they came in Ludovic Speed suddenly stood up in his pew under the gallery. He sat down again at once, but everybody in view had seen him, and that night folks in all the length and breadth of Grafton River discussed the dramatic occurrence with keen enjoyment.

"Yes, he jumped right up as if he was pulled on his feet, while the minister was reading the chapter," said his cousin, Lorella Speed, who had been in church, to her sister, who had not. "His face was as white as a sheet, and his eyes were just glaring out of his head. I never felt so thrilled, I declare! I almost expected him to fly at them then and there. But he just gave a sort of gasp and set down again. I don't know whether Theodora Dix saw him or not. She looked as cool and unconcerned as you please."

Theodora had not seen Ludovic, but if she looked cool and unconcerned, her appearance belied her, for she felt miserably flustered. She could not prevent Arnold Sherman coming to church with her, but it seemed to her like going too far. People did not go to church and sit together in Grafton unless they were the next thing to being engaged. What if this filled Ludovic with the narcotic of despair instead of wakening him up! She sat through the service in misery and heard not one word of the sermon.

But Ludovic's spectacular performances were not yet over. The Speeds might be hard to get started, but once they were started their momentum was irresistible. When Theodora and Mr. Sherman came out, Ludovic was waiting on the steps. He stood up straight and stern, with his head thrown back and his shoulders squared. There was open defiance in the look he cast on his rival, and masterfulness in the mere touch of the hand he laid on Theodora's arm.

"May I see you home, Miss Dix?" his words said. His tone said, "I am going to see you home whether or no."

Theodora, with a deprecating look at Arnold Sherman, took his arm, and Ludovic marched her across the green amid a silence which the very horses tied to the storm fence seemed to share. For Ludovic 'twas a crowded hour of glorious life.

Anne walked all the way over from Avonlea the next day to hear the news. Theodora smiled consciously.

"Yes, it is really settled at last, Anne. Coming home last night Ludovic asked me plump and plain to marry him, -- Sunday and all as it was. It's to be right away -- for Ludovic won't be put off a week longer than necessary."

"So Ludovic Speed has been hurried up to some purpose at last," said Mr. Sherman, when Anne called in at Echo Lodge, brimful with her news. "And you are delighted, of course, and my poor pride must be the scapegoat. I shall always be remembered in Grafton as the man from Boston who wanted Theodora Dix and couldn't get her."

"But that won't be true, you know," said Anne comfortingly.

Arnold Sherman thought of Theodora's ripe beauty, and the mellow companionableness she had revealed in their brief intercourse.

"I'm not perfectly sure of that," he said, with a half sigh.



II. Old Lady Lloyd


I. The May Chapter


Spencervale gossip always said that "Old Lady Lloyd" was rich and mean and proud. Gossip, as usual, was one-third right and two-thirds wrong. Old Lady Lloyd was neither rich nor mean; in reality she was pitifully poor -- so poor that "Crooked Jack" Spencer, who dug her garden and chopped her wood for her, was opulent by contrast, for he, at least, never lacked three meals a day, and the Old Lady could sometimes achieve no more than one. But she WAS very proud -- so proud that she would have died rather than let the Spencervale people, among whom she had queened it in her youth, suspect how poor she was and to what straits was sometimes reduced. She much preferred to have them think her miserly and odd -- a queer old recluse who never went anywhere, even to church, and who paid the smallest subscription to the minister's salary of anyone in the congregation.

"And her just rolling in wealth!" they said indignantly. "Well, she didn't get her miserly ways from her parents. THEY were real generous and neighbourly. There never was a finer gentleman than old Doctor Lloyd. He was always doing kindnesses to everybody; and he had a way of doing them that made you feel as if you was doing the favour, not him. Well, well, let Old Lady Lloyd keep herself and her money to herself if she wants to. If she doesn't want our company, she doesn't have to suffer it, that's all. Reckon she isn't none too happy for all her money and pride."

No, the Old Lady was none too happy, that was unfortunately true. It is not easy to be happy when your life is eaten up with loneliness and emptiness on the spiritual side, and when, on the material side, all you have between you and starvation is the little money your hens bring you in.

The Old Lady lived "away back at the old Lloyd place," as it was always called. It was a quaint, low-eaved house, with big chimneys and square windows and with spruces growing thickly all around it. The Old Lady lived there all alone and there were weeks at a time when she never saw a human being except Crooked Jack. What the Old Lady did with herself and how she put in her time was a puzzle the Spencervale people could not solve. The children believed she amused herself counting the gold in the big black box under her bed. Spencervale children held the Old Lady in mortal terror; some of them -- the "Spencer Road" fry -- believed she was a witch; all of them would run if, when wandering about the woods in search of berries or spruce gum, they saw at a distance the spare, upright form of the Old Lady, gathering sticks for her fire. Mary Moore was the only one who was quite sure she was not a witch.

"Witches are always ugly," she said decisively, "and Old Lady Lloyd isn't ugly. She's real pretty -- she's got such a soft white hair and big black eyes and a little white face. Those Road children don't know what they're talking of. Mother says they're a very ignorant crowd."

"Well, she doesn't ever go to church, and she mutters and talks to herself all the time she's picking up sticks," maintained Jimmy Kimball stoutly.

The Old Lady talked to herself because she was really very fond of company and conversation. To be sure, when you have talked to nobody but yourself for nearly twenty years, it is apt to grow somewhat monotonous; and there were times when the Old Lady would have sacrificed everything but her pride for a little human companionship. At such times she felt very bitter and resentful toward Fate for having taken everything from her. She had nothing to love, and that is about as unwholesome a condition as is possible to anyone.

It was always hardest in the spring. Once upon a time the Old Lady -- when she had not been the Old Lady, but pretty, wilful, high-spirited Margaret Lloyd -- had loved springs; now she hated them because they hurt her; and this particular spring of this particular May chapter hurt her more than any that had gone before. The Old Lady felt as if she could NOT endure the ache of it. Everything hurt her -- the new green tips on the firs, the fairy mists down in the little beech hollow below the house, the fresh smell of the red earth Crooked Jack spaded up in her garden. The Old Lady lay awake all one moonlit night and cried for very heartache. She even forgot her body hunger in her soul hunger; and the Old Lady had been hungry, more or less, all that week. She was living on store biscuits and water, so that she might be able to pay Crooked Jack for digging her garden. When the pale, lovely dawn-colour came stealing up the sky behind the spruces, the Old Lady buried her face in her pillow and refused to look at it.

"I hate the new day," she said rebelliously. "It will be just like all the other hard, common days. I don't want to get up and live it. And, oh, to think that long ago I reached out my hands joyfully to every new day, as to a friend who was bringing me good tidings! I loved the mornings then -- sunny or gray, they were as delightful as an unread book -- and now I hate them -- hate them -- hate them!"

But the Old Lady got up nevertheless, for she knew Crooked Jack would be coming early to finish the garden. She arranged her beautiful, thick, white hair very carefully, and put on her purple silk dress with the little gold spots in it. The Old Lady always wore silk from motives of economy. It was much cheaper to wear a silk dress that had belonged to her mother than to buy new print at the store. The Old Lady had plenty of silk dresses which had belonged to her mother. She wore them morning, noon, and night, and Spencervale people considered it an additional evidence of her pride. As for the fashion of them, it was, of course, just because she was too mean to have them made over. They did not dream that the Old Lady never put on one of the silk dresses without agonizing over its unfashionableness, and that even the eyes of Crooked Jack cast on her antique flounces and overskirts was almost more than her feminine vanity could endure.

In spite of the fact that the Old Lady had not welcomed the new day, its beauty charmed her when she went out for a walk after her dinner -- or, rather, after her mid-day biscuit. It was so fresh, so sweet, so virgin; and the spruce woods around the old Lloyd place were athrill with busy spring doings and all sprinkled through with young lights and shadows. Some of their delight found its way into the Old Lady's bitter heart as she wandered through them, and when she came out at the little plank bridge over the brook down under the beeches, she felt almost gentle and tender once more. There was one big beech there, in particular, which the Old Lady loved for reasons best known to herself -- a great, tall beech with a trunk like the shaft of a gray marble column and a leafy spread of branches over the still, golden-brown pool made beneath it by the brook. It had been a young sapling in the days that were haloed by the vanished glory of the Old Lady's life.

The Old Lady heard childish voices and laughter afar up the lane which led to William Spencer's place just above the woods. William Spencer's front lane ran out to the main road in a different direction, but this "back lane" furnished a short cut and his children always went to school that way.

The Old Lady shrank hastily back behind a clump of young spruces. She did not like the Spencer children because they always seemed so afraid of her. Through the spruce screen she could see them coming gaily down the lane -- the two older ones in front, the twins behind, clinging to the hands of a tall, slim, young girl -- the new music teacher, probably. The Old Lady had heard from the egg pedlar that she was going to board at William Spencer's, but she had not heard her name.

She looked at her with some curiosity as they drew near -- and then, all at once, the Old Lady's heart gave a great bound and began to beat as it had not beaten for years, while her breath came quickly and she trembled violently. Who -- WHO could this girl be?

Under the new music teacher's straw hat were masses of fine chestnut hair of the very shade and wave that the Old Lady remembered on another head in vanished years; from under those waves looked large, violet-blue eyes with very black lashes and brows -- and the Old Lady knew those eyes as well as she knew her own; and the new music teacher's face, with all its beauty of delicate outline and dainty colouring and glad, buoyant youth, was a face from the Old Lady's past -- a perfect resemblance in every respect save one; the face which the Old Lady remembered had been weak, with all its charm; but this girl's face possessed a fine, dominant strength compact of sweetness and womanliness. As she passed by the Old Lady's hiding place she laughed at something one of the children said; and oh, but the Old Lady knew that laughter well. She had heard it before under that very beech tree.

She watched them until they disappeared over the wooded hill beyond the bridge; and then she went back home as if she walked in a dream. Crooked Jack was delving vigorously in the garden; ordinarily the Old Lady did not talk much with Crooked Jack, for she disliked his weakness for gossip; but now she went into the garden, a stately old figure in her purple, gold-spotted silk, with the sunshine gleaming on her white hair.

Crooked Jack had seen her go out and had remarked to himself that the Old Lady was losing ground; she was pale and peaked-looking. He now concluded that he had been mistaken. The Old Lady's cheeks were pink and her eyes shining. Somewhere in her walk she had shed ten years at least. Crooked Jack leaned on his spade and decided that there weren't many finer looking women anywhere than Old Lady Lloyd. Pity she was such an old miser!

"Mr. Spencer," said the Old Lady graciously -- she always spoke very graciously to her inferiors when she talked to them at all -- "can you tell me the name of the new music teacher who is boarding at Mr. William Spencer's?"

"Sylvia Gray," said Crooked Jack.

The Old Lady's heart gave another great bound. But she had known it -- she had known that girl with Leslie Gray's hair and eyes and laugh must be Leslie Gray's daughter.

Crooked Jack spat on his hand and resumed his work, but his tongue went faster than his spade, and the Old Lady listened greedily. For the first time she enjoyed and blessed Crooked Jack's garrulity and gossip. Every word he uttered was as an apple of gold in a picture of silver to her.

He had been working at William Spencer's the day the new music teacher had come, and what Crooked Jack couldn't find out about any person in one whole day -- at least as far as outward life went -- was hardly worth finding out. Next to discovering things did he love telling them, and it would be hard to say which enjoyed that ensuing half-hour more -- Crooked Jack or the Old Lady.

Crooked Jack's account, boiled down, amounted to this; both Miss Gray's parents had died when she was a baby, she had been brought up by an aunt, she was very poor and very ambitious.

"Wants a moosical eddication," finished up Crooked Jack, "and, by jingo, she orter have it, for anything like the voice of her I never heerd. She sung for us that evening after supper and I thought 'twas an angel singing. It just went through me like a shaft o' light. The Spencer young ones are crazy over her already. She's got twenty pupils around here and in Grafton and Avonlea."

When the Old Lady had found out everything Crooked Jack could tell her, she went into the house and sat down by the window of her little sitting-room to think it all over. She was tingling from head to foot with excitement.

Leslie's daughter! This Old Lady had had her romance once. Long ago -- forty years ago -- she had been engaged to Leslie Gray, a young college student who taught in Spencervale for the summer term one year -- the golden summer of Margaret Lloyd's life. Leslie had been a shy, dreamy, handsome fellow with literary ambitions, which, as he and Margaret both firmly believed, would one day bring him fame and fortune.

Then there had been a foolish, bitter quarrel at the end of that golden summer. Leslie had gone away in anger, afterwards he had written, but Margaret Lloyd, still in the grasp of her pride and resentment, had sent a harsh answer. No more letters came; Leslie Gray never returned; and one day Margaret wakened to the realization that she had put love out of her life for ever. She knew it would never be hers again; and from that moment her feet were turned from youth to walk down the valley of shadow to a lonely, eccentric age.

Many years later she heard of Leslie's marriage; then came news of his death, after a life that had not fulfilled his dreams for him. Nothing more she had heard or known -- nothing to this day, when she had seen his daughter pass her by unseeing in the beech hollow.

"His daughter! And she might have been MY daughter," murmured the Old Lady. "Oh, if I could only know her and love her -- and perhaps win her love in return! But I cannot. I could not have Leslie Gray's daughter know how poor I am -- how low I have been brought. I could not bear that. And to think she is living so near me, the darling -- just up the lane and over the hill. I can see her go by every day -- I can have that dear pleasure, at least. But oh, if I could only do something for her -- give her some little pleasure! It would be such a delight."

When the Old Lady happened to go into her spare room that evening, she saw from it a light shining through a gap in the trees on the hill. She knew that it shone from the Spencers' spare room. So it was Sylvia's light. The Old Lady stood in the darkness and watched it until it went out -- watched it with a great sweetness breathing in her heart, such as risen from old rose-leaves when they are stirred. She fancied Sylvia moving about her room, brushing and braiding her long, glistening hair -- laying aside her little trinkets and girlish adornments -- making her simple preparations for sleep. When the light went out the Old Lady pictured a slight white figure kneeling by the window in the soft starshine, and the Old Lady knelt down then and there and said her own prayers in fellowship. She said the simple form of words she had always used; but a new spirit seemed to inspire them; and she finished with a new petition -- "Let me think of something I can do for her, dear Father -- some little, little thing that I can do for her."

The Old Lady had slept in the same room all her life -- the one looking north into the spruces -- and loved it; but the next day she moved into the spare room without a regret. It was to be her room after this; she must be where she could see Sylvia's light, she put the bed where she could lie in it and look at that earth star which had suddenly shone across the twilight shadows of her heart. She felt very happy, she had not felt happy for many years; but now a strange, new, dream-like interest, remote from the harsh realities of her existence, but none the less comforting and alluring, had entered into her life. Besides, she had thought of something she could do for Sylvia -- "a little, little thing" that might give her pleasure.

Spencervale people were wont to say regretfully that there were no Mayflowers in Spencervale; the Spencervale young fry, when they wanted Mayflowers, thought they had to go over to the barrens at Avonlea, six miles away, for them. Old Lady Lloyd knew better. In her many long, solitary rambles, she had discovered a little clearing far back in the woods -- a southward-sloping, sandy hill on a tract of woodland belonging to a man who lived in town -- which in spring was starred over with the pink and white of arbutus.

To this clearing the Old Lady betook herself that afternoon, walking through wood lanes and under dim spruce arches like a woman with a glad purpose. All at once the spring was dear and beautiful to her once more; for love had entered again into her heart, and her starved soul was feasting on its divine nourishment.

Old Lady Lloyd found a wealth of Mayflowers on the sandy hill. She filled her basket with them, gloating over the loveliness which was to give pleasure to Sylvia. When she got home she wrote on a slip of paper, "For Sylvia." It was not likely anyone in Spencervale would know her handwriting, but, to make sure, she disguised it, writing in round, big letters like a child's. She carried her Mayflowers down to the hollow and heaped them in a recess between the big roots of the old beech, with the little note thrust through a stem on top.

Then the Old Lady deliberately hid behind the spruce clump. She had put on her dark green silk on purpose for hiding. She had not long to wait. Soon Sylvia Gray came down the hill with Mattie Spencer. When she reached the bridge she saw the Mayflowers and gave an exclamation of delight. Then she saw her name and her expression changed to wonder. The Old Lady, peering through the boughs, could have laughed for very pleasure over the success of her little plot.

"For me!" said Sylvia, lifting the flowers. "CAN they really be for me, Mattie? Who could have left them here?"

Mattie giggled.

"I believe it was Chris Stewart," she said. "I know he was over at Avonlea last night. And ma says he's taken a notion to you -- she knows by the way he looked at you when you were singing night before last. It would be just like him to do something queer like this -- he's such a shy fellow with the girls."

Sylvia frowned a little. She did not like Mattie's expressions, but she did like Mayflowers, and she did not dislike Chris Stewart, who had seemed to her merely a nice, modest, country boy. She lifted the flowers and buried her face in them.

"Anyway, I'm much obliged to the giver, whoever he or she is," she said merrily. "There's nothing I love like Mayflowers. Oh, how sweet they are!"

When they had passed the Old Lady emerged from her lurking place, flushed with triumph. It did not vex her that Sylvia should think Chris Stewart had given her the flowers; nay, it was all the better, since she would be the less likely to suspect the real donor. The main thing was that Sylvia should have the delight of them. That quite satisfied the Old Lady, who went back to her lonely house with the cockles of her heart all in a glow.

It soon was a matter of gossip in Spencervale that Chris Stewart was leaving Mayflowers at the beech hollow for the music teacher every other day. Chris himself denied it, but he was not believed. Firstly, there were no Mayflowers in Spencervale; secondly, Chris had to go to Carmody every other day to haul milk to the butter factory, and Mayflowers grew in Carmody, and, thirdly, the Stewarts always had a romantic streak in them. Was not that enough circumstantial evidence for anybody?

As for Sylvia, she did not mind if Chris had a boyish admiration for her and expressed it thus delicately. She thought it very nice of him, indeed, when he did not vex her with any other advances, and she was quite content to enjoy his Mayflowers.

Old Lady Lloyd heard all the gossip about it from the egg pedlar, and listened to him with laughter glimmering far down in her eyes. The egg pedlar went away and vowed he'd never seen the Old Lady so spry as she was this spring; she seemed real interested in the young folk's doings.

The Old Lady kept her secret and grew young in it. She walked back to the Mayflower hill as long as the Mayflowers lasted; and she always hid in the spruces to see Sylvia Gray go by. Every day she loved her more, and yearned after her more deeply. All the long repressed tenderness of her nature overflowed to this girl who was unconscious of it. She was proud of Sylvia's grace and beauty, and sweetness of voice and laughter. She began to like the Spencer children because they worshipped Sylvia; she envied Mrs. Spencer because the latter could minister to Sylvia's needs. Even the egg pedlar seemed a delightful person because he brought news of Sylvia -- her social popularity, her professional success, the love and admiration she had won already.

The Old Lady never dreamed of revealing herself to Sylvia. That, in her poverty, was not to be thought of for a moment. It would have been very sweet to know her -- sweet to have her come to the old house -- sweet to talk to her -- to enter into her life. But it might not be. The Old Lady's pride was still far stronger than her love. It was the one thing she had never sacrificed and never -- so she believed -- could sacrifice.



II. The June Chapter


There were no Mayflowers in June; but now the Old Lady's garden was full of blossoms and every morning Sylvia found a bouquet of them by the beech -- the perfumed ivory of white narcissus, the flame of tulips, the fairy branches of bleeding-heart, the pink-and-snow of little, thorny, single, sweetbreathed early roses. The Old Lady had no fear of discovery, for the flowers that grew in her garden grew in every other Spencervale garden as well, including the Stewart garden. Chris Stewart, when he was teased about the music teacher, merely smiled and held his peace. Chris knew perfectly well who was the real giver of those flowers. He had made it his business to find out when the Mayflower gossip started. But since it was evident Old Lady Lloyd did not wish it to be known, Chris told no one. Chris had always liked Old Lady Lloyd ever since the day, ten years before, when she had found him crying in the woods with a cut foot and had taken him into her house, and bathed and bound the wound, and given him ten cents to buy candy at the store. The Old Lady went without supper that night because of it, but Chris never knew that.

The Old Lady thought it a most beautiful June. She no longer hated the new days; on the contrary, she welcomed them.

"Every day is an uncommon day now," she said jubilantly to herself -- for did not almost every day bring her a glimpse of Sylvia? Even on rainy days the Old Lady gallantly braved rheumatism to hide behind her clump of dripping spruces and watch Sylvia pass. The only days she could not see her were Sundays; and no Sundays had ever seemed so long to Old Lady Lloyd as those June Sundays did.

One day the egg pedlar had news for her.

"The music teacher is going to sing a solo for a collection piece to-morrow," he told her.

The Old Lady's black eyes flashed with interest.

"I didn't know Miss Gray was a member of the choir," she said.

"Jined two Sundays ago. I tell you, our music is something worth listening to now. The church'll be packed to-morrow, I reckon -- her name's gone all over the country for singing. You ought to come and hear it, Miss Lloyd."

The pedlar said this out of bravado, merely to show he wasn't scared of the Old Lady, for all her grand airs. The Old Lady made no answer, and he thought he had offended her. He went away, wishing he hadn't said it. Had he but known it, the Old Lady had forgotten the existence of all and any egg pedlars. He had blotted himself and his insignificance out of her consciousness by his last sentence. All her thoughts, feelings, and wishes were submerged in a very whirlpool of desire to hear Sylvia sing that solo. She went into the house in a tumult and tried to conquer that desire. She could not do it, even thought she summoned all her pride to her aid. Pride said:

"You will have to go to church to hear her. You haven't fit clothes to go to church in. Think what a figure you will make before them all."

But, for the first time, a more insistent voice than pride spoke to her soul -- and, for the first time, the Old Lady listened to it. It was too true that she had never gone to church since the day on which she had to begin wearing her mother's silk dresses. The Old Lady herself thought that this was very wicked; and she tried to atone by keeping Sunday very strictly, and always having a little service of her own, morning and evening. She sang three hymns in her cracked voice, prayed aloud, and read a sermon. But she could not bring herself to go to church in her out-of-date clothes -- she, who had once set the fashions in Spencervale, and the longer she stayed away, the more impossible it seemed that she should ever again go. Now the impossible had become, not only possible, but insistent. She must go to church and hear Sylvia sing, no matter how ridiculous she appeared, no matter how people talked and laughed at her.

Spencervale congregation had a mild sensation the next afternoon. Just before the opening of service Old Lady Lloyd walked up the aisle and sat down in the long-unoccupied Lloyd pew, in front of the pulpit.

The Old Lady's very soul was writhing within her. She recalled the reflection she had seen in her mirror before she left -- the old black silk in the mode of thirty years agone and the queer little bonnet of shirred black satin. She thought how absurd she must look in the eyes of her world.

As a matter of fact, she did not look in the least absurd. Some women might have; but the Old Lady's stately distinction of carriage and figure was so subtly commanding that it did away with the consideration of garmenting altogether.

The Old Lady did not know this. But she did know that Mrs. Kimball, the storekeeper's wife, presently rustled into the next pew in the very latest fashion of fabric and mode; she and Mrs. Kimball were the same age, and there had been a time when the latter had been content to imitate Margaret Lloyd's costumes at a humble distance. But the storekeeper had proposed, and things were changed now; and there sat poor Old Lady Lloyd, feeling the change bitterly, and half wishing she had not come to church at all.

Then all at once the Angel of Love touched these foolish thoughts, born of vanity and morbid pride, and they melted away as if they had never been. Sylvia Gray had come into the choir, and was sitting just where the afternoon sunshine fell over her beautiful hair like a halo. The Old Lady looked at her in a rapture of satisfied longing and thenceforth the service was blessed to her, as anything is blessed which comes through the medium of unselfish love, whether human or divine. Nay, are they not one and the same, differing in degree only, not in kind?

The Old Lady had never had such a good, satisfying look at Sylvia before. All her former glimpses had been stolen and fleeting. Now she sat and gazed upon her to her hungry heart's content, lingering delightedly over every little charm and loveliness -- the way Sylvia's shining hair rippled back from her forehead, the sweet little trick she had of dropping quickly her long-lashed eyelids when she encountered too bold or curious a glance, and the slender, beautifully modelled hands -- so like Leslie Gray's hands -- that held her hymn book. She was dressed very plainly in a black skirt and a white shirtwaist; but none of the other girls in the choir, with all their fine feathers, could hold a candle to her -- as the egg pedlar said to his wife, going home from church.

The Old Lady listened to the opening hymns with keen pleasure. Sylvia's voice thrilled through and dominated them all. But when the ushers got up to take the collection, an undercurrent of subdued excitement flowed over the congregation. Sylvia rose and came forward to Janet Moore's side at the organ. The next moment her beautiful voice soared through the building like the very soul of melody -- true, clear, powerful, sweet. Nobody in Spencervale had ever listened to such a voice, except Old Lady Lloyd herself, who, in her youth, had heard enough good singing to enable her to be a tolerable judge of it. She realized instantly that this girl of her heart had a great gift -- a gift that would some day bring her fame and fortune, if it could be duly trained and developed.

"Oh, I'm so glad I came to church," thought Old Lady Lloyd.

When the solo was ended, the Old Lady's conscience compelled her to drag her eyes and thoughts from Sylvia, and fasten them on the minister, who had been flattering himself all through the opening portion of the service that Old Lady Lloyd had come to church on his account. He was newly settled, having been in charge of the Spencervale congregation only a few months; he was a clever little fellow and he honestly thought it was the fame of his preaching that had brought Old Lady Lloyd out to church.

When the service was over all the Old Lady's neighbours came to speak to her, with kindly smile and handshake. They thought they ought to encourage her, now that she had made a start in the right direction; the Old Lady liked their cordiality, and liked it none the less because she detected in it the same unconscious respect and deference she had been wont to receive in the old days -- a respect and deference which her personality compelled from all who approached her. The Old Lady was surprised to find that she could command it still, in defiance of unfashionable bonnet and ancient attire.

Janet Moore and Sylvia Gray walked home from church together. "Did you see Old Lady Lloyd out to-day?" asked Janet. "I was amazed when she walked in. She has never been to church in my recollection. What a quaint old figure she is! She's very rich, you know, but she wears her mother's old clothes and never gets a new thing. Some people think she is mean; but," concluded Janet charitably, "I believe it is simply eccentricity."

"I felt that was Miss Lloyd as soon as I saw her, although I had never seen her before," said Sylvia dreamily. "I have been wishing to see her -- for a certain reason. She has a very striking face. I should like to meet her -- to know her."

"I don't think it's likely you ever will," said Janet carelessly. "She doesn't like young people and she never goes anywhere. I don't think I'd like to know her. I'd be afraid of her -- she has such stately ways and such strange, piercing eyes."

"I shouldn't be afraid of her," said Sylvia to herself, as she turned into the Spencer lane. "But I don't expect I'll ever become acquainted with her. If she knew who I am I suppose she would dislike me. I suppose she never suspects that I am Leslie Gray's daughter."

The minister, thinking it well to strike while the iron was hot, went up to call on Old Lady Lloyd the very next afternoon. He went in fear and trembling, for he had heard things about Old Lady Lloyd; but she made herself so agreeable in her high-bred fashion that he was delighted, and told his wife when he went home that Spencervale people didn't understand Miss Lloyd. This was perfectly true; but it is by no means certain that the minister understood her either.

He made only one mistake in tact, but, as the Old Lady did not snub him for it, he never knew he made it. When he was leaving he said, "I hope we shall see you at church next Sunday, Miss Lloyd."

"Indeed, you will," said the Old Lady emphatically.



III. The July Chapter


The first day of July Sylvia found a little birch bark boat full of strawberries at the beech in the hollow. They were the earliest of the season; the Old Lady had found them in one of her secret haunts. They would have been a toothsome addition to the Old Lady's own slender bill of fare; but she never thought of eating them. She got far more pleasure out of the thought of Sylvia's enjoying them for her tea. Thereafter the strawberries alternated with the flowers as long as they lasted, and then came blueberries and raspberries. The blueberries grew far away and the Old Lady had many a tramp after them. Sometimes her bones ached at night because of it; but what cared the Old Lady for that? Bone ache is easier to endure than soul ache; and the Old Lady's soul had stopped aching for the first time in many year. It was being nourished with heavenly manna.

One evening Crooked Jack came up to fix something that had gone wrong with the Old Lady's well. The Old Lady wandered affably out to him; for she knew he had been working at the Spencers' all day, and there might be crumbs of information about Sylvia to be picked up.

"I reckon the music teacher's feeling pretty blue this evening," Crooked Jack remarked, after straining the Old Lady's patience to the last verge of human endurance by expatiating on William Spencer's new pump, and Mrs. Spencer's new washing-machine, and Amelia Spencer's new young man.

"Why?" asked the Old Lady, turning very pale. Had anything happened to Sylvia?

"Well, she's been invited to a big party at Mrs. Moore's brother's in town, and she hasn't got a dress to go in," said Crooked Jack. "They're great swells and everybody will be got up regardless. Mrs. Spencer was telling me about it. She says Miss Gray can't afford a new dress because she's helping to pay her aunt's doctor's bills. She says she's sure Miss Gray feels awful disappointed over it, though she doesn't let on. But Mrs. Spencer says she knows she was crying after she went to bed last night."

The Old Lady turned and went into the house abruptly. This was dreadful. Sylvia must go to that party -- she MUST. But how was it to be managed? Through the Old Lady's brain passed wild thoughts of her mother's silk dresses. But none of them would be suitable, even if there were time to make one over. Never had the Old Lady so bitterly regretted her vanished wealth.

"I've only two dollars in the house," she said, "and I've got to live on that till the next day the egg pedlar comes round. Is there anything I can sell -- ANYTHING? Yes, yes, the grape jug!"

Up to this time, the Old Lady would as soon have thought of trying to sell her head as the grape jug. The grape jug was two hundred years old and had been in the Lloyd family ever since it was a jug at all. It was a big, pot-bellied affair, festooned with pink-gilt grapes, and with a verse of poetry printed on one side, and it had been given as a wedding present to the Old Lady's great-grandmother. As long as the Old Lady could remember it had sat on the top shelf in the cupboard in the sitting-room wall, far too precious ever to be used.

Two years before, a woman who collected old china had explored Spencervale, and, getting word of the grape jug, had boldly invaded the old Lloyd place and offered to buy it. She never, to her dying day, forgot the reception the Old Lady gave her; but, being wise in her day and generation, she left her card, saying that if Miss Lloyd ever changed her mind about selling the jug, she would find that she, the aforesaid collector, had not changed hers about buying it. People who make a hobby of heirloom china must meekly overlook snubs, and this particular person had never seen anything she coveted so much as that grape jug.

The Old Lady had torn the card to pieces; but she remembered the name and address. She went to the cupboard and took down the beloved jug.

"I never thought to part with it," she said wistfully, "but Sylvia must have a dress, and there is no other way. And, after all, when I'm gone, who would there be to have it? Strangers would get it then -- it might as well go to them now. I'll have to go to town to-morrow morning, for there's no time to lose if the party is Friday night. I haven't been to town for ten years. I dread the thought of going, more than parting with the jug. But for Sylvia's sake!"

It was all over Spencervale by the next morning that Old Lady Lloyd had gone to town, carrying a carefully guarded box. Everybody wondered why she went; most people supposed she had become too frightened to keep her money in a black box below her bed, when there had been two burglaries over at Carmody, and had taken it to the bank.

The Old Lady sought out the address of the china collector, trembling with fear that she might be dead or gone. But the collector was there, very much alive, and as keenly anxious to possess the grape jug as ever. The Old Lady, pallid with the pain of her trampled pride, sold the grape jug and went away, believing that her great-grandmother must have turned over in her grave at the moment of the transaction. Old Lady Lloyd felt like a traitor to her traditions.

But she went unflinchingly to a big store and, guided by that special Providence which looks after simple-minded old souls in their dangerous excursions into the world, found a sympathetic clerk who knew just what she wanted and got it for her. The Old Lady selected a very dainty muslin gown, with gloves and slippers in keeping; and she ordered it sent at once, expressage prepaid, to Miss Sylvia Gray, in care of William Spencer, Spencervale.

Then she paid down the money -- the whole price of the jug, minus a dollar and a half for railroad fare -- with a grand, careless air and departed. As she marched erectly down the aisle of the store, she encountered a sleek, portly, prosperous man coming in. As their eyes met, the man started and his bland face flushed crimson; he lifted his hat and bowed confusedly. But the Old Lady looked through him as if he wasn't there, and passed on with not a sign of recognition about her. He took one step after her, then stopped and turned away, with a rather disagreeable smile and a shrug of his shoulders.

Nobody would have guessed, as the Old Lady swept out, how her heart was seething with abhorrence and scorn. She would not have had the courage to come to town, even for Sylvia's sake, if she had thought she would meet Andrew Cameron. The mere sight of him opened up anew a sealed fountain of bitterness in her soul; but the thought of Sylvia somehow stemmed the torrent, and presently the Old Lady was smiling rather triumphantly, thinking rightly that she had come off best in that unwelcome encounter. SHE, at any rate, had not faltered and coloured, and lost her presence of mind.

"It is little wonder HE did," thought the Old Lady vindictively. It pleased her that Andrew Cameron should lose, before her, the front of adamant he presented to the world. He was her cousin and the only living creature Old Lady Lloyd hated, and she hated and despised him with all the intensity of her intense nature. She and hers had sustained grievous wrong at his hands, and the Old Lady was convinced that she would rather die than take any notice of his existence.

Presently, she resolutely put Andrew Cameron out of her mind. It was desecration to think of him and Sylvia together. When she laid her weary head on her pillow that night she was so happy that even the thought of the vacant shelf in the room below, where the grape jug had always been, gave her only a momentary pang.

"It's sweet to sacrifice for one we love -- it's sweet to have someone to sacrifice for," thought the Old Lady.

Desire grows by what it feeds on. The Old Lady thought she was content; but Friday evening came and found her in a perfect fever to see Sylvia in her party dress. It was not enough to fancy her in it; nothing would do the Old Lady but seeing her.

"And I SHALL see her," said the Old Lady resolutely, looking out from her window at Sylvia's light gleaming through the firs. She wrapped herself in a dark shawl and crept out, slipping down to the hollow and up the wood lane. It was a misty, moonlight night, and a wind, fragrant with the aroma of clover fields, blew down the lane to meet her.

"I wish I could take your perfume -- the soul of you -- and pour it into her life," said the Old Lady aloud to that wind.

Sylvia Gray was standing in her room, ready for the party. Before her stood Mrs. Spencer and Amelia Spencer and all the little Spencer girls, in an admiring semi-circle. There was another spectator. Outside, under the lilac bush, Old Lady Lloyd was standing. She could see Sylvia plainly, in her dainty dress, with the pale pink roses Old Lady Lloyd had left at the beech that day for her in her hair. Pink as they were, they were not so pink as her cheeks, and her eyes shone like stars. Amelia Spencer put up her hand to push back a rose that had fallen a little out of place, and the Old Lady envied her fiercely.

"That dress couldn't have fitted better if it had been made for you," said Mrs. Spencer admiringly. "Ain't she lovely, Amelia? Who COULD have sent it?"

"Oh, I feel sure that Mrs. Moore was the fairy godmother," said Sylvia. "There is nobody else who would. It was dear of her -- she knew I wished so much to go to the party with Janet. I wish Aunty could see me now." Sylvia gave a little sigh in spite of her joy. "There's nobody else to care very much."

Ah, Sylvia, you were wrong! There was somebody else -- somebody who cared very much -- an Old Lady, with eager, devouring eyes, who was standing under the lilac bush and who presently stole away through the moonlit orchard to the woods like a shadow, going home with a vision of you in your girlish beauty to companion her through the watches of that summer night.



IV. The August Chapter


One day the minister's wife rushed in where Spencervale people had feared to tread, went boldly to Old Lady Lloyd, and asked her if she wouldn't come to their Sewing Circle, which met fortnightly on Saturday afternoons.

"We are filling a box to send to our Trinidad missionary," said the minister's wife, "and we should be so pleased to have you come, Miss Lloyd."

The Old Lady was on the point of refusing rather haughtily. Not that she was opposed to missions -- or sewing circles either -- quite the contrary, but she knew that each member of the Circle was expected to pay ten cents a week for the purpose of procuring sewing materials; and the poor Old Lady really did not see how she could afford it. But a sudden thought checked her refusal before it reached her lips.

"I suppose some of the young girls go to the Circle?" she said craftily.

"Oh, they all go," said the minister's wife. "Janet Moore and Miss Gray are our most enthusiastic members. It is very lovely of Miss Gray to give her Saturday afternoons -- the only ones she has free from pupils -- to our work. But she really has the sweetest disposition."

"I'll join your Circle," said the Old Lady promptly. She was determined she would do it, if she had to live on two meals a day to save the necessary fee.

She went to the Sewing Circle at James Martin's the next Saturday, and did the most beautiful hand sewing for them. She was so expert at it that she didn't need to think about it at all, which was rather fortunate, for all her thoughts were taken up with Sylvia, who sat in the opposite corner with Janet Moore, her graceful hands busy with a little boy's coarse gingham shirt. Nobody thought of introducing Sylvia to Old Lady Lloyd, and the Old Lady was glad of it. She sewed finely away, and listened with all her ears to the girlish chatter which went on in the opposite corner. One thing she found out -- Sylvia's birthday was the twentieth of August. And the Old Lady was straightway fired with a consuming wish to give Sylvia a birthday present. She lay awake most of the night wondering if she could do it, and most sorrowfully concluded that it was utterly out of the question, no matter how she might pinch and contrive. Old Lady Lloyd worried quite absurdly over this, and it haunted her like a spectre until the next Sewing Circle day.

It met at Mrs. Moore's and Mrs. Moore was especially gracious to Old Lady Lloyd, and insisted on her taking the wicker rocker in the parlour. The Old Lady would rather have been in the sitting-room with the young girls, but she submitted for courtesy's sake -- and she had her reward. Her chair was just behind the parlour door, and presently Janet Moore and Sylvia Gray came and sat on the stairs in the hall outside, where a cool breeze blew in through the maples before the front door.

They were talking of their favourite poets. Janet, it appeared, adored Byron and Scott. Sylvia leaned to Tennyson and Browning.

"Do you know," said Sylvia softly, "my father was a poet? He published a little volume of verse once; and, Janet, I've never seen a copy of it, and oh, how I would love to! It was published when he was at college -- just a small, private edition to give his friends. He never published any more -- poor father! I think life disappointed him. But I have such a longing to see that little book of his verse. I haven't a scrap of his writings. If I had it would seem as if I possessed something of him -- of his heart, his soul, his inner life. He would be something more than a mere name to me."

"Didn't he have a copy of his own -- didn't your mother have one?" asked Janet.

"Mother hadn't. She died when I was born, you know, but Aunty says there was no copy of father's poems among mother's books. Mother didn't care for poetry, Aunty says -- Aunty doesn't either. Father went to Europe after mother died, and he died there the next year. Nothing that he had with him was ever sent home to us. He had sold most of his books before he went, but he gave a few of his favourite ones to Aunty to keep for me. HIS book wasn't among them. I don't suppose I shall ever find a copy, but I should be so delighted if I only could."

When the Old Lady got home she took from her top bureau drawer an inlaid box of sandalwood. It held a little, slim, limp volume, wrapped in tissue paper -- the Old Lady's most treasured possession. On the fly-leaf was written, "To Margaret, with the author's love."

The Old Lady turned the yellow leaves with trembling fingers and, through eyes brimming with tears, read the verses, although she had known them all by heart for years. She meant to give the book to Sylvia for a birthday present -- one of the most precious gifts ever given, if the value of gifts is gauged by the measure of self-sacrifice involved. In that little book was immortal love -- old laughter -- old tears -- old beauty which had bloomed like a rose years ago, holding still its sweetness like old rose leaves. She removed the telltale fly-leaf; and late on the night before Sylvia's birthday, the Old Lady crept, under cover of the darkness, through byways and across fields, as if bent on some nefarious expedition, to the little Spencervale store where the post-office was kept. She slipped the thin parcel through the slit in the door, and then stole home again, feeling a strange sense of loss and loneliness. It was as if she had given away the last link between herself and her youth. But she did not regret it. It would give Sylvia pleasure, and that had come to be the overmastering passion of the Old Lady's heart.

The next night the light in Sylvia's room burned very late, and the Old Lady watched it triumphantly, knowing the meaning of it. Sylvia was reading her father's poems, and the Old Lady in her darkness read them too, murmuring the lines over and over to herself. After all, giving away the book had not mattered so very much. She had the soul of it still -- and the fly-leaf with the name, in Leslie's writing, by which nobody ever called her now.

The Old Lady was sitting on the Marshall sofa the next Sewing Circle afternoon when Sylvia Gray came and sat down beside her. The Old Lady's hands trembled a little, and one side of a handkerchief, which was afterwards given as a Christmas present to a little olive-skinned coolie in Trinidad, was not quite so exquisitely done as the other three sides.

Sylvia at first talked of the Circle, and Mrs. Marshall's dahlias, and the Old Lady was in the seventh heaven of delight, though she took care not to show it, and was even a little more stately and finely mannered than usual. When she asked Sylvia how she liked living in Spencervale, Sylvia said,

"Very much. Everybody is so kind to me. Besides" -- Sylvia lowered her voice so that nobody but the Old Lady could hear it -- "I have a fairy godmother here who does the most beautiful and wonderful things for me."

Sylvia, being a girl of fine instincts, did not look at Old Lady Lloyd as she said this. But she would not have seen anything if she had looked. The Old Lady was not a Lloyd for nothing.

"How very interesting," she said, indifferently.

"Isn't it? I am so grateful to her and I have wished so much she might know how much pleasure she has given me. I have found lovely flowers and delicious berries on my path all summer; I feel sure she sent me my party dress. But the dearest gift came last week on my birthday -- a little volume of my father's poems. I can't express what I felt on receiving them. But I longed to meet my fairy godmother and thank her."

"Quite a fascinating mystery, isn't it? Have you really no idea who she is?"

The Old Lady asked this dangerous question with marked success. She would not have been so successful if she had not been so sure that Sylvia had no idea of the old romance between her and Leslie Gray. As it was, she had a comfortable conviction that she herself was the very last person Sylvia would be likely to suspect.

Sylvia hesitated for an almost unnoticeable moment. Then she said, "I haven't tried to find out, because I don't think she wants me to know. At first, of course, in the matter of the flowers and dress, I did try to solve the mystery; but, since I received the book, I became convinced that it was my fairy godmother who was doing it all, and I have respected her wish for concealment and always shall. Perhaps some day she will reveal herself to me. I hope so, at least."

"I wouldn't hope it," said the Old Lady discouragingly. "Fairy godmothers -- at least, in all the fairy tales I ever read -- are somewhat apt to be queer, crochety people, much more agreeable when wrapped up in mystery than when met face to face."

"I'm convinced that mine is the very opposite, and that the better I became acquainted with her, the more charming a personage I should find her," said Sylvia gaily.

Mrs. Marshall came up at this juncture and entreated Miss Gray to sing for them. Miss Gray consenting sweetly, the Old Lady was left alone and was rather glad of it. She enjoyed her conversation with Sylvia much more in thinking it over after she got home than while it was taking place. When an Old Lady has a guilty conscience, it is apt to make her nervous and distract her thoughts from immediate pleasure. She wondered a little uneasily if Sylvia really did suspect her. Then she concluded that it was out of the question. Who would suspect a mean, unsociable Old Lady, who had no friends, and who gave only five cents to the Sewing Circle when everyone else gave ten or fifteen, to be a fairy godmother, the donor of beautiful party dresses, and the recipient of gifts from romantic, aspiring young poets?



V. The September Chapter


In September the Old Lady looked back on the summer and owned to herself that it had been a strangely happy one, with Sundays and Sewing Circle days standing out like golden punctuation marks in a poem of life. She felt like an utterly different woman; and other people thought her different also. The Sewing Circle women found her so pleasant, and even friendly, that they began to think they had misjudged her, and that perhaps it was eccentricity after all, and not meanness, which accounted for her peculiar mode of living. Sylvia Gray always came and talked to her on Circle afternoons now, and the Old Lady treasured every word she said in her heart and repeated them over and over to her lonely self in the watches of the night.

Sylvia never talked of herself or her plans, unless asked about them; and the Old Lady's self-consciousness prevented her from asking any personal questions: so their conversation kept to the surface of things, and it was not from Sylvia, but from the minister's wife that the Old Lady finally discovered what her darling's dearest ambition was.

The minister's wife had dropped in at the old Lloyd place one evening late in September, when a chilly wind was blowing up from the northeast and moaning about the eaves of the house, as if the burden of its lay were "harvest is ended and summer is gone." The Old Lady had been listening to it, as she plaited a little basket of sweet grass for Sylvia. She had walked all the way to Avonlea sand-hills for it the day before, and she was very tired. And her heart was sad. This summer, which had so enriched her life, was almost over; and she knew that Sylvia Gray talked of leaving Spencervale at the end of October. The Old Lady's heart felt like very lead within her at the thought, and she almost welcomed the advent of the minister's wife as a distraction, although she was desperately afraid that the minister's wife had called to ask for a subscription for the new vestry carpet, and the Old Lady simply could not afford to give one cent.

But the minister's wife had merely dropped in on her way home from the Spencers' and she did not make any embarrassing requests. Instead, she talked about Sylvia Gray, and her words fell on the Old Lady's ears like separate pearl notes of unutterably sweet music. The minister's wife had nothing but praise for Sylvia -- she was so sweet and beautiful and winning.

"And with SUCH a voice," said the minister's wife enthusiastically, adding with a sigh, "It's such a shame she can't have it properly trained. She would certainly become a great singer -- competent critics have told her so. But she is so poor she doesn't think she can ever possibly manage it -- unless she can get one of the Cameron scholarships, as they are called; and she has very little hope of that, although the professor of music who taught her has sent her name in."

"What are the Cameron scholarships?" asked the Old Lady.

"Well, I suppose you have heard of Andrew Cameron, the millionaire?" said the minister's wife, serenely unconscious that she was causing the very bones of the Old Lady's family skeleton to jangle in their closet.

Into the Old Lady's white face came a sudden faint stain of colour, as if a rough hand had struck her cheek.

"Yes, I've heard of him," she said.

"Well, it seems that he had a daughter, who was a very beautiful girl, and whom he idolized. She had a fine voice, and he was going to send her abroad to have it trained. And she died. It nearly broke his heart, I understand. But ever since, he sends one young girl away to Europe every year for a thorough musical education under the best teachers -- in memory of his daughter. He has sent nine or ten already; but I fear there isn't much chance for Sylvia Gray, and she doesn't think there is herself."

"Why not?" asked the Old Lady spiritedly. "I am sure that there can be few voices equal to Miss Gray's."

"Very true. But you see, these so-called scholarships are private affairs, dependent solely on the whim and choice of Andrew Cameron himself. Of course, when a girl has friends who use their influence with him, he will often send her on their recommendation. They say he sent a girl last year who hadn't much of a voice at all just because her father had been an old business crony of his. But Sylvia doesn't know anyone at all who would, to use a slang term, have any 'pull' with Andrew Cameron, and she is not acquainted with him herself. Well, I must be going; we'll see you at the Manse on Saturday, I hope, Miss Lloyd. The Circle meets there, you know."

"Yes, I know," said the Old Lady absently. When the minister's wife had gone, she dropped her sweetgrass basket and sat for a long, long time with her hands lying idly in her lap, and her big black eyes staring unseeingly at the wall before her.

Old Lady Lloyd, so pitifully poor that she had to eat six crackers the less a week to pay her fee to the Sewing Circle, knew that it was in her power -- HERS -- to send Leslie Gray's daughter to Europe for her musical education! If she chose to use her "pull" with Andrew Cameron -- if she went to him and asked him to send Sylvia Gray abroad the next year -- she had no doubt whatever that it would be done. It all lay with her -- if -- if -- IF she could so far crush and conquer her pride as to stoop to ask a favour of the man who had wronged her and hers so bitterly.

Years ago, her father, acting under the advice and urgency of Andrew Cameron, had invested all his little fortune in an enterprise that had turned out a failure. Abraham Lloyd lost every dollar he possessed, and his family were reduced to utter poverty. Andrew Cameron might have been forgiven for a mistake; but there was a strong suspicion, amounting to almost certainty, that he had been guilty of something far worse than a mistake in regard to his uncle's investment. Nothing could be legally proved; but it was certain that Andrew Cameron, already noted for his "sharp practices," emerged with improved finances from an entanglement that had ruined many better men; and old Doctor Lloyd had died brokenhearted, believing that his nephew had deliberately victimized him.

Andrew Cameron had not quite done this; he had meant well enough by his uncle at first, and what he had finally done he tried to justify to himself by the doctrine that a man must look out for Number One.

Margaret Lloyd made no such excuses for him; she held him responsible, not only for her lost fortune, but for her father's death, and never forgave him for it. When Abraham Lloyd had died, Andrew Cameron, perhaps pricked by his conscience, had come to her, sleekly and smoothly, to offer her financial aid. He would see, he told her, that she never suffered want.

Margaret Lloyd flung his offer back in his face after a fashion that left nothing to be desired in the way of plain speaking. She would die, she told him passionately, before she would accept a penny or a favour from him. He had preserved an unbroken show of good temper, expressed his heartfelt regret that she should cherish such an unjust opinion of him, and had left her with an oily assurance that he would always be her friend, and would always be delighted to render her any assistance in his power whenever she should choose to ask for it.

The Old Lady had lived for twenty years in the firm conviction that she would die in the poorhouse -- as, indeed, seemed not unlikely -- before she would ask a favour of Andrew Cameron. And so, in truth, she would have, had it been for herself. But for Sylvia! Could she so far humble herself for Sylvia's sake?

The question was not easily or speedily settled, as had been the case in the matters of the grape jug and the book of poems. For a whole week the Old Lady fought her pride and bitterness. Sometimes, in the hours of sleepless night, when all human resentments and rancours seemed petty and contemptible, she thought she had conquered it. But in the daytime, with the picture of her father looking down at her from the wall, and the rustle of her unfashionable dresses, worn because of Andrew Cameron's double dealing, in her ears, it got the better of her again.

But the Old Lady's love for Sylvia had grown so strong and deep and tender that no other feeling could endure finally against it. Love is a great miracle worker; and never had its power been more strongly made manifest than on the cold, dull autumn morning when the Old Lady walked to Bright River railway station and took the train to Charlottetown, bent on an errand the very thought of which turned her soul sick within her. The station master who sold her her ticket thought Old Lady Lloyd looked uncommonly white and peaked -- "as if she hadn't slept a wink or eaten a bite for a week," he told his wife at dinner time. "Guess there's something wrong in her business affairs. This is the second time she's gone to town this summer."

When the Old Lady reached the town, she ate her slender little lunch and then walked out to the suburb where the Cameron factories and warehouses were. It was a long walk for her, but she could not afford to drive. She felt very tired when she was shown into the shining, luxurious office where Andrew Cameron sat at his desk.

After the first startled glance of surprise, he came forward beamingly, with outstretched hand.

"Why, Cousin Margaret! This is a pleasant surprise. Sit down -- allow me, this is a much more comfortable chair. Did you come in this morning? And how is everybody out in Spencervale?"

The Old Lady had flushed at his first words. To hear the name by which her father and mother and lover had called her on Andrew Cameron's lips seemed like profanation. But, she told herself, the time was past for squeamishness. If she could ask a favour of Andrew Cameron, she could bear lesser pangs. For Sylvia's sake she shook hands with him, for Sylvia's sake she sat down in the chair he offered. But for no living human being's sake could this determined Old Lady infuse any cordiality into her manner or her words. She went straight to the point with Lloyd simplicity.

"I have come to ask a favour of you," she said, looking him in the eye, not at all humbly or meekly, as became a suppliant, but challengingly and defiantly, as if she dared him to refuse.

"DE-lighted to hear it, Cousin Margaret." Never was anything so bland and gracious as his tone. "Anything I can do for you I shall be only too pleased to do. I am afraid you have looked upon me as an enemy, Margaret, and I assure you I have felt your injustice keenly. I realize that some appearances were against me, but -- "

The Old Lady lifted her hand and stemmed his eloquence by that one gesture.

"I did not come here to discuss that matter," she said. "We will not refer to the past, if you please. I came to ask a favour, not for myself, but for a very dear young friend of mine -- a Miss Gray, who has a remarkably fine voice which she wishes to have trained. She is poor, so I came to ask you if you would give her one of your musical scholarships. I understand her name has already been suggested to you, with a recommendation from her teacher. I do not know what he has said of her voice, but I do know he could hardly overrate it. If you send her abroad for training, you will not make any mistake."

The Old Lady stopped talking. She felt sure Andrew Cameron would grant her request, but she did hope he would grant it rather rudely or unwillingly. She could accept the favour so much more easily if it were flung to her like a bone to a dog. But not a bit of it. Andrew Cameron was suaver than ever. Nothing could give him greater pleasure than to grant his dear Cousin Margaret's request -- he only wished it involved more trouble on his part. Her little protege should have her musical education assuredly -- she should go abroad next year -- and he was DE-lighted -- 

"Thank you," said the Old Lady, cutting him short again. "I am much obliged to you -- and I ask you not to let Miss Gray know anything of my interference. And I shall not take up any more of your valuable time. Good afternoon."

"Oh, you mustn't go so soon," he said, with some real kindness or clannishness permeating the hateful cordiality of his voice -- for Andrew Cameron was not entirely without the homely virtues of the average man. He had been a good husband and father; he had once been very fond of his Cousin Margaret; and he was really very sorry that "circumstances" had "compelled" him to act as he had done in that old affair of her father's investment. "You must be my guest to-night."

"Thank you. I must return home to-night," said the Old Lady firmly, and there was that in her tone which told Andrew Cameron that it would be useless to urge her. But he insisted on telephoning for his carriage to drive her to the station. The Old Lady submitted to this, because she was secretly afraid her own legs would not suffice to carry her there; she even shook hands with him at parting, and thanked him a second time for granting her request.

"Not at all," he said. "Please try to think a little more kindly of me, Cousin Margaret."

When the Old Lady reached the station she found, to her dismay, that her train had just gone and that she would have to wait two hours for the evening one. She went into the waiting-room and sat down. She was very tired. All the excitement that had sustained her was gone, and she felt weak and old. She had nothing to eat, having expected to get home in time for tea; the waiting-room was chilly, and she shivered in her thin, old, silk mantilla. Her head ached and her heart likewise. She had won Sylvia's desire for her; but Sylvia would go out of her life, and the Old Lady did not see how she was to go on living after that. Yet she sat there unflinchingly for two hours, an upright, indomitable old figure, silently fighting her losing battle with the forces of physical and mental pain, while happy people came and went, and laughed and talked before her.

At eight o'clock the Old Lady got off the train at Bright River station, and slipped off unnoticed into the darkness of the wet night. She had two miles to walk, and a cold rain was falling. Soon the Old Lady was wet to the skin and chilled to the marrow. She felt as if she were walking in a bad dream. Blind instinct alone guided her over the last mile and up the lane to her own house. As she fumbled at her door, she realized that a burning heat had suddenly taken the place of her chilliness. She stumbled in over her threshold and closed the door.



VI. The October Chapter


On the second morning after Old Lady Lloyd's journey to town, Sylvia Gray was walking blithely down the wood lane. It was a beautiful autumn morning, clear and crisp and sunny; the frosted ferns, drenched and battered with the rain of yesterday, gave out a delicious fragrance; here and there in the woods a maple waved a gay crimson banner, or a branch of birch showed pale golden against the dark, unchanging spruces. The air was very pure and exhilarating. Sylvia walked with a joyous lightness of step and uplift of brow.

At the beech in the hollow she paused for an expectant moment, but there was nothing among the gray old roots for her. She was just turning away when little Teddy Kimball, who lived next door to the manse, came running down the slope from the direction of the old Lloyd place. Teddy's freckled face was very pale.

"Oh, Miss Gray!" he gasped. "I guess Old Lady Lloyd has gone clean crazy at last. The minister's wife asked me to run up to the Old Lady, with a message about the Sewing Circle -- and I knocked -- and knocked -- and nobody came -- so I thought I'd just step in and leave the letter on the table. But when I opened the door, I heard an awful queer laugh in the sitting-room, and next minute, the Old Lady came to the sitting-room door. Oh, Miss Gray, she looked awful. Her face was red and her eyes awful wild -- and she was muttering and talking to herself and laughing like mad. I was so scared I just turned and run."

Sylvia, without stopping for reflection, caught Teddy's hand and ran up the slope. It did not occur to her to be frightened, although she thought with Teddy that the poor, lonely, eccentric Old Lady had really gone out of her mind at last.

The Old Lady was sitting on the kitchen sofa when Sylvia entered. Teddy, too frightened to go in, lurked on the step outside. The Old Lady still wore the damp black silk dress in which she had walked from the station. Her face was flushed, her eyes wild, her voice hoarse. But she knew Sylvia and cowered down.

"Don't look at me," she moaned. "Please go away -- I can't bear that YOU should know how poor I am. You're to go to Europe -- Andrew Cameron is going to send you -- I asked him -- he couldn't refuse ME. But please go away."

Sylvia did not go away. At a glance she had seen that this was sickness and delirium, not insanity. She sent Teddy off in hot haste for Mrs. Spencer and when Mrs. Spencer came they induced the Old Lady to go to bed, and sent for the doctor. By night everybody in Spencervale knew that Old Lady Lloyd had pneumonia.

Mrs. Spencer announced that she meant to stay and nurse the Old Lady. Several other women offered assistance. Everybody was kind and thoughtful. But the Old Lady did not know it. She did not even know Sylvia Gray, who came and sat by her every minute she could spare. Sylvia Gray now knew all that she had suspected -- the Old Lady was her fairy godmother. The Old Lady babbled of Sylvia incessantly, revealing all her love for her, betraying all the sacrifices she had made. Sylvia's heart ached with love and tenderness, and she prayed earnestly that the Old Lady might recover.

"I want her to know that I give her love for love," she murmured.

Everybody knew now how poor the Old Lady really was. She let slip all the jealously guarded secrets of her existence, except her old love for Leslie Gray. Even in delirium something sealed her lips as to that. But all else came out -- her anguish over her unfashionable attire, her pitiful makeshifts and contrivances, her humiliation over wearing unfashionable dresses and paying only five cents where every other Sewing Circle member paid ten. The kindly women who waited on her listened to her with tear-filled eyes, and repented of their harsh judgments in the past.

"But who would have thought it?" said Mrs. Spencer to the minister's wife. "Nobody ever dreamed that her father had lost ALL his money, though folks supposed he had lost some in that old affair of the silver mine out west. It's shocking to think of the way she has lived all these years, often with not enough to eat -- and going to bed in winter days to save fuel. Though I suppose if we had known we couldn't have done much for her, she's so desperate proud. But if she lives, and will let us help her, things will be different after this. Crooked Jack says he'll never forgive himself for taking pay for the few little jobs he did for her. He says, if she'll only let him, he'll do everything she wants done for her after this for nothing. Ain't it strange what a fancy she's took to Miss Gray? Think of her doing all those things for her all summer, and selling the grape jug and all. Well, the Old Lady certainly isn't mean, but nobody made a mistake in calling her queer. It all does seem desperate pitiful. Miss Gray's taking it awful hard. She seems to think about as much of the Old Lady as the Old Lady thinks of her. She's so worked up she don't even seem to care about going to Europe next year. She's really going -- she's had word from Andrew Cameron. I'm awful glad, for there never was a sweeter girl in the world; but she says it will cost too much if the Old Lady's life is to pay for it."

Andrew Cameron heard of the Old Lady's illness and came out to Spencervale himself. He was not allowed to see the Old Lady, of course; but he told all concerned that no expense or trouble was to be spared, and the Spencervale doctor was instructed to send his bill to Andrew Cameron and hold his peace about it. Moreover, when Andrew Cameron went back home, he sent a trained nurse out to wait on the Old Lady, a capable, kindly woman who contrived to take charge of the case without offending Mrs. Spencer -- than which no higher tribute could be paid to her tact!

The Old Lady did not die -- the Lloyd constitution brought her through. One day, when Sylvia came in, the Old Lady smiled up at her, with a weak, faint, sensible smile, and murmured her name, and the nurse said that the crisis was past.

The Old Lady made a marvellously patient and tractable invalid. She did just as she was told, and accepted the presence of the nurse as a matter of course.

But one day, when she was strong enough to talk a little, she said to Sylvia,

"I suppose Andrew Cameron sent Miss Hayes here, did he?" "Yes," said Sylvia, rather timidly.

The Old Lady noticed the timidity and smiled, with something of her old humour and spirit in her black eyes.

"Time has been when I'd have packed off unceremoniously any person Andrew Cameron sent here," she said. "But, Sylvia, I have gone through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, and I have left pride and resentment behind me for ever, I hope. I no longer feel as I felt towards Andrew. I can even accept a personal favour from him now. At last I can forgive him for the wrong he did me and mine. Sylvia, I find that I have been letting no ends of cats out of bags in my illness. Everybody knows now how poor I am -- but I don't seem to mind it a bit. I'm only sorry that I ever shut my neighbours out of my life because of my foolish pride. Everyone has been so kind to me, Sylvia. In the future, if my life is spared, it is going to be a very different sort of life. I'm going to open it to all the kindness and companionship I can find in young and old. I'm going to help them all I can and let them help me. I CAN help people -- I've learned that money isn't the only power for helping people. Anyone who has sympathy and understanding to give has a treasure that is without money and without price. And oh, Sylvia, you've found out what I never meant you to know. But I don't mind that now, either."

Sylvia took the Old Lady's thin white hand and kissed it.

"I can never thank you enough for what you have done for me, dearest Miss Lloyd," she said earnestly. "And I am so glad that all mystery is done away with between us, and I can love you as much and as openly as I have longed to do. I am so glad and so thankful that you love me, dear fairy godmother."

"Do you know WHY I love you so?" said the Old Lady wistfully. "Did I let THAT out in my raving, too?"

"No, but I think I know. It is because I am Leslie Gray's daughter, isn't it? I know that father loved you -- his brother, Uncle Willis, told me all about it."

"I spoiled my own life because of my wicked pride," said the Old Lady sadly. "But you will love me in spite of it all, won't you, Sylvia? And you will come to see me sometimes? And write me after you go away?"

"I am coming to see you every day," said Sylvia. "I am going to stay in Spencervale for a whole year yet, just to be near you. And next year when I go to Europe -- thanks to you, fairy godmother -- I'll write you every day. We are going to be the best of chums, and we are going to have a most beautiful year of comradeship!"

The Old Lady smiled contentedly. Out in the kitchen, the minister's wife, who had brought up a dish of jelly, was talking to Mrs. Spencer about the Sewing Circle. Through the open window, where the red vines hung, came the pungent, sun-warm October air. The sunshine fell over Sylvia's chestnut hair like a crown of glory and youth.

"I do feel so perfectly happy," said the Old Lady, with a long, rapturous breath.



III. Each In His Own Tongue


The honey-tinted autumn sunshine was falling thickly over the crimson and amber maples around old Abel Blair's door. There was only one outer door in old Abel's house, and it almost always stood wide open. A little black dog, with one ear missing and a lame forepaw, almost always slept on the worn red sandstone slab which served old Abel for a doorstep; and on the still more worn sill above it a large gray cat almost always slept. Just inside the door, on a bandy-legged chair of elder days, old Abel almost always sat.

He was sitting there this afternoon -- a little old man, sadly twisted with rheumatism; his head was abnormally large, thatched with long, wiry black hair; his face was heavily lined and swarthily sunburned; his eyes were deep-set and black, with occasional peculiar golden flashes in them. A strange looking man was old Abel Blair; and as strange was he as he looked. Lower Carmody people would have told you.

Old Abel was almost always sober in these, his later years. He was sober to-day. He liked to bask in that ripe sunlight as well as his dog and cat did; and in such baskings he almost always looked out of his doorway at the far, fine blue sky over the tops of the crowding maples. But to-day he was not looking at the sky, instead, he was staring at the black, dusty rafters of his kitchen, where hung dried meats and strings of onions and bunches of herbs and fishing tackle and guns and skins.

But old Abel saw not these things; his face was the face of a man who beholds visions, compact of heavenly pleasure and hellish pain, for old Abel was seeing what he might have been -- and what he was; as he always saw when Felix Moore played to him on the violin. And the awful joy of dreaming that he was young again, with unspoiled life before him, was so great and compelling that it counterbalanced the agony in the realization of a dishonoured old age, following years in which he had squandered the wealth of his soul in ways where Wisdom lifted not her voice.

Felix Moore was standing opposite to him, before an untidy stove, where the noon fire had died down into pallid, scattered ashes. Under his chin he held old Abel's brown, battered fiddle; his eyes, too, were fixed on the ceiling; and he, too, saw things not lawful to be uttered in any language save that of music; and of all music, only that given forth by the anguished, enraptured spirit of the violin. And yet this Felix was little more than twelve years old, and his face was still the face of a child who knows nothing of either sorrow or sin or failure or remorse. Only in his large, gray-black eyes was there something not of the child -- something that spoke of an inheritance from many hearts, now ashes, which had aforetime grieved and joyed, and struggled and failed, and succeeded and grovelled. The inarticulate cries of their longings had passed into this child's soul, and transmuted themselves into the expression of his music.

Felix was a beautiful child. Carmody people, who stayed at home, thought so; and old Abel Blair, who had roamed afar in many lands, thought so; and even the Rev. Stephen Leonard, who taught, and tried to believe, that favour is deceitful and beauty is vain, thought so.

He was a slight lad, with sloping shoulders, a slim brown neck, and a head set on it with stag-like grace and uplift. His hair, cut straight across his brow and falling over his ears, after some caprice of Janet Andrews, the minister's housekeeper, was a glossy blue-black. The skin of his face and hands was like ivory; his eyes were large and beautifully tinted -- gray, with dilating pupils; his features had the outlines of a cameo. Carmody mothers considered him delicate, and had long foretold that the minister would never bring him up; but old Abel pulled his grizzled moustache when he heard such forebodings and smiled.

"Felix Moore will live," he said positively. "You can't kill that kind until their work is done. He's got a work to do -- if the minister'll let him do it. And if the minister don't let him do it, then I wouldn't be in that minister's shoes when he comes to the judgment -- no, I'd rather be in my own. It's an awful thing to cross the purposes of the Almighty, either in your own life or anybody else's. Sometimes I think it's what's meant by the unpardonable sin -- ay, that I do!"

Carmody people never asked what old Abel meant. They had long ago given up such vain questioning. When a man had lived as old Abel had lived for the greater part of his life, was it any wonder he said crazy things? And as for hinting that Mr. Leonard, a man who was really almost too good to live, was guilty of any sin, much less an unpardonable one -- well, there now! what use was it to be taking any account of old Abel's queer speeches? Though, to be sure, there was no great harm in a fiddle, and maybe Mr. Leonard was a mite too strict that way with the child. But then, could you wonder at it? There was his father, you see.

Felix finally lowered the violin, and came back to old Abel's kitchen with a long sigh. Old Abel smiled drearily at him -- the smile of a man who has been in the hands of the tormentors.

"It's awful the way you play -- it's awful," he said with a shudder. "I never heard anything like it -- and you that never had any teaching since you were nine years old, and not much practice, except what you could get here now and then on my old, battered fiddle. And to think you make it up yourself as you go along! I suppose your grandfather would never hear to your studying music -- would he now?"

Felix shook his head.

"I know he wouldn't, Abel. He wants me to be a minister. Ministers are good things to be, but I'm afraid I can't be a minister."

"Not a pulpit minister. There's different kinds of ministers, and each must talk to men in his own tongue if he's going to do 'em any real good," said old Abel meditatively. "YOUR tongue is music. Strange that your grandfather can't see that for himself, and him such a broad-minded man! He's the only minister I ever had much use for. He's God's own if ever a man was. And he loves you -- yes, sir, he loves you like the apple of his eye."

"And I love him," said Felix warmly. "I love him so much that I'll even try to be a minister for his sake, though I don't want to be."

"What do you want to be?"

"A great violinist," answered the child, his ivory-hued face suddenly warming into living rose. "I want to play to thousands -- and see their eyes look as yours do when I play. Sometimes your eyes frighten me, but oh, it's a splendid fright! If I had father's violin I could do better. I remember that he once said it had a soul that was doing purgatory for its sins when it had lived on earth. I don't know what he meant, but it did seem to me that HIS violin was alive. He taught me to play on it as soon as I was big enough to hold it."

"Did you love your father?" asked old Abel, with a keen look.

Again Felix crimsoned; but he looked straightly and steadily into his old friend's face.

"No," he said, "I didn't; but," he added, gravely and deliberately, "I don't think you should have asked me such a question."

It was old Abel's turn to blush. Carmody people would not have believed he could blush; and perhaps no living being could have called that deepening hue into his weather-beaten cheek save only this gray-eyed child of the rebuking face.

"No, I guess I shouldn't," he said. "But I'm always making mistakes. I've never made anything else. That's why I'm nothing more than 'Old Abel' to the Carmody people. Nobody but you and your grandfather ever calls me 'Mr. Blair.' Yet William Blair at the store up there, rich and respected as he is, wasn't half as clever a man as I was when we started in life: you mayn't believe that, but it's true. And the worst of it is, young Felix, that most of the time I don't care whether I'm Mr. Blair or old Abel. Only when you play I care. It makes me feel just as a look I saw in a little girl's eyes some years ago made me feel. Her name was Anne Shirley and she lived with the Cuthberts down at Avonlea. We got into a conversation at Blair's store. She could talk a blue streak to anyone, that girl could. I happened to say about something that it didn't matter to a battered old hulk of sixty odd like me. She looked at me with her big, innocent eyes, a little reproachful like, as if I'd said something awful heretical. 'Don't you think, Mr. Blair,' she says, 'that the older we get the more things ought to matter to us?' -- as grave as if she'd been a hundred instead of eleven. 'Things matter SO much to me now,' she says, clasping her hands thisaway, 'and I'm sure that when I'm sixty they'll matter just five times as much to me.' Well, the way she looked and the way she spoke made me feel downright ashamed of myself because things had stopped mattering with me. But never mind all that. My miserable old feelings don't count for much. What come of your father's fiddle?"

"Grandfather took it away when I came here. I think he burned it. And I long for it so often."

"Well, you've always got my old brown fiddle to come to when you must."

"Yes, I know. And I'm glad for that. But I'm hungry for a violin all the time. And I only come here when the hunger gets too much to bear. I feel as if I oughtn't to come even then -- I'm always saying I won't do it again, because I know grandfather wouldn't like it, if he knew."

"He has never forbidden it, has he?"

"No, but that is because he doesn't know I come here for that. He never thinks of such a thing. I feel sure he WOULD forbid it, if he knew. And that makes me very wretched. And yet I HAVE to come. Mr. Blair, do you know why grandfather can't bear to have me play on the violin? He loves music, and he doesn't mind my playing on the organ, if I don't neglect other things. I can't understand it, can you?"

"I have a pretty good idea, but I can't tell you. It isn't my secret. Maybe he'll tell you himself some day. But, mark you, young Felix, he has got good reasons for it all. Knowing what I know, I can't blame him over much, though I think he's mistaken. Come now, play something more for me before you go -- something that's bright and happy this time, so as to leave me with a good taste in my mouth. That last thing you played took me straight to heaven, -- but heaven's awful near to hell, and at the last you tipped me in."

"I don't understand you," said Felix, drawing his fine, narrow black brows together in a perplexed frown.

"No -- and I wouldn't want you to. You couldn't understand unless you was an old man who had it in him once to do something and be a MAN, and just went and made himself a devilish fool. But there must be something in you that understands things -- all kinds of things -- or you couldn't put it all into music the way you do. How do you do it? How in -- how DO you do it, young Felix?"

"I don't know. But I play differently to different people. I don't know how that is. When I'm alone with you I have to play one way; and when Janet comes over here to listen I feel quite another way -- not so thrilling, but happier and lonelier. And that day when Jessie Blair was here listening I felt as if I wanted to laugh and sing -- as if the violin wanted to laugh and sing all the time."

The strange, golden gleam flashed through old Abel's sunken eyes.

"God," he muttered under his breath, "I believe the boy can get into other folk's souls somehow, and play out what HIS soul sees there."

"What's that you say?" inquired Felix, petting his fiddle.

"Nothing -- never mind -- go on. Something lively now, young Felix. Stop probing into my soul, where you haven't no business to be, you infant, and play me something out of your own -- something sweet and happy and pure."

"I'll play the way I feel on sunshiny mornings, when the birds are singing and I forget I have to be a minister," said Felix simply.



A witching, gurgling, mirthful strain, like mingled bird and brook song, floated out on the still air, along the path where the red and golden maple leaves were falling very softly, one by one. The Reverend Stephen Leonard heard it, as he came along the way, and the Reverend Stephen Leonard smiled. Now, when Stephen Leonard smiled, children ran to him, and grown people felt as if they looked from Pisgah over to some fair land of promise beyond the fret and worry of their care-dimmed earthly lives.

Mr. Leonard loved music, as he loved all things beautiful, whether in the material or the spiritual world, though he did not realize how much he loved them for their beauty alone, or he would have been shocked and remorseful. He himself was beautiful. His figure was erect and youthful, despite seventy years. His face was as mobile and charming as a woman's, yet with all a man's tried strength and firmness in it, and his dark blue eyes flashed with the brilliance of one and twenty; even his silken silvery hair could not make an old man of him. He was worshipped by everyone who knew him, and he was, in so far as mortal man may be, worthy of that worship.

"Old Abel is amusing himself with his violin again," he thought. "What a delicious thing he is playing! He has quite a gift for the violin. But how can he play such a thing as that, -- a battered old hulk of a man who has, at one time or another, wallowed in almost every sin to which human nature can sink? He was on one of his sprees three days ago -- the first one for over a year -- lying dead-drunk in the market square in Charlottetown among the dogs; and now he is playing something that only a young archangel on the hills of heaven ought to be able to play. Well, it will make my task all the easier. Abel is always repentant by the time he is able to play on his fiddle."

Mr. Leonard was on the door-stone. The little black dog had frisked down to meet him, and the gray cat rubbed her head against his leg. Old Abel did not notice him; he was beating time with uplifted hand and smiling face to Felix's music, and his eyes were young again, glowing with laughter and sheer happiness.

"Felix! what does this mean?"

The violin bow clattered from Felix's hand upon the floor; he swung around and faced his grandfather. As he met the passion of grief and hurt in the old man's eyes, his own clouded with an agony of repentance.

"Grandfather -- I'm sorry," he cried brokenly.

"Now, now!" Old Abel had risen deprecatingly. "It's all my fault, Mr. Leonard. Don't you blame the boy. I coaxed him to play a bit for me. I didn't feel fit to touch the fiddle yet myself -- too soon after Friday, you see. So I coaxed him on -- wouldn't give him no peace till he played. It's all my fault."

"No," said Felix, throwing back his head. His face was as white as marble, yet it seemed ablaze with desperate truth and scorn of old Abel's shielding lie. "No, grandfather, it isn't Abel's fault. I came over here on purpose to play, because I thought you had gone to the harbour. I have come here often, ever since I have lived with you."

"Ever since you have lived with me you have been deceiving me like this, Felix?"

There was no anger in Mr. Leonard's tone -- only measureless sorrow. The boy's sensitive lips quivered.

"Forgive me, grandfather," he whispered beseechingly.

"You never forbid him to come," old Abel broke in angrily. "Be just, Mr. Leonard -- be just."

"I AM just. Felix knows that he has disobeyed me, in the spirit if not in the letter. Do you not know it, Felix?"

"Yes, grandfather, I have done wrong -- I've known that I was doing wrong every time I came. Forgive me, grandfather."

"Felix, I forgive you, but I ask you to promise me, here and now, that you will never again, as long as you live, touch a violin." Dusky crimson rushed madly over the boy's face. He gave a cry as if he had been lashed with a whip. Old Abel sprang to his feet.

"Don't you ask such a promise of him, Mr. Leonard," he cried furiously. "It's a sin, that's what it is. Man, man, what blinds you? You ARE blind. Can't you see what is in the boy? His soul is full of music. It'll torture him to death -- or to worse -- if you don't let it have way."

"There is a devil in such music," said Mr. Leonard hotly.

"Ay, there may be, but don't forget that there's a Christ in it, too," retorted old Abel in a low tense tone.

Mr. Leonard looked shocked; he considered that old Abel had uttered blasphemy. He turned away from him rebukingly.

"Felix, promise me."

There was no relenting in his face or tone. He was merciless in the use of the power he possessed over that young, loving spirit. Felix understood that there was no escape; but his lips were very white as he said,

"I promise, grandfather."

Mr. Leonard drew a long breath of relief. He knew that promise would be kept. So did old Abel. The latter crossed the floor and sullenly took the violin from Felix's relaxed hand. Without a word or look he went into the little bedroom off the kitchen and shut the door with a slam of righteous indignation. But from its window he stealthily watched his visitors go away. Just as they entered on the maple path Mr. Leonard laid his hand on Felix's head and looked down at him. Instantly the boy flung his arm up over the old man's shoulder and smiled at him. In the look they exchanged there was boundless love and trust -- ay, and good-fellowship. Old Abel's scornful eyes again held the golden flash.

"How those two love each other!" he muttered enviously. "And how they torture each other!"



Mr. Leonard went to his study to pray when he got home. He knew that Felix had run for comforting to Janet Andrews, the little, thin, sweet-faced, rigid-lipped woman who kept house for them. Mr. Leonard knew that Janet would disapprove of his action as deeply as old Abel had done. She would say nothing, she would only look at him with reproachful eyes over the teacups at suppertime. But Mr. Leonard believed he had done what was best and his conscience did not trouble him, though his heart did.

Thirteen years before this, his daughter Margaret had almost broken that heart by marrying a man of whom he could not approve. Martin Moore was a professional violinist. He was a popular performer, though not in any sense a great one. He met the slim, golden-haired daughter of the manse at the house of a college friend she was visiting in Toronto, and fell straightway in love with her. Margaret had loved him with all her virginal heart in return, and married him, despite her father's disapproval. It was not to Martin Moore's profession that Mr. Leonard objected, but to the man himself. He knew that the violinist's past life had not been such as became a suitor for Margaret Leonard; and his insight into character warned him that Martin Moore could never make any woman lastingly happy.

Margaret Leonard did not believe this. She married Martin Moore and lived one year in paradise. Perhaps that atoned for the three bitter years which followed -- that, and her child. At all events, she died as she had lived, loyal and uncomplaining. She died alone, for her husband was away on a concert tour, and her illness was so brief that her father had not time to reach her before the end. Her body was taken home to be buried beside her mother in the little Carmody churchyard. Mr. Leonard wished to take the child, but Martin Moore refused to give him up.

Six years later Moore, too, died, and at last Mr. Leonard had his heart's desire -- the possession of Margaret's son. The grandfather awaited the child's coming with mingled feelings. His heart yearned for him, yet he dreaded to meet a second edition of Martin Moore. Suppose Margaret's son resembled his handsome vagabond of a father! Or, worse still, suppose he were cursed with his father's lack of principle, his instability, his Bohemian instincts. Thus Mr. Leonard tortured himself wretchedly before the coming of Felix.

The child did not look like either father or mother. Instead, Mr. Leonard found himself looking into a face which he had put away under the grasses thirty years before -- the face of his girl bride, who had died at Margaret's birth. Here again were her lustrous gray-black eyes, her ivory outlines, her fine-traced arch of brow; and here, looking out of those eyes, seemed her very spirit again. From that moment the soul of the old man was knit to the soul of the child, and they loved each other with a love surpassing that of women.

Felix's only inheritance from his father was his love of music. But the child had genius, where his father had possessed only talent. To Martin Moore's outward mastery of the violin was added the mystery and intensity of his mother's nature, with some more subtle quality still, which had perhaps come to him from the grandmother he so strongly resembled. Moore had understood what a career was naturally before the child, and he had trained him in the technique of his art from the time the slight fingers could first grasp the bow. When nine-year-old Felix came to the Carmody manse, he had mastered as much of the science of the violin as nine out of ten musicians acquire in a lifetime; and he brought with him his father's violin; it was all Martin Moore had to leave his son -- but it was an Amati, the commercial value of which nobody in Carmody suspected. Mr. Leonard had taken possession of it and Felix had never seen it since. He cried himself to sleep many a night for the loss of it. Mr. Leonard did not know this, and if Janet Andrews suspected it she held her tongue -- an art in which she excelled. She "saw no harm in a fiddle," herself, and thought Mr. Leonard absurdly strict in the matter, though it would not have been well for the luckless outsider who might have ventured to say as much to her. She had connived at Felix's visits to old Abel Blair, squaring the matter with her Presbyterian conscience by some peculiar process known only to herself.

When Janet heard of the promise which Mr. Leonard had exacted from Felix she seethed with indignation; and, though she "knew her place" better than to say anything to Mr. Leonard about it, she made her disapproval so plainly manifest in her bearing that the stern, gentle old man found the atmosphere of his hitherto peaceful manse unpleasantly chill and hostile for a time.

It was the wish of his heart that Felix should be a minister, as he would have wished his own son to be, had one been born to him. Mr. Leonard thought rightly that the highest work to which any man could be called was a life of service to his fellows; but he made the mistake of supposing the field of service much narrower than it is -- of failing to see that a man may minister to the needs of humanity in many different but equally effective ways.



Janet hoped that Mr. Leonard might not exact the fulfilment of Felix's promise; but Felix himself, with the instinctive understanding of perfect love, knew that it was vain to hope for any change of viewpoint in his grandfather. He addressed himself to the keeping of his promise in letter and in spirit. He never went again to old Abel's; he did not even play on the organ, though this was not forbidden, because any music wakened in him a passion of longing and ecstasy which demanded expression with an intensity not to be borne. He flung himself grimly into his studies and conned Latin and Greek verbs with a persistency which soon placed him at the head of all competitors.

Only once in the long winter did he come near to breaking his promise. One evening, when March was melting into April, and the pulses of spring were stirring under the lingering snow, he was walking home from school alone. As he descended into the little hollow below the manse a lively lilt of music drifted up to meet him. It was only the product of a mouth-organ, manipulated by a little black-eyed, French-Canadian hired boy, sitting on the fence by the brook; but there was music in the ragged urchin and it came out through his simple toy. It tingled over Felix from head to foot; and, when Leon held out the mouth-organ with a fraternal grin of invitation, he snatched at it as a famished creature might snatch at food.

Then, with it half-way to his lips, he paused. True, it was only the violin he had promised never to touch; but he felt that if he gave way ever so little to the desire that was in him, it would sweep everything before it. If he played on Leon Buote's mouth-organ, there in that misty spring dale, he would go to old Abel's that evening; he KNEW he would go. To Leon's amazement, Felix threw the mouth-organ back at him and ran up the hill as if he were pursued. There was something in his boyish face that frightened Leon; and it frightened Janet Andrews as Felix rushed past her in the hall of the manse.

"Child, what's the matter with you?" she cried. "Are you sick? Have you been scared?"

"No, no. Leave me alone, Janet," said Felix chokingly, dashing up the stairs to his own room.

He was quite composed when he came down to tea, an hour later, though he was unusually pale and had purple shadows under his large eyes.

Mr. Leonard scrutinized him somewhat anxiously; it suddenly occurred to the old minister that Felix was looking more delicate than his wont this spring. Well, he had studied hard all winter, and he was certainly growing very fast. When vacation came he must be sent away for a visit.

"They tell me Naomi Clark is real sick," said Janet. "She has been ailing all winter, and now she's fast to her bed. Mrs. Murphy says she believes the woman is dying, but nobody dares tell her so. She won't give in she's sick, nor take medicine. And there's nobody to wait on her except that simple creature, Maggie Peterson."

"I wonder if I ought to go and see her," said Mr. Leonard uneasily.

"What use would it be to bother yourself? You know she wouldn't see you -- she'd shut the door in your face like she did before. She's an awful wicked woman -- but it's kind of terrible to think of her lying there sick, with no responsible person to tend her."

"Naomi Clark is a bad woman and she lived a life of shame, but I like her, for all that," remarked Felix, in the grave, meditative tone in which he occasionally said rather startling things.

Mr. Leonard looked somewhat reproachfully at Janet Andrews, as if to ask her why Felix should have attained to this dubious knowledge of good and evil under her care; and Janet shot a dour look back which, being interpreted, meant that if Felix went to the district school she could not and would not be held responsible if he learned more there than arithmetic and Latin.

"What do you know of Naomi Clark to like or dislike?" she asked curiously. "Did you ever see her?"

"Oh, yes," Felix replied, addressing himself to his cherry preserve with considerable gusto. "I was down at Spruce Cove one night last summer when a big thunderstorm came up. I went to Naomi's house for shelter. The door was open, so I walked right in, because nobody answered my knock. Naomi Clark was at the window, watching the cloud coming up over the sea. She just looked at me once, but didn't say anything, and then went on watching the cloud. I didn't like to sit down because she hadn't asked me to, so I went to the window by her and watched it, too. It was a dreadful sight -- the cloud was so black and the water so green, and there was such a strange light between the cloud and the water; yet there was something splendid in it, too. Part of the time I watched the storm, and the other part I watched Naomi's face. It was dreadful to see, like the storm, and yet I liked to see it.

"After the thunder was over it rained a while longer, and Naomi sat down and talked to me. She asked me who I was, and when I told her she asked me to play something for her on her violin," -- Felix shot a deprecating glance at Mr. Leonard -- "because, she said, she'd heard I was a great hand at it. She wanted something lively, and I tried just as hard as I could to play something like that. But I couldn't. I played something that was terrible -- it just played itself -- it seemed as if something was lost that could never be found again. And before I got through, Naomi came at me, and tore the violin from me, and -- SWORE. And she said, 'You big-eyed brat, how did you know THAT?' Then she took me by the arm -- and she hurt me, too, I can tell you -- and she put me right out in the rain and slammed the door."

"The rude, unmannerly creature!" said Janet indignantly.

"Oh, no, she was quite in the right," said Felix composedly. "It served me right for what I played. You see, she didn't know I couldn't help playing it. I suppose she thought I did it on purpose."

"What on earth did you play, child?"

"I don't know." Felix shivered. "It was awful -- it was dreadful. It was fit to break your heart. But it HAD to be played, if I played anything at all."

"I don't understand what you mean -- I declare I don't," said Janet in bewilderment.

"I think we'll change the subject of conversation," said Mr. Leonard.



It was a month later when "the simple creature, Maggie" appeared at the manse door one evening and asked for the preached.

"Naomi wants ter see yer," she mumbled. "Naomi sent Maggie ter tell yer ter come at onct."

"I shall go, certainly," said Mr. Leonard gently. "Is she very ill?"

"Her's dying," said Maggie with a broad grin. "And her's awful skeered of hell. Her just knew ter-day her was dying. Maggie told her -- her wouldn't believe the harbour women, but her believed Maggie. Her yelled awful."

Maggie chuckled to herself over the gruesome remembrance. Mr. Leonard, his heart filled with pity, called Janet and told her to give the poor creature some refreshment. But Maggie shook her head.

"No, no, preacher, Maggie must get right back to Naomi. Maggie'll tell her the preacher's coming ter save her from hell."

She uttered an eerie cry, and ran at full speed shoreward through the spruce woods.

"The Lord save us!" said Janet in an awed tone. "I knew the poor girl was simple, but I didn't know she was like THAT. And are you going, sir?"

"Yes, of course. I pray God I may be able to help the poor soul," said Mr. Leonard sincerely. He was a man who never shirked what he believed to be his duty; but duty had sometimes presented itself to him in pleasanter guise than this summons to Naomi Clark's death-bed.

The woman had been the plague spot of Lower Carmody and Carmody Harbour for a generation. In the earlier days of his ministry to the congregation he had tried to reclaim her, and Naomi had mocked and flouted him to his face. Then, for the sake of those to whom she was a snare or a heart-break, he had endeavoured to set the law in motion against her, and Naomi had laughed the law to scorn. Finally, he had been compelled to let her alone.

Yet Naomi had not always been an outcast. Her girlhood had been innocent; but she was the possessor of a dangerous beauty, and her mother was dead. Her father was a man notorious for his harshness and violence of temper. When Naomi made the fatal mistake of trusting to a false love that betrayed and deserted, he drove her from his door with taunts and curses.

Naomi took up her quarters in a little deserted house at Spruce Cove. Had her child lived it might have saved her. But it died at birth, and with its little life went her last chance of worldly redemption. From that time forth, her feet were set in the way that takes hold on hell.

For the past five years, however, Naomi had lived a tolerably respectable life. When Janet Peterson had died, her idiot daughter, Maggie, had been left with no kin in the world. Nobody knew what was to be done with her, for nobody wanted to be bothered with her. Naomi Clark went to the girl and offered her a home. People said she was no fit person to have charge of Maggie, but everybody shirked the unpleasant task of interfering in the matter, except Mr. Leonard, who went to expostulate with Naomi, and, as Janet said, for his pains got her door shut in his face.

But from the day when Maggie Peterson went to live with her, Naomi ceased to be the harbour Magdalen.



The sun had set when Mr. Leonard reached Spruce Cove, and the harbour was veiling itself in a wondrous twilight splendour. Afar out, the sea lay throbbing and purple, and the moan of the bar came through the sweet, chill spring air with its burden of hopeless, endless longing and seeking. The sky was blossoming into stars above the afterglow; out to the east the moon was rising, and the sea beneath it was a thing of radiance and silver and glamour; and a little harbour boat that went sailing across it was transmuted into an elfin shallop from the coast of fairyland.

Mr. Leonard sighed as he turned from the sinless beauty of the sea and sky to the threshold of Naomi Clark's house. It was very small -- one room below, and a sleeping-loft above; but a bed had been made up for the sick woman by the down-stairs window looking out on the harbour; and Naomi lay on it, with a lamp burning at her head and another at her side, although it was not yet dark. A great dread of darkness had always been one of Naomi's peculiarities.

She was tossing restlessly on her poor couch, while Maggie crouched on a box at the foot. Mr. Leonard had not seen her for five years, and he was shocked at the change in her. She was much wasted; her clear-cut, aquiline features had been of the type which becomes indescribably witch-like in old age, and, though Naomi Clark was barely sixty, she looked as if she might be a hundred. Her hair streamed over the pillow in white, uncared-for tresses, and the hands that plucked at the bed-clothes were like wrinkled claws. Only her eyes were unchanged; they were as blue and brilliant as ever, but now filled with such agonized terror and appeal that Mr. Leonard's gentle heart almost stood still with the horror of them. They were the eyes of a creature driven wild with torture, hounded by furies, clutched by unutterable fear.

Naomi sat up and dragged at his arm.

"Can you help me? Can you help me?" she gasped imploringly. "Oh, I thought you'd never come! I was skeered I'd die before you got here -- die and go to hell. I didn't know before today that I was dying. None of those cowards would tell me. Can you help me?"

"If I cannot, God can," said Mr. Leonard gently. He felt himself very helpless and inefficient before this awful terror and frenzy. He had seen sad death-beds -- troubled death-beds -- ay, and despairing death-beds, but never anything like this. "God!" Naomi's voice shrilled terribly as she uttered the name. "I can't go to God for help. Oh, I'm skeered of hell, but I'm skeereder still of God. I'd rather go to hell a thousand times over than face God after the life I've lived. I tell you, I'm sorry for living wicked -- I was always sorry for it all the time. There ain't never been a moment I wasn't sorry, though nobody would believe it. I was driven on by fiends of hell. Oh, you don't understand -- you CAN'T understand -- but I was always sorry!"

"If you repent, that is all that is necessary. God will forgive you if you ask Him."

"No, He can't! Sins like mine can't be forgiven. He can't -- and He won't."

"He can and He will. He is a God of love, Naomi."

"No," said Naomi with stubborn conviction. "He isn't a God of love at all. That's why I'm skeered of him. No, no. He's a God of wrath and justice and punishment. Love! There ain't no such thing as love! I've never found it on earth, and I don't believe it's to be found in God."

"Naomi, God loves us like a father."

"Like MY father?" Naomi's shrill laughter, pealing through the still room, was hideous to hear.

The old minister shuddered.

"No -- no! As a kind, tender, all-wise father, Naomi -- as you would have loved your little child if it had lived."

Naomi cowered and moaned.

"Oh, I wish I could believe THAT. I wouldn't be frightened if I could believe that. MAKE me believe it. Surely you can make me believe that there's love and forgiveness in God if you believe it yourself."

"Jesus Christ forgave and loved the Magdalen, Naomi."

"Jesus Christ? Oh, I ain't afraid of HIM. Yes, HE could understand and forgive. He was half human. I tell you, it's God I'm skeered of."

"They are one and the same," said Mr. Leonard helplessly. He knew he could not make Naomi realize it. This anguished death-bed was no place for a theological exposition on the mysteries of the Trinity.

"Christ died for you, Naomi. He bore your sins in His own body on the cross."

"We bear our own sins," said Naomi fiercely. "I've borne mine all my life -- and I'll bear them for all eternity. I can't believe anything else. I CAN'T believe God can forgive me. I've ruined people body and soul -- I've broken hearts and poisoned homes -- I'm worse than a murderess. No -- no -- no, there's no hope for me." Her voice rose again into that shrill, intolerable shriek. "I've got to go to hell. It ain't so much the fire I'm skeered of as the outer darkness. I've always been so skeered of darkness -- it's so full of awful things and thoughts. Oh, there ain't nobody to help me! Man ain't no good and I'm too skeered of God."

She wrung her hands. Mr. Leonard walked up and down the room in the keenest anguish of spirit he had ever known. What could he do? What could he say? There was healing and peace in his religion for this woman as for all others, but he could express it in no language which this tortured soul could understand. He looked at her writhing face; he looked at the idiot girl chuckling to herself at the foot of the bed; he looked through the open door to the remote, starlit night -- and a horrible sense of utter helplessness overcame him. He could do nothing -- nothing! In all his life he had never known such bitterness of soul as the realization brought home to him.

"What is the good of you if you can't help me?" moaned the dying woman. "Pray -- pray -- pray!" she shrilled suddenly.

Mr. Leonard dropped on his knees by the bed. He did not know what to say. No prayer that he had ever prayed was of use here. The old, beautiful formulas, which had soothed and helped the passing of many a soul, were naught save idle, empty words to Naomi Clark. In his anguish of mind Stephen Leonard gasped out the briefest and sincerest prayer his lips had ever uttered.

"O, God, our Father! Help this woman. Speak to her in a tongue which she can understand."



A beautiful, white face appeared for a moment in the light that streamed out of the doorway into the darkness of the night. No one noticed it, and it quickly drew back into the shadow. Suddenly, Naomi fell back on her pillow, her lips blue, her face horribly pinched, her eyes rolled up in her head. Maggie started up, pushed Mr. Leonard aside, and proceeded to administer some remedy with surprising skill and deftness. Mr. Leonard, believing Naomi to be dying, went to the door, feeling sick and bruised in soul.

Presently a figure stole out into the light.

"Felix, is that you?" said Mr. Leonard in a startled tone.

"Yes, sir." Felix came up to the stone step. "Janet got frightened that you might fall on that rough road after dark, so she made me come after you with a lantern. I've been waiting behind the point, but at last I thought I'd better come and see if you would be staying much longer. If you will be, I'll go back to Janet and leave the lantern here with you." "Yes, that will be the best thing to do. I may not be ready to go home for some time yet," said Mr. Leonard, thinking that the death-bed of sin behind him was no sight for Felix's young eyes.

"Is that your grandson you're talking to?" Naomi spoke clearly and strongly. The spasm had passed. "If it is, bring him in. I want to see him."

Reluctantly, Mr. Leonard signed Felix to enter. The boy stood by Naomi's bed and looked down at her with sympathetic eyes. But at first she did not look at him -- she looked past him at the minister.

"I might have died in that spell," she said, with sullen reproach in her voice, "and if I had, I'd been in hell now. You can't help me -- I'm done with you. There ain't any hope for me, and I know it now."

She turned to Felix.

"Take down that fiddle on the wall and play something for me," she said imperiously. "I'm dying -- and I'm going to hell -- and I don't want to think of it. Play me something to take my thoughts off it -- I don't care what you play. I was always fond of music -- there was always something in it for me I never found anywhere else."

Felix looked at his grandfather. The old man nodded, he felt too ashamed to speak; he sat with his fine silver head in his hands, while Felix took down and tuned the old violin, on which so many godless lilts had been played in many a wild revel. Mr. Leonard felt that he had failed his religion. He could not give Naomi the help that was in it for her.

Felix drew the bow softly, perplexedly over the strings. He had no idea what he should play. Then his eyes were caught and held by Naomi's burning, mesmeric, blue gaze as she lay on her crumpled pillow. A strange, inspired look came over the boy's face. He began to play as if it were not he who played, but some mightier power, of which he was but the passive instrument.

Sweet and soft and wonderful was the music that stole through the room. Mr. Leonard forgot his heartbreak and listened to it in puzzled amazement. He had never heard anything like it before. How could the child play like that? He looked at Naomi and marvelled at the change in her face. The fear and frenzy were going out of it; she listened breathlessly, never taking her eyes from Felix. At the foot of the bed the idiot girl sat with tears on her cheeks.

In that strange music was the joy of the innocent, mirthful childhood, blent with the laughter of waves and the call of glad winds. Then it held the wild, wayward dreams of youth, sweet and pure in all their wildness and waywardness. They were followed by a rapture of young love -- all-surrendering, all-sacrificing love. The music changed. It held the torture of unshed tears, the anguish of a heart deceived and desolate. Mr. Leonard almost put his hands over his ears to shut out its intolerable poignancy. But on the dying woman's face was only a strange relief, as if some dumb, long-hidden pain had at last won to the healing of utterance.

The sullen indifference of despair came next, the bitterness of smouldering revolt and misery, the reckless casting away of all good. There was something indescribably evil in the music now -- so evil that Mr. Leonard's white soul shuddered away in loathing, and Maggie cowered and whined like a frightened animal.

Again the music changed. And in it now there was agony and fear -- and repentance and a cry for pardon. To Mr. Leonard there was something strangely familiar in it. He struggled to recall where he had heard it before; then he suddenly knew -- he had heard it before Felix came in Naomi's terrible words! He looked at his grandson with something like awe. Here was a power of which he knew nothing -- a strange and dreadful power. Was it of God? Or of Satan?

For the last time the music changed. And now it was not music at all -- it was a great, infinite forgiveness, an all-comprehending love. It was healing for a sick soul; it was light and hope and peace. A Bible text, seemingly incongruous, came into Mr. Leonard's mind -- "This is the house of God; this is the gate of heaven."

Felix lowered the violin and dropped wearily on a chair by the bed. The inspired light faded from his face; once more he was only a tired boy. But Stephen Leonard was on his knees, sobbing like a child; and Naomi Clark was lying still, with her hands clasped over her breast.

"I understand now," she said very softly. "I couldn't see it before -- and now it's so plain. I just FEEL it. God IS a God of love. He can forgive anybody -- even me -- even me. He knows all about it. I ain't skeered any more. He just loves me and forgives me as I'd have loved and forgiven my baby if she'd lived, no matter how bad she was, or what she did. The minister told me that but I couldn't believe it. I KNOW it now. And He sent you here to-night, boy, to tell it to me in a way that I could feel it."



Naomi Clark died just as the dawn came up over the sea. Mr. Leonard rose from his watch at her bedside and went to the door. Before him spread the harbour, gray and austere in the faint light, but afar out the sun was rending asunder the milk-white mists in which the sea was scarfed, and under it was a virgin glow of sparkling water.

The fir trees on the point moved softly and whispered together. The whole world sang of spring and resurrection and life; and behind him Naomi Clark's dead face took on the peace that passes understanding.

The old minister and his grandson walked home together in a silence that neither wished to break. Janet Andrews gave them a good scolding and an excellent breakfast. Then she ordered them both to bed; but Mr. Leonard, smiling at her, said:

"Presently, Janet, presently. But now, take this key, go up to the black chest in the garret, and bring me what you will find there."

When Janet had gone, he turned to Felix.

"Felix, would you like to study music as your life-work?"

Felix looked up, with a transfiguring flush on his wan face.

"Oh, grandfather! Oh, grandfather!"

"You may do so, my child. After this night I dare not hinder you. Go with my blessing, and may God guide and keep you, and make you strong to do His work and tell His message to humanity in your own appointed way. It is not the way I desired for you -- but I see that I was mistaken. Old Abel spoke truly when he said there was a Christ in your violin as well as a devil. I understand what he meant now."

He turned to meet Janet, who came into the study with a violin. Felix's heart throbbed; he recognized it. Mr. Leonard took it from Janet and held it out to the boy.

"This is your father's violin, Felix. See to it that you never make your music the servant of the power of evil -- never debase it to unworthy ends. For your responsibility is as your gift, and God will exact the accounting of it from you. Speak to the world in your own tongue through it, with truth and sincerity; and all I have hoped for you will be abundantly fulfilled."



IV. Little Joscelyn


"It simply isn't to be thought of, Aunty Nan," said Mrs. William Morrison decisively. Mrs. William Morrison was one of those people who always speak decisively. If they merely announce that they are going to peel the potatoes for dinner their hearers realize that there is no possible escape for the potatoes. Moreover, these people are always given their full title by everybody. William Morrison was called Billy oftener than not; but, if you had asked for Mrs. Billy Morrison, nobody in Avonlea would have known what you meant at first guess.

"You must see that for yourself, Aunty," went on Mrs. William, hulling strawberries nimbly with her large, firm, white fingers as she talked. Mrs. William always improved every shining moment. "It is ten miles to Kensington, and just think how late you would be getting back. You are not able for such a drive. You wouldn't get over it for a month. You know you are anything but strong this summer."

Aunty Nan sighed, and patted the tiny, furry, gray morsel of a kitten in her lap with trembling fingers. She knew, better than anyone else could know it, that she was not strong that summer. In her secret soul, Aunty Nan, sweet and frail and timid under the burden of her seventy years, felt with mysterious unmistakable prescience that it was to be her last summer at the Gull Point Farm. But that was only the more reason why she should go to hear little Joscelyn sing; she would never have another chance. And oh, to hear little Joscelyn sing just once -- Joscelyn, whose voice was delighting thousands out in the big world, just as in the years gone by it had delighted Aunty Nan and the dwellers at the Gull Point Farm for a whole golden summer with carols at dawn and dusk about the old place!

"Oh, I know I'm not very strong, Maria." said Aunty Nan pleadingly, "but I am strong enough for that. Indeed I am. I could stay at Kensington over night with George's folks, you know, and so it wouldn't tire me much. I do so want to hear Joscelyn sing. Oh, how I love little Joscelyn."

"It passes my understanding, the way you hanker after that child," cried Mrs. William impatiently. "Why, she was a perfect stranger to you when she came here, and she was here only one summer!"

"But oh, such a summer!" said Aunty Nan softly. "We all loved little Joscelyn. She just seemed like one of our own. She was one of God's children, carrying love with them everywhere. In some ways that little Anne Shirley the Cuthberts have got up there at Green Gables reminds me of her, though in other ways they're not a bit alike. Joscelyn was a beauty."

"Well, that Shirley snippet certainly isn't that," said Mrs. William sarcastically. "And if Joscelyn's tongue was one third as long as Anne Shirley's the wonder to me is that she didn't talk you all to death out of hand."

"Little Joscelyn wasn't much of a talker," said Aunty Nan dreamily. "She was kind of a quiet child. But you remember what she did say. And I've never forgotten little Joscelyn."

Mrs. William shrugged her plump, shapely shoulders.

"Well, it was fifteen years ago, Aunty Nan, and Joscelyn can't be very 'little' now. She is a famous woman, and she has forgotten all about you, you can be sure of that."

"Joscelyn wasn't the kind that forgets," said Aunty Nan loyally. "And, anyway, the point is, I haven't forgotten HER. Oh, Maria, I've longed for years and years just to hear her sing once more. It seems as if I MUST hear my little Joscelyn sing once again before I die. I've never had the chance before and I never will have it again. Do please ask William to take me to Kensington."

"Dear me, Aunty Nan, this is really childish," said Mrs. William, whisking her bowlful of berries into the pantry. "You must let other folks be the judge of what is best for you now. You aren't strong enough to drive to Kensington, and, even if you were, you know well enough that William couldn't go to Kensington to-morrow night. He has got to attend that political meeting at Newbridge. They can't do without him."

"Jordan could take me to Kensington," pleaded Aunty Nan, with very unusual persistence.

"Nonsense! You couldn't go to Kensington with the hired man. Now, Aunty Nan, do be reasonable. Aren't William and I kind to you? Don't we do everything for your comfort?"

"Yes, oh, yes," admitted Aunty Nan deprecatingly.

"Well, then, you ought to be guided by our opinion. And you must just give up thinking about the Kensington concert, Aunty, and not worry yourself and me about it any more. I am going down to the shore field now to call William to tea. Just keep an eye on the baby in chance he wakes up, and see that the teapot doesn't boil over."

Mrs. William whisked out of the kitchen, pretending not to see the tears that were falling over Aunty Nan's withered pink cheeks. Aunty Nan was really getting very childish, Mrs. William reflected, as she marched down to the shore field. Why, she cried now about every little thing! And such a notion -- to want to go to the Old Timers' concert at Kensington and be so set on it! Really, it was hard to put up with her whims. Mrs. William sighed virtuously.

As for Aunty Nan, she sat alone in the kitchen, and cried bitterly, as only lonely old age can cry. It seemed to her that she could not bear it, that she MUST go to Kensington. But she knew that it was not to be, since Mrs. William had decided otherwise. Mrs. William's word was law at Gull Point Farm.

"What's the matter with my old Aunty Nan?" cried a hearty young voice from the doorway. Jordan Sloane stood there, his round, freckled face looking as anxious and sympathetic as it was possible for such a very round, very freckled face to look. Jordan was the Morrisons' hired boy that summer, and he worshipped Aunty Nan.

"Oh, Jordan," sobbed Aunty Nan, who was not above telling her troubles to the hired help, although Mrs. William thought she ought to be, "I can't go to Kensington to-morrow night to hear little Joscelyn sing at the Old Timers' concert. Maria says I can't."

"That's too bad," said Jordan. "Old cat," he muttered after the retreating and serenely unconscious Mrs. William. Then he shambled in and sat down on the sofa beside Aunty Nan.

"There, there, don't cry," he said, patting her thin little shoulder with his big, sunburned paw. "You'll make yourself sick if you go on crying, and we can't get along without you at Gull Point Farm."

Aunty Nan smiled wanly.

"I'm afraid you'll soon have to get on without me, Jordan. I'm not going to be here very long now. No, I'm not, Jordan, I know it. Something tells me so very plainly. But I would be willing to go -- glad to go, for I'm very tired, Jordan -- if I could only have heard little Joscelyn sing once more."

"Why are you so set on hearing her?" asked Jordan. "She ain't no kin to you, is she?"

"No, but dearer to me -- dearer to me than many of my own. Maria thinks that is silly, but you wouldn't if you'd known her, Jordan. Even Maria herself wouldn't, if she had known her. It is fifteen years since she came here one summer to board. She was a child of thirteen then, and hadn't any relations except an old uncle who sent her to school in winter and boarded her out in summer, and didn't care a rap about her. The child was just starving for love, Jordan, and she got it here. William and his brothers were just children then, and they hadn't any sister. We all just worshipped her. She was so sweet, Jordan. And pretty, oh my! like a little girl in a picture, with great long curls, all black and purply and fine as spun silk, and big dark eyes, and such pink cheeks -- real wild rose cheeks. And sing! My land! But couldn't she sing! Always singing, every hour of the day that voice was ringing round the old place. I used to hold my breath to hear it. She always said that she meant to be a famous singer some day, and I never doubted it a mite. It was born in her. Sunday evening she used to sing hymns for us. Oh, Jordan, it makes my old heart young again to remember it. A sweet child she was, my little Joscelyn! She used to write me for three or four years after she went away, but I haven't heard a word from her for long and long. I daresay she has forgotten me, as Maria says. 'Twouldn't be any wonder. But I haven't forgotten her, and oh, I want to see and hear her terrible much. She is to sing at the Old Timers' concert to-morrow night at Kensington. The folks who are getting the concert up are friends of hers, or, of course, she'd never have come to a little country village. Only sixteen miles away -- and I can't go."

Jordan couldn't think of anything to say. He reflected savagely that if he had a horse of his own he would take Aunty Nan to Kensington, Mrs. William or no Mrs. William. Though, to be sure, it WAS a long drive for her; and she was looking very frail this summer.

"Ain't going to last long," muttered Jordan, making his escape by the porch door as Mrs. William puffed in by the other. "The sweetest old creetur that ever was created'll go when she goes. Yah, ye old madam, I'd like to give you a piece of my mind, that I would!"

This last was for Mrs. William, but was delivered in a prudent undertone. Jordan detested Mrs. William, but she was a power to be reckoned with, all the same. Meek, easy-going Billy Morrison did just what his wife told him to.

So Aunty Nan did not get to Kensington to hear little Joscelyn sing. She said nothing more about it but after that night she seemed to fail very rapidly. Mrs. William said it was the hot weather, and that Aunty Nan gave way too easily. But Aunty Nan could not help giving way now; she was very, very tired. Even her knitting wearied her. She would sit for hours in her rocking chair with the gray kitten in her lap, looking out of the window with dreamy, unseeing eyes. She talked to herself a good deal, generally about little Joscelyn. Mrs. William told Avonlea folk that Aunty Nan had got terribly childish and always accompanied the remark with a sigh that intimated how much she, Mrs. William, had to contend with.

Justice must be done to Mrs. William, however. She was not unkind to Aunty Nan; on the contrary, she was very kind to her in the letter. Her comfort was scrupulously attended to, and Mrs. William had the grace to utter none of her complaints in the old woman's hearing. If Aunty Nan felt the absence of the spirit she never murmured at it.

One day, when the Avonlea slopes were golden-hued with the ripened harvest, Aunty Nan did not get up. She complained of nothing but great weariness. Mrs. William remarked to her husband that if SHE lay in bed every day she felt tired, there wouldn't be much done at Gull Point Farm. But she prepared an excellent breakfast and carried it patiently up to Aunty Nan, who ate little of it.

After dinner Jordan crept up by way of the back stairs to see her. Aunty Nan was lying with her eyes fixed on the pale pink climbing roses that nodded about the window. When she saw Jordan she smiled.

"Them roses put me so much in mind of little Joscelyn," she said softly. "She loved them so. If I could only see her! Oh, Jordan, if I could only see her! Maria says it's terrible childish to be always harping on that string, and mebbe it is. But -- oh, Jordan, there's such a hunger in my heart for her, such a hunger!"

Jordan felt a queer sensation in his throat, and twisted his ragged straw hat about in his big hands. Just then a vague idea which had hovered in his brain all day crystallized into decision. But all he said was:

"I hope you'll feel better soon, Aunty Nan."

"Oh, yes, Jordan dear, I'll be better soon," said Aunty Nan with her own sweet smile. "'The inhabitant shall not say I am sick,' you know. But if I could only see little Joscelyn first!"

Jordan went out and hurried down-stairs. Billy Morrison was in the stable, when Jordan stuck his head over the half-door.

"Say, can I have the rest of the day off, sir? I want to go to Kensington."

"Well, I don't mind," said Billy Morrison amiably. "May's well get you jaunting done 'fore harvest comes on. And here, Jord; take this quarter and get some oranges for Aunty Nan. Needn't mention it to headquarters."

Billy Morrison's face was solemn, but Jordan winked as he pocketed the money.

"If I've any luck, I'll bring her something that'll do her more good than the oranges," he muttered, as he hurried off to the pasture. Jordan had a horse of his own now, a rather bony nag, answering to the name of Dan. Billy Morrison had agreed to pasture the animal if Jordan used him in the farm work, an arrangement scoffed at by Mrs. William in no measured terms.

Jordan hitched Dan into the second best buggy, dressed himself in his Sunday clothes, and drove off. On the road he re-read a paragraph he had clipped from the Charlottetown Daily Enterprise of the previous day.

"Joscelyn Burnett, the famous contralto, is spending a few days in Kensington on her return from her Maritime concert tour. She is the guest of Mr. and Mrs. Bromley, of The Beeches."

"Now if I can get there in time," said Jordan emphatically.

Jordan got to Kensington, put Dan up in a livery stable, and inquired the way to The Beeches. He felt rather nervous when he found it, it was such a stately, imposing place, set back from the street in an emerald green seclusion of beautiful grounds.

"Fancy me stalking up to that front door and asking for Miss Joscelyn Burnett," grinned Jordan sheepishly. "Mebbe they'll tell me to go around to the back and inquire for the cook. But you're going just the same, Jordan Sloane, and no skulking. March right up now. Think of Aunty Nan and don't let style down you."

A pert-looking maid answered Jordan's ring, and stared at him when he asked for Miss Burnett.

"I don't think you can see her," she said shortly, scanning his country cut of hair and clothes rather superciliously. "What is your business with her?"

The maid's scorn roused Jordan's "dander," as he would have expressed it.

"I'll tell her that when I see her," he retorted coolly. "Just you tell her that I've a message for her from Aunty Nan Morrison of Gull Point Farm, Avonlea. If she hain't forgot, that'll fetch her. You might as well hurry up, if you please, I've not overly too much time."

The pert maid decided to be civil at least, and invited Jordan to enter. But she left him standing in the hall while she went in search of Miss Burnett. Jordan gazed about him in amazement. He had never been in any place like this before. The hall was wonderful enough, and through the open doors on either hand stretched vistas of lovely rooms that, to Jordan's eyes, looked like those of a palace.

"Gee whiz! How do they ever move around without knocking things over?"

Then Joscelyn Burnett came, and Jordan forgot everything else. This tall, beautiful woman, in her silken draperies, with a face like nothing Jordan had ever seen, or even dreamed about, -- could this be Aunty Nan's little Joscelyn? Jordan's round, freckled countenance grew crimson. He felt horribly tonguetied and embarrassed. What could he say to her? How could he say it?

Joscelyn Burnett looked at him with her large, dark eyes, -- the eyes of a woman who had suffered much, and learned much, and won through struggle to victory.

"You have come from Aunty Nan?" she said. "Oh, I am so glad to hear from her. Is she well? Come in here and tell me all about her."

She turned toward one of those fairy-like rooms, but Jordan interrupted her desperately.

"Oh, not in there, ma'am. I'd never get it out. Just let me blunder through it out here someways. Yes'm, Aunty Nan, she ain't very well. She's -- she's dying, I guess. And she's longing for you night and day. Seems as if she couldn't die in peace without seeing you. She wanted to get to Kensington to hear you sing, but that old cat of a Mrs. William -- begging you pardon, ma'am -- wouldn't let her come. She's always talking of you. If you can come out to Gull Point Farm and see her, I'll be most awful obliged to you, ma'am."

Joscelyn Burnett looked troubled. She had not forgotten Gull Point Farm, nor Aunty Nan; but for years the memory had been dim, crowded into the background of consciousness by the more exciting events of her busy life. Now it came back with a rush. She recalled it all tenderly -- the peace and beauty and love of that olden summer, and sweet Aunty Nan, so very wise in the lore of all things simple and good and true. For the moment Joscelyn Burnett was a lonely, hungry-hearted little girl again, seeking for love and finding it not, until Aunty Nan had taken her into her great mother-heart and taught her its meaning.

"Oh, I don't know," she said perplexedly. "If you had come sooner -- I leave on the 11:30 train tonight. I MUST leave by then or I shall not reach Montreal in time to fill a very important engagement. And yet I must see Aunty Nan, too. I have been careless and neglectful. I might have gone to see her before. How can we manage it?"

"I'll bring you back to Kensington in time to catch that train," said Jordan eagerly. "There's nothing I wouldn't do for Aunty Nan -- me and Dan. Yes, sir, you'll get back in time. Just think of Aunty Nan's face when she sees you!"

"I will come," said the great singer, gently.

It was sunset when they reached Gull Point Farm. An arc of warm gold was over the spruces behind the house. Mrs. William was out in the barn-yard, milking, and the house was deserted, save for the sleeping baby in the kitchen and the little old woman with the watchful eyes in the up-stairs room.

"This way, ma'am," said Jordan, inwardly congratulating himself that the coast was clear. "I'll take you right up to her room."

Up-stairs, Joscelyn tapped at the half-open door and went in. Before it closed behind her, Jordan heard Aunty Nan say, "Joscelyn! Little Joscelyn!" in a tone that made him choke again. He stumbled thankfully down-stairs, to be pounced upon by Mrs. William in the kitchen.

"Jordan Sloane, who was that stylish woman you drove into the yard with? And what have you done with her?"

"That was Miss Joscelyn Burnett," said Jordan, expanding himself. This was his hour of triumph over Mrs. William. "I went to Kensington and brung her out to see Aunty Nan. She's up with her now."

"Dear me," said Mrs. William helplessly. "And me in my milking rig! Jordan, for pity's sake, hold the baby while I go and put on my black silk. You might have given a body some warning. I declare I don't know which is the greatest idiot, you or Aunty Nan!"

As Mrs. William flounced out of the kitchen, Jordan took his satisfaction in a quiet laugh.

Up-stairs in the little room was a great glory of sunset and gladness of human hearts. Joscelyn was kneeling by the bed, with her arms about Aunty Nan; and Aunty Nan, with her face all irradiated, was stroking Joscelyn's dark hair fondly.

"O, little Joscelyn," she murmured, "it seems too good to be true. It seems like a beautiful dream. I knew you the minute you opened the door, my dearie. You haven't changed a bit. And you're a famous singer now, little Joscelyn! I always knew you would be. Oh, I want you to sing a piece for me -- just one, won't you, dearie? Sing that piece people like to hear you sing best. I forget the name, but I've read about it in the papers. Sing it for me, little Joscelyn."

And Joscelyn, standing by Aunty Nan's bed, in the sunset light, sang the song she had sung to many a brilliant audience on many a noted concert-platform -- sang it as even she had never sung before, while Aunty Nan lay and listened beatifically, and downstairs even Mrs. William held her breath, entranced by the exquisite melody that floated through the old farmhouse.

"O, little Joscelyn!" breathed Aunty Nan in rapture, when the song ended.

Joscelyn knelt by her again and they had a long talk of old days. One by one they recalled the memories of that vanished summer. The past gave up its tears and its laughter. Heart and fancy alike went roaming through the ways of the long ago. Aunty Nan was perfectly happy. And then Joscelyn told her all the story of her struggles and triumphs since they had parted.

When the moonlight began to creep in through the low window, Aunty Nan put out her hand and touched Joscelyn's bowed head.

"Little Joscelyn," she whispered, "if it ain't asking too much, I want you to sing just one other piece. Do you remember when you were here how we sung hymns in the parlour every Sunday night, and my favourite always was 'The Sands of Time are Sinking?' I ain't never forgot how you used to sing that, and I want to hear it just once again, dearie. Sing it for me, little Joscelyn."

Joscelyn rose and went to the window. Lifting back the curtain, she stood in the splendour of the moonlight, and sang the grand old hymn. At first Aunty Nan beat time to it feebly on the counterpane; but when Joscelyn came to the verse, "With mercy and with judgment," she folded her hands over her breast and smiled.

When the hymn ended, Joscelyn came over to the bed.

"I am afraid I must say good-bye now, Aunty Nan," she said.

Then she saw that Aunty Nan had fallen asleep. She would not waken her, but she took from her breast the cluster of crimson roses she wore and slipped them gently between the toil-worn fingers.

"Good-bye, dear, sweet mother-heart," she murmured.

Down-stairs she met Mrs. William splendid in rustling black silk, her broad, rubicund face smiling, overflowing with apologies and welcomes, which Joscelyn cut short coldly.

"Thank you, Mrs. Morrison, but I cannot possibly stay longer. No, thank you, I don't care for any refreshments. Jordan is going to take me back to Kensington at once. I came out to see Aunty Nan." "I'm certain she'd be delighted," said Mrs. William effusively. "She's been talking about you for weeks."

"Yes, it has made her very happy," said Joscelyn gravely. "And it has made me happy, too. I love Aunty Nan, Mrs. Morrison, and I owe her much. In all my life I have never met a woman so purely, unselfishly good and noble and true."

"Fancy now," said Mrs. William, rather overcome at hearing this great singer pronounce such an encomium on quiet, timid old Aunty Nan.

Jordan drove Joscelyn back to Kensington; and up-stairs in her room Aunty Nan slept, with that rapt smile on her face and Joscelyn's red roses in her hands. Thus it was that Mrs. William found her, going in the next morning with her breakfast. The sunlight crept over the pillow, lighting up the sweet old face and silver hair, and stealing downward to the faded red roses on her breast. Smiling and peaceful and happy lay Aunty Nan, for she had fallen on the sleep that knows no earthy wakening, while little Joscelyn sang.



V. The Winning of Lucinda


The marriage of a Penhallow was always the signal for a gathering of the Penhallows. From the uttermost parts of the earth they would come -- Penhallows by birth, and Penhallows by marriage and Penhallows by ancestry. East Grafton was the ancient habitat of the race, and Penhallow Grange, where "old" John Penhallow lived, was a Mecca to them.

As for the family itself, the exact kinship of all its various branches and ramifications was a hard thing to define. Old Uncle Julius Penhallow was looked upon as a veritable wonder because he carried it all in his head and could tell on sight just what relation any one Penhallow was to any other Penhallow. The rest made a blind guess at it, for the most part, and the younger Penhallows let it go at loose cousinship.

In this instance it was Alice Penhallow, daughter of "young" John Penhallow, who was to be married. Alice was a nice girl, but she and her wedding only pertain to this story in so far as they furnish a background for Lucinda; hence nothing more need be said of her.

On the afternoon of her wedding day -- the Penhallows held to the good, old-fashioned custom of evening weddings with a rousing dance afterwards -- Penhallow Grange was filled to overflowing with guests who had come there to have tea and rest themselves before going down to "young" John's. Many of them had driven fifty miles. In the big autumnal orchard the younger fry foregathered and chatted and coquetted. Up-stairs, in "old" Mrs. John's bedroom, she and her married daughters held high conclave. "Old" John had established himself with his sons and sons-in-law in the parlour, and the three daughters-in-law were making themselves at home in the blue sitting-room, ear-deep in harmless family gossip. Lucinda and Romney Penhallow were also there.

Thin Mrs. Nathaniel Penhallow sat in a rocking chair and toasted her toes at the grate, for the brilliant autumn afternoon was slightly chilly and Lucinda, as usual, had the window open. She and plump Mrs. Frederick Penhallow did most of the talking. Mrs. George Penhallow being rather out of it by reason of her newness. She was George Penhallow's second wife, married only a year. Hence, her contributions to the conversation were rather spasmodic, hurled in, as it were, by dead reckoning, being sometimes appropriate and sometimes savouring of a point of view not strictly Penhallowesque.

Romney Penhallow was sitting in a corner, listening to the chatter of the women, with the inscrutable smile that always vexed Mrs. Frederick. Mrs. George wondered within herself what he did there among the women. She also wondered just where he belonged on the family tree. He was not one of the uncles, yet he could not be much younger than George.

"Forty, if he is a day," was Mrs. George's mental dictum, "but a very handsome and fascinating man. I never saw such a splendid chin and dimple."

Lucinda, with bronze-colored hair and the whitest of skins, defiant of merciless sunlight and revelling in the crisp air, sat on the sill of the open window behind the crimson vine leaves, looking out into the garden, where dahlias flamed and asters broke into waves of purple and snow. The ruddy light of the autumn afternoon gave a sheen to the waves of her hair and brought out the exceeding purity of her Greek outlines.

Mrs. George knew who Lucinda was -- a cousin of the second generation, and, in spite of her thirty-five years, the acknowledged beauty of the whole Penhallow connection.

She was one of those rare women who keep their loveliness unmarred by the passage of years. She had ripened and matured, but she had not grown old. The older Penhallows were still inclined, from sheer force of habit, to look upon her as a girl, and the younger Penhallows hailed her as one of themselves. Yet Lucinda never aped girlishness; good taste and a strong sense of humour preserved her amid many temptations thereto. She was simply a beautiful, fully developed woman, with whom Time had declared a truce, young with a mellow youth which had nothing to do with years.

Mrs. George liked and admired Lucinda. Now, when Mrs. George liked and admired any person, it was a matter of necessity with her to impart her opinions to the most convenient confidant. In this case it was Romney Penhallow to whom Mrs. George remarked sweetly:

"Really, don't you think our Lucinda is looking remarkably well this fall?"

It seemed a very harmless, inane, well-meant question. Poor Mrs. George might well be excused for feeling bewildered over the effect. Romney gathered his long legs together, stood up, and swept the unfortunate speaker a crushing Penhallow bow of state.

"Far be it from me to disagree with the opinion of a lady -- especially when it concerns another lady," he said, as he left the blue room.

Overcome by the mordant satire in his tone, Mrs. George glanced speechlessly at Lucinda. Behold, Lucinda had squarely turned her back on the party and was gazing out into the garden, with a very decided flush on the snowy curves of her neck and cheek. Then Mrs. George looked at her sisters-in-law. They were regarding her with the tolerant amusement they might bestow on a blundering child. Mrs. George experienced that subtle prescience whereby it is given us to know that we have put our foot in it. She felt herself turning an uncomfortable brick-red. What Penhallow skeleton had she unwittingly jangled? Why, oh, why, was it such an evident breach of the proprieties to praise Lucinda?

Mrs. George was devoutly thankful that a summons to the tea-table rescued her from her mire of embarrassment. The meal was spoiled for her, however; the mortifying recollection of her mysterious blunder conspired with her curiosity to banish appetite. As soon as possible after tea she decoyed Mrs. Frederick out into the garden and in the dahlia walk solemnly demanded the reason of it all.

Mrs. Frederick indulged in a laugh which put the mettle of her festal brown silk seams to the test.

"My dear Cecilia, it was SO amusing," she said, a little patronizingly.

"But WHY!" cried Mrs. George, resenting the patronage and the mystery. "What was so dreadful in what I said? Or so funny? And WHO is this Romney Penhallow who mustn't be spoken to?"

"Oh, Romney is one of the Charlottetown Penhallows," explained Mrs. Frederick. "He is a lawyer there. He is a first cousin of Lucinda's and a second of George's -- or is he? Oh, bother! You must go to Uncle John if you want the genealogy. I'm in a chronic muddle concerning Penhallow relationship. And, as for Romney, of course you can speak to him about anything you like except Lucinda. Oh, you innocent! To ask him if he didn't think Lucinda was looking well! And right before her, too! Of course he thought you did it on purpose to tease him. That was what made him so savage and sarcastic."

"But WHY?" persisted Mrs. George, sticking tenaciously to her point.

"Hasn't George told you?"

"No," said George's wife in mild exasperation. "George has spent most of his time since we were married telling me odd things about the Penhallows, but he hasn't got to that yet, evidently."

"Why, my dear, it is our family romance. Lucinda and Romney are in love with each other. They have been in love with each other for fifteen years and in all that time they have never spoken to each other once!"

"Dear me!" murmured Mrs. George, feeling the inadequacy of mere language. Was this a Penhallow method of courtship? "But WHY?"

"They had a quarrel fifteen years ago," said Mrs. Frederick patiently. "Nobody knows how it originated or anything about it except that Lucinda herself admitted it to us afterwards. But, in the first flush of her rage, she told Romney that she would never speak to him again as long as she lived. And HE said he would never speak to her until she spoke first -- because, you see, as she was in the wrong she ought to make the first advance. And they never have spoken. Everybody in the connection, I suppose, has taken turns trying to reconcile them, but nobody has succeeded. I don't believe that Romney has ever so much as THOUGHT of any other woman in his whole life, and certainly Lucinda has never thought of any other man. You will notice she still wears Romney's ring. They're practically engaged still, of course. And Romney said once that if Lucinda would just say one word, no matter what it was, even if it were something insulting, he would speak, too, and beg her pardon for his share in the quarrel -- because then, you see, he would not be breaking his word. He hasn't referred to the matter for years, but I presume that he is of the same mind still. And they are just as much in love with each other as they ever were. He's always hanging about where she is -- when other people are there, too, that is. He avoids her like a plague when she is alone. That was why he was stuck out in the blue room with us to-day. There doesn't seem to be a particle of resentment between them. If Lucinda would only speak! But that Lucinda will not do."

"Don't you think she will yet?" said Mrs. George.

Mrs. Frederick shook her crimped head sagely.

"Not now. The whole thing has hardened too long. Her pride will never let her speak. We used to hope she would be tricked into it by forgetfulness or accident -- we used to lay traps for her -- but all to no effect. It is such a shame, too. They were made for each other. Do you know, I get cross when I begin to thrash the whole silly affair over like this. Doesn't it sound as if we were talking of the quarrel of two school-children? Of late years we have learned that it does not do to speak of Lucinda to Romney, even in the most commonplace way. He seems to resent it."

"HE ought to speak," cried Mrs. George warmly. "Even if she were in the wrong ten times over, he ought to overlook it and speak first."

"But he won't. And she won't. You never saw two such determined mortals. They get it from their grandfather on the mother's side -- old Absalom Gordon. There is no such stubbornness on the Penhallow side. His obstinacy was a proverb, my dear -- actually a proverb. What ever he said, he would stick to if the skies fell. He was a terrible old man to swear, too," added Mrs. Frederick, dropping into irrelevant reminiscence. "He spent a long while in a mining camp in his younger days and he never got over it -- the habit of swearing, I mean. It would have made your blood run cold, my dear, to have heard him go on at times. And yet he was a real good old man every other way. He couldn't help it someway. He tried to, but he used to say that profanity came as natural to him as breathing. It used to mortify his family terribly. Fortunately, none of them took after him in that respect. But he's dead -- and one shouldn't speak ill of the dead. I must go and get Mattie Penhallow to do my hair. I would burst these sleeves clean out if I tried to do it myself and I don't want to dress over again. You won't be likely to talk to Romney about Lucinda again, my dear Cecilia?"

"Fifteen years!" murmured Mrs. George helplessly to the dahlias. "Engaged for fifteen years and never speaking to each other! Dear heart and soul, think of it! Oh, these Penhallows!"

Meanwhile, Lucinda, serenely unconscious that her love story was being mouthed over by Mrs. Frederick in the dahlia garden, was dressing for the wedding. Lucinda still enjoyed dressing for a festivity, since the mirror still dealt gently with her. Moreover, she had a new dress. Now, a new dress -- and especially one as nice as this -- was a rarity with Lucinda, who belonged to a branch of the Penhallows noted for being chronically hard up. Indeed, Lucinda and her widowed mother were positively poor, and hence a new dress was an event in Lucinda's existence. An uncle had given her this one -- a beautiful, perishable thing, such as Lucinda would never have dared to choose for herself, but in which she revelled with feminine delight.

It was of pale green voile -- a colour which brought out admirably the ruddy gloss of her hair and the clear brilliance of her skin. When she had finished dressing she looked at herself in the mirror with frank delight. Lucinda was not vain, but she was quite well aware of the fact of her beauty and took an impersonal pleasure in it, as if she were looking at some finely painted picture by a master hand.

The form and face reflected in the glass satisfied her. The puffs and draperies of the green voile displayed to perfection the full, but not over-full, curves of her fine figure. Lucinda lifted her arm and touched a red rose to her lips with the hand upon which shone the frosty glitter of Romney's diamond, looking at the graceful slope of her shoulder and the splendid line of chin and throat with critical approval.

She noted, too, how well the gown became her eyes, bringing out all the deeper colour in them. Lucinda had magnificent eyes. Once Romney had written a sonnet to them in which he compared their colour to ripe blueberries. This may not sound poetical to you unless you know or remember just what the tints of ripe blueberries are -- dusky purple in some lights, clear slate in others, and yet again in others the misty hue of early meadow violets.

"You really look very well," remarked the real Lucinda to the mirrored Lucinda. "Nobody would think you were an old maid. But you are. Alice Penhallow, who is to be married to-night, was a child of five when you thought of being married fifteen years ago. That makes you an old maid, my dear. Well, it is your own fault, and it will continue to be your own fault, you stubborn offshoot of a stubborn breed!"

She flung her train out straight and pulled on her gloves.

"I do hope I won't get any spots on this dress to-night," she reflected. "It will have to do me for a gala dress for a year at least -- and I have a creepy conviction that it is fearfully spottable. Bless Uncle Mark's good, uncalculating heart! How I would have detested it if he had given me something sensible and useful and ugly -- as Aunt Emilia would have done."

They all went to "young" John Penhallow's at early moonrise. Lucinda drove over the two miles of hill and dale with a youthful second cousin, by name, Carey Penhallow. The wedding was quite a brilliant affair. Lucinda seemed to pervade the social atmosphere, and everywhere she went a little ripple of admiration trailed after her like a wave. She was undeniably a belle, yet she found herself feeling faintly bored and was rather glad than otherwise when the guests began to fray off.

"I'm afraid I'm losing my capacity for enjoyment," she thought, a little drearily. "Yes, I must be growing old. That is what it means when social functions begin to bore you."

It was that unlucky Mrs. George who blundered again. She was standing on the veranda when Carey Penhallow dashed up.

"Tell Lucinda that I can't take her back to the Grange. I have to drive Mark and Cissy Penhallow to Bright River to catch the two o'clock express. There will be plenty of chances for her with the others."

At this moment George Penhallow, holding his rearing horse with difficulty, shouted for his wife. Mrs. George, all in a flurry, dashed back into the still crowded hall. Exactly to whom she gave her message was never known to any of the Penhallows. But a tall, ruddy-haired girl, dressed in pale green organdy -- Anne Shirley from Avonlea -- told Marilla Cuthbert and Rachel Lynde as a joke the next morning how a chubby little woman in a bright pink fascinator had clutched her by the arm, and gasped out: "Carey Penhallow can't take you -- he says you're to look out for someone else," and was gone before she could answer or turn around.

Thus it was that Lucinda, when she came out to the veranda step, found herself unaccountably deserted. All the Grange Penhallows were gone; Lucinda realized this after a few moments of bewildered seeking, and she understood that if she were to get to the Grange that night she must walk. Plainly there was nobody to take her.

Lucinda was angry. It is not pleasant to find yourself forgotten and neglected. It is still less pleasant to walk home alone along a country road, at one o'clock in the morning, wearing a pale green voile. Lucinda was not prepared for such a walk. She had nothing on her feet save thin-soled shoes, and her only wraps were a flimsy fascinator and a short coat.

"What a guy I shall look, stalking home alone in this rig," she thought crossly.

There was no help for it, unless she confessed her plight to some of the stranger guests and begged a drive home. Lucinda's pride scorned such a request and the admission of neglect it involved. No, she would walk, since that was all there was to it; but she would not go by the main road to be stared at by all and sundry who might pass her. There was a short cut by way of a lane across the fields; she knew every inch of it, although she had not traversed it for years.

She gathered up the green voile as trimly as possible, slipped around the house in the kindly shadows, picked her way across the side lawn, and found a gate which opened into a birch-bordered lane where the frosted trees shone with silvery-golden radiance in the moonlight. Lucinda flitted down the lane, growing angrier at every step as the realization of how shamefully she seemed to have been treated came home to her. She believed that nobody had thought about her at all, which was tenfold worse than premeditated neglect.

As she came to the gate at the lower end of the lane a man who was leaning over it started, with a quick intake of his breath, which, in any other man than Romney Penhallow, or for any other woman than Lucinda Penhallow, would have been an exclamation of surprise.

Lucinda recognized him with a great deal of annoyance and a little relief. She would not have to walk home alone. But with Romney Penhallow! Would he think she had contrived it so purposely?

Romney silently opened the gate for her, silently latched it behind her, and silently fell into step beside her. Down across a velvety sweep of field they went; the air was frosty, calm and still; over the world lay a haze of moonshine and mist that converted East Grafton's prosaic hills and fields into a shimmering fairyland. At first Lucinda felt angrier than ever. What a ridiculous situation! How the Penhallows would laugh over it!

As for Romney, he, too, was angry with the trick impish chance had played him. He liked being the butt of an awkward situation as little as most men; and certainly to be obliged to walk home over moonlit fields at one o'clock in the morning with the woman he had loved and never spoken to for fifteen years was the irony of fate with a vengeance. Would she think he had schemed for it? And how the deuce did she come to be walking home from the wedding at all?

By the time they had crossed the field and reached the wild cherry lane beyond it, Lucinda's anger was mastered by her saving sense of humour. She was even smiling a little maliciously under her fascinator.

The lane was a place of enchantment -- a long, moonlit colonnade adown which beguiling wood nymphs might have footed it featly. The moonshine fell through the arching boughs and made a mosaic of silver light and clear-cut shadow for the unfriendly lovers to walk in. On either side was the hovering gloom of the woods, and around them was a great silence unstirred by wind or murmur.

Midway in the lane Lucinda was attacked by a sentimental recollection. She thought of the last time Romney and she had walked home together through this very lane, from a party at "young" John's. It had been moonlight then too, and -- Lucinda checked a sigh -- they had walked hand in hand. Just here, by the big gray beech, he had stopped her and kissed her. Lucinda wondered if he were thinking of it, too, and stole a look at him from under the lace border of her fascinator.

But he was striding moodily along with his hands in his pockets, and his hat pulled down over his eyes, passing the old beech without a glance at it. Lucinda checked another sigh, gathered up an escaped flutter of voile, and marched on.

Past the lane a range of three silvery harvest fields sloped down to Peter Penhallow's brook -- a wide, shallow stream bridged over in the olden days by the mossy trunk of an ancient fallen tree. When Lucinda and Romney arrived at the brook they gazed at the brawling water blankly. Lucinda remembered that she must not speak to Romney just in time to prevent an exclamation of dismay. There was no tree! There was no bridge of any kind over the brook!

Here was a predicament! But before Lucinda could do more than despairingly ask herself what was to be done now, Romney answered -- not in words, but in deeds. He coolly picked Lucinda up in his arms, as if she had been a child instead of a full grown woman of no mean avoirdupois, and began to wade with her through the water.

Lucinda gasped helplessly. She could not forbid him and she was so choked with rage over his presumption that she could not have spoken in any case. Then came the catastrophe. Romney's foot slipped on a treacherous round stone -- there was a tremendous splash -- and Romney and Lucinda Penhallow were sitting down in the middle of Peter Penhallow's brook.

Lucinda was the first to regain her feet. About her clung in heart-breaking limpness the ruined voile. The remembrance of all her wrongs that night rushed over her soul, and her eyes blazed in the moonlight. Lucinda Penhallow had never been so angry in her life.

"YOU D -- D IDIOT!" she said, in a voice that literally shook with rage.

Romney meekly scrambled up the bank after her.

"I'm awfully sorry, Lucinda," he said, striving with uncertain success to keep a suspicious quiver of laughter out of his tone. "It was wretchedly clumsy of me, but that pebble turned right under my foot. Please forgive me -- for that -- and for other things."

Lucinda deigned no answer. She stood on a flat stone and wrung the water from the poor green voile. Romney surveyed her apprehensively.

"Hurry, Lucinda," he entreated. "You will catch your death of cold."

"I never take cold," answered Lucinda, with chattering teeth. "And it is my dress I am thinking of -- was thinking of. You have more need to hurry. You are sopping wet yourself and you know you are subject to colds. There -- come."

Lucinda picked up the stringy train, which had been so brave and buoyant five minutes before, and started up the field at a brisk rate. Romney came up to her and slipped his arm through hers in the old way. For a time they walked along in silence. Then Lucinda began to shake with inward laughter. She laughed silently for the whole length of the field; and at the line fence between Peter Penhallow's land and the Grange acres she paused, threw back the fascinator from her face, and looked at Romney defiantly.

"You are thinking of -- THAT," she cried, "and I am thinking of it. And we will go on, thinking of it at intervals for the rest of our lives. But if you ever mention it to me I'll never forgive you, Romney Penhallow!"

"I never will," Romney promised. There was more than a suspicion of laughter in his voice this time, but Lucinda did not choose to resent it. She did not speak again until they reached the Grange gate. Then she faced him solemnly.

"It was a case of atavism," she said. "Old Grandfather Gordon was to blame for it."

At the Grange almost everybody was in bed. What with the guests straggling home at intervals and hurrying sleepily off to their rooms, nobody had missed Lucinda, each set supposing she was with some other set. Mrs. Frederick, Mrs. Nathaniel and Mrs. George alone were up. The perennially chilly Mrs. Nathaniel had kindled a fire of chips in the blue room grate to warm her feet before retiring, and the three women were discussing the wedding in subdued tones when the door opened and the stately form of Lucinda, stately even in the dragged voile, appeared, with the damp Romney behind her.

"Lucinda Penhallow!" gasped they, one and all.

"I was left to walk home," said Lucinda coolly. "So Romney and I came across the fields. There was no bridge over the brook, and when he was carrying me over he slipped and we fell in. That is all. No, Cecilia, I never take cold, so don't worry. Yes, my dress is ruined, but that is of no consequence. No, thank you, Cecilia, I do not care for a hot drink. Romney, do go and take off those wet clothes of yours immediately. No, Cecilia, I will NOT take a hot footbath. I am going straight to bed. Good night."

When the door closed on the pair the three sisters-in-law stared at each other. Mrs. Frederick, feeling herself incapable of expressing her sensations originally, took refuge in a quotation:


"'Do I sleep, do I dream, do I wonder and doubt? Is things what they seem, or is visions about?'"


"There will be another Penhallow wedding soon," said Mrs. Nathaniel, with a long breath. "Lucinda has spoken to Romney AT LAST."

"Oh, WHAT do you suppose she said to him?" cried Mrs. George.

"My dear Cecilia," said Mrs. Frederick, "we shall never know."

They never did know.



VI. Old Man Shaw's Girl


"Day after to-morrow -- day after to-morrow," said Old Man Shaw, rubbing his long slender hands together gleefully. "I have to keep saying it over and over, so as to really believe it. It seems far too good to be true that I'm to have Blossom again. And everything is ready. Yes, I think everything is ready, except a bit of cooking. And won't this orchard be a surprise to her! I'm just going to bring her out here as soon as I can, never saying a word. I'll fetch her through the spruce lane, and when we come to the end of the path I'll step back casual-like, and let her go out from under the trees alone, never suspecting. It'll be worth ten times the trouble to see her big, brown eyes open wide and hear her say, 'Oh, daddy! Why, daddy!'"

He rubbed his hands again and laughed softly to himself. He was a tall, bent old man, whose hair was snow white, but whose face was fresh and rosy. His eyes were a boy's eyes, large, blue and merry, and his mouth had never got over a youthful trick of smiling at any provocation -- and, oft-times, at no provocation at all.

To be sure, White Sands people would not have given you the most favourable opinion in the world of Old Man Shaw. First and foremost, they would have told you that he was "shiftless," and had let his bit of a farm run out while he pottered with flowers and bugs, or rambled aimlessly about in the woods, or read books along the shore. Perhaps it was true; but the old farm yielded him a living, and further than that Old Man Shaw had no ambition. He was as blithe as a pilgrim on a pathway climbing to the west. He had learned the rare secret that you must take happiness when you find it -- that there is no use in marking the place and coming back to it at a more convenient season, because it will not be there then. And it is very easy to be happy if you know, as Old Man Shaw most thoroughly knew, how to find pleasure in little things. He enjoyed life, he had always enjoyed life and helped others to enjoy it; consequently his life was a success, whatever White Sands people might think of it. What if he had not "improved" his farm? There are some people to whom life will never be anything more than a kitchen garden; and there are others to whom it will always be a royal palace with domes and minarets of rainbow fancy.

The orchard of which he was so proud was as yet little more than the substance of things hoped for -- a flourishing plantation of young trees which would amount to something later on. Old Man Shaw's house was on the crest of a bare, sunny hill, with a few staunch old firs and spruces behind it -- the only trees that could resist the full sweep of the winds that blew bitterly up from the sea at times. Fruit trees would never grow near it, and this had been a great grief to Sara.

"Oh, daddy, if we could just have an orchard!" she had been wont to say wistfully, when other farmhouses in White Sands were smothered whitely in apple bloom. And when she had gone away, and her father had nothing to look forward to save her return, he was determined she should find an orchard when she came back.

Over the southward hill, warmly sheltered by spruce woods and sloping to the sunshine, was a little field, so fertile that all the slack management of a life-time had not availed to exhaust it. Here Old Man Shaw set out his orchard and saw it flourish, watching and tending it until he came to know each tree as a child and loved it. His neighbours laughed at him, and said that the fruit of an orchard so far away from the house would all be stolen. But as yet there was no fruit, and when the time came for bearing there would be enough and to spare.

"Blossom and me'll get all we want, and the boys can have the rest, if they want 'em worse'n they want a good conscience," said that unworldly, unbusinesslike Old Man Shaw.

On his way back home from his darling orchard he found a rare fern in the woods and dug it up for Sara -- she had loved ferns. He planted it at the shady, sheltered side of the house and then sat down on the old bench by the garden gate to read her last letter -- the letter that was only a note, because she was coming home soon. He knew every word of it by heart, but that did not spoil the pleasure of re-reading it every half-hour.

Old Man Shaw had not married until late in life, and had, so White Sands people said, selected a wife with his usual judgment -- which, being interpreted, meant no judgment at all; otherwise, he would never have married Sara Glover, a mere slip of a girl, with big brown eyes like a frightened wood creature's, and the delicate, fleeting bloom of a spring Mayflower.

"The last woman in the world for a farmer's wife -- no strength or get-up about her."

Neither could White Sands folk understand what on earth Sara Glover had married him for.

"Well, the fool crop was the only one that never failed."

Old Man Shaw -- he was Old Man Shaw even then, although he was only forty -- and his girl bride had troubled themselves not at all about White Sands opinions. They had one year of perfect happiness, which is always worth living for, even if the rest of life be a dreary pilgrimage, and then Old Man Shaw found himself alone again, except for little Blossom. She was christened Sara, after her dead mother, but she was always Blossom to her father -- the precious little blossom whose plucking had cost the mother her life.

Sara Glover's people, especially a wealthy aunt in Montreal, had wanted to take the child, but Old Man Shaw grew almost fierce over the suggestion. He would give his baby to no one. A woman was hired to look after the house, but it was the father who cared for the baby in the main. He was as tender and faithful and deft as a woman. Sara never missed a mother's care, and she grew up into a creature of life and light and beauty, a constant delight to all who knew her. She had a way of embroidering life with stars. She was dowered with all the charming characteristics of both parents, with a resilient vitality and activity which had pertained to neither of them. When she was ten years old she had packed all hirelings off, and kept house for her father for six delightful years -- years in which they were father and daughter, brother and sister, and "chums." Sara never went to school, but her father saw to her education after a fashion of his own. When their work was done they lived in the woods and fields, in the little garden they had made on the sheltered side of the house, or on the shore, where sunshine and storm were to them equally lovely and beloved. Never was comradeship more perfect or more wholly satisfactory.

"Just wrapped up in each other," said White Sands folk, half-enviously, half-disapprovingly.

When Sara was sixteen Mrs. Adair, the wealthy aunt aforesaid, pounced down on White Sands in a glamour of fashion and culture and outer worldliness. She bombarded Old Man Shaw with such arguments that he had to succumb. It was a shame that a girl like Sara should grow up in a place like White Sands, "with no advantages and no education," said Mrs. Adair scornfully, not understanding that wisdom and knowledge are two entirely different things.

"At least let me give my dear sister's child what I would have given my own daughter if I had had one," she pleaded tearfully. "Let me take her with me and send her to a good school for a few years. Then, if she wishes, she may come back to you, of course."

Privately, Mrs. Adair did not for a moment believe that Sara would want to come back to White Sands, and her queer old father, after three years of the life she would give her.

Old Man Shaw yielded, influenced thereto not at all by Mrs. Adair's readily flowing tears, but greatly by his conviction that justice to Sara demanded it. Sara herself did not want to go; she protested and pleaded; but her father, having become convinced that it was best for her to go, was inexorable. Everything, even her own feelings, must give way to that. But she was to come back to him without let or hindrance when her "schooling" was done. It was only on having this most clearly understood that Sara would consent to go at all. Her last words, called back to her father through her tears as she and her aunt drove down the lane, were,

"I'll be back, daddy. In three years I'll be back. Don't cry, but just look forward to that."

He had looked forward to it through the three long, lonely years that followed, in all of which he never saw his darling. Half a continent was between them and Mrs. Adair had vetoed vacation visits, under some specious pretense. But every week brought its letter from Sara. Old Man Shaw had every one of them, tied up with one of her old blue hair ribbons, and kept in her mother's little rose-wood work-box in the parlour. He spent every Sunday afternoon re-reading them, with her photograph before him. He lived alone, refusing to be pestered with kind help, but he kept the house in beautiful order.

"A better housekeeper than farmer," said White Sands people. He would have nothing altered. When Sara came back she was not to be hurt by changes. It never occurred to him that she might be changed herself.

And now those three interminable years were gone, and Sara was coming home. She wrote him nothing of her aunt's pleadings and reproaches and ready, futile tears; she wrote only that she would graduate in June and start for home a week later. Thenceforth Old Man Shaw went about in a state of beatitude, making ready for her homecoming. As he sat on the bench in the sunshine, with the blue sea sparkling and crinkling down at the foot of the green slope, he reflected with satisfaction that all was in perfect order. There was nothing left to do save count the hours until that beautiful, longed-for day after to-morrow. He gave himself over to a reverie, as sweet as a day-dream in a haunted valley.

The red roses were out in bloom. Sara had always loved those red roses -- they were as vivid as herself, with all her own fullness of life and joy of living. And, besides these, a miracle had happened in Old Man Shaw's garden. In one corner was a rose-bush which had never bloomed, despite all the coaxing they had given it -- "the sulky rose-bush," Sara had been wont to call it. Lo! this summer had flung the hoarded sweetness of years into plentiful white blossoms, like shallow ivory cups with a haunting, spicy fragrance. It was in honour of Sara's home-coming -- so Old Man Shaw liked to fancy. All things, even the sulky rose-bush, knew she was coming back, and were making glad because of it.

He was gloating over Sara's letter when Mrs. Peter Blewett came. She told him she had run up to see how he was getting on, and if he wanted anything seen to before Sara came.

"No'm, thank you, ma'am. Everything is attended to. I couldn't let anyone else prepare for Blossom. Only to think, ma'am, she'll be home the day after to-morrow. I'm just filled clear through, body, soul, and spirit, with joy to think of having my little Blossom at home again."

Mrs. Blewett smiled sourly. When Mrs. Blewett smiled it foretokened trouble, and wise people had learned to have sudden business elsewhere before the smile could be translated into words. But Old Man Shaw had never learned to be wise where Mrs. Blewett was concerned, although she had been his nearest neighbour for years, and had pestered his life out with advice and "neighbourly turns."

Mrs. Blewett was one with whom life had gone awry. The effect on her was to render happiness to other people a personal insult. She resented Old Man Shaw's beaming delight in his daughter's return, and she "considered it her duty" to rub the bloom off straightway.

"Do you think Sary'll be contented in White Sands now?" she asked.

Old Man Shaw looked slightly bewildered.

"Of course she'll be contented," he said slowly. "Isn't it her home? And ain't I here?"

Mrs. Blewett smiled again, with double distilled contempt for such simplicity.

"Well, it's a good thing you're so sure of it, I suppose. If 'twas my daughter that was coming back to White Sands, after three years of fashionable life among rich, stylish folks, and at a swell school, I wouldn't have a minute's peace of mind. I'd know perfectly well that she'd look down on everything here, and be discontented and miserable."

"YOUR daughter might," said Old Man Shaw, with more sarcasm than he had supposed he had possessed, "but Blossom won't."

Mrs. Blewett shrugged her sharp shoulders.

"Maybe not. It's to be hoped not, for both your sakes, I'm sure. But I'd be worried if 'twas me. Sary's been living among fine folks, and having a gay, exciting time, and it stands to reason she'll think White Sands fearful lonesome and dull. Look at Lauretta Bradley. She was up in Boston for just a month last winter and she's never been able to endure White Sands since."

"Lauretta Bradley and Sara Shaw are two different people," said Sara's father, trying to smile.

"And your house, too," pursued Mrs. Blewett ruthlessly. "It's such a queer, little, old place. What'll she think of it after her aunt's? I've heard tell Mrs. Adair lives in a perfect palace. I'll just warn you kindly that Sary'll probably look down on you, and you might as well be prepared for it. Of course, I suppose she kind of thinks she has to come back, seeing she promised you so solemn she would. But I'm certain she doesn't want to, and I don't blame her either."

Even Mrs. Blewett had to stop for breath, and Old Man Shaw found his opportunity. He had listened, dazed and shrinking, as if she were dealing him physical blows, but now a swift change swept over him. His blue eyes flashed ominously, straight into Mrs. Blewett's straggling, ferrety gray orbs.

"If you're said your say, Martha Blewett, you can go," he said passionately. "I'm not going to listen to another such word. Take yourself out of my sight, and your malicious tongue out of my hearing!"

Mrs. Blewett went, too dumfounded by such an unheard-of outburst in mild Old Man Shaw to say a word of defence or attack. When she had gone Old Man Shaw, the fire all faded from his eyes, sank back on his bench. His delight was dead; his heart was full of pain and bitterness. Martha Blewett was a warped and ill-natured woman, but he feared there was altogether too much truth in what she said. Why had he never thought of it before? Of course White Sands would seem dull and lonely to Blossom; of course the little gray house where she was born would seem a poor abode after the splendours of her aunt's home. Old Man Shaw walked through his garden and looked at everything with new eyes. How poor and simple everything was! How sagging and weather-beaten the old house! He went in, and up-stairs to Sara's room. It was neat and clean, just as she had left it three years ago. But it was small and dark; the ceiling was discoloured, the furniture old-fashioned and shabby; she would think it a poor, mean place. Even the orchard over the hill brought him no comfort now. Blossom would not care for orchards. She would be ashamed of her stupid old father and the barren farm. She would hate White Sands, and chafe at the dull existence, and look down on everything that went to make up his uneventful life.

Old Man Shaw was unhappy enough that night to have satisfied even Mrs. Blewett had she known. He saw himself as he thought White Sands folk must see him -- a poor, shiftless, foolish old man, who had only one thing in the world worthwhile, his little girl, and had not been of enough account to keep her.

"Oh, Blossom, Blossom!" he said, and when he spoke her name it sounded as if he spoke the name of one dead.

After a little the worst sting passed away. He refused to believe long that Blossom would be ashamed of him; he knew she would not. Three years could not so alter her loyal nature -- no, nor ten times three years. But she would be changed -- she would have grown away from him in those three busy, brilliant years. His companionship could no longer satisfy her. How simple and childish he had been to expect it! She would be sweet and kind -- Blossom could never be anything else. She would not show open discontent or dissatisfaction; she would not be like Lauretta Bradley; but it would be there, and he would divine it, and it would break his heart. Mrs. Blewett was right. When he had given Blossom up he should not have made a half-hearted thing of his sacrifice -- he should not have bound her to come back to him.

He walked about in his little garden until late at night, under the stars, with the sea crooning and calling to him down the slope. When he finally went to bed he did not sleep, but lay until morning with tear-wet eyes and despair in his heart. All the forenoon he went about his usual daily work absently. Frequently he fell into long reveries, standing motionless wherever he happened to be, and looking dully before him. Only once did he show any animation. When he saw Mrs. Blewett coming up the lane he darted into the house, locked the door, and listened to her knocking in grim silence. After she had gone he went out, and found a plate of fresh doughnuts, covered with a napkin, placed on the bench at the door. Mrs. Blewett meant to indicate thus that she bore him no malice for her curt dismissal the day before; possibly her conscience gave her some twinges also. But her doughnuts could not minister to the mind she had diseased. Old Man Shaw took them up; carried them to the pig-pen, and fed them to the pigs. It was the first spiteful thing he had done in his life, and he felt a most immoral satisfaction in it.

In mid-afternoon he went out to the garden, finding the new loneliness of the little house unbearable. The old bench was warm in the sunshine. Old Man Shaw sat down with a long sigh, and dropped his white head wearily on his breast. He had decided what he must do. He would tell Blossom that she might go back to her aunt and never mind about him -- he would do very well by himself and he did not blame her in the least.

He was still sitting broodingly there when a girl came up the lane. She was tall and straight, and walked with a kind of uplift in her motion, as if it would be rather easier to fly than not. She was dark, with a rich dusky sort of darkness, suggestive of the bloom on purple plums, or the glow of deep red apples among bronze leaves. Her big brown eyes lingered on everything in sight, and little gurgles of sound now and again came through her parted lips, as if inarticulate joy were thus expressing itself.

At the garden gate she saw the bent figure on the old bench, and the next minute she was flying along the rose walk.

"Daddy!" she called, "daddy!"

Old Man Shaw stood up in hasty bewilderment; then a pair of girlish arms were about his neck, and a pair of warm red lips were on his; girlish eyes, full of love, were looking up into his, and a never-forgotten voice, tingling with laughter and tears blended into one delicious chord, was crying,

"Oh, daddy, is it really you? Oh, I can't tell you how good it is to see you again!"

Old Man Shaw held her tightly in a silence of amazement and joy too deep for wonder. Why, this was his Blossom -- the very Blossom who had gone away three years ago! A little taller, a little more womanly, but his own dear Blossom, and no stranger. There was a new heaven and a new earth for him in the realization.

"Oh, Baby Blossom!" he murmured, "Little Baby Blossom!"

Sara rubbed her cheek against the faded coat sleeve.

"Daddy darling, this moment makes up for everything, doesn't it?"

"But -- but -- where did you come from?" he asked, his senses beginning to struggle out of their bewilderment of surprise. "I didn't expect you till to-morrow. You didn't have to walk from the station, did you? And your old daddy not there to welcome you!"

Sara laughed, swung herself back by the tips of her fingers and danced around him in the childish fashion of long ago.

"I found I could make an earlier connection with the C.P.A. yesterday and get to the Island last night. I was in such a fever to get home that I jumped at the chance. Of course I walked from the station -- it's only two miles and every step was a benediction. My trunks are over there. We'll go after them to-morrow, daddy, but just now I want to go straight to every one of the dear old nooks and spots at once."

"You must get something to eat first," he urged fondly. "And there ain't much in the house, I'm afraid. I was going to bake to-morrow morning. But I guess I can forage you out something, darling."

He was sorely repenting having given Mrs. Blewett's doughnuts to the pigs, but Sara brushed all such considerations aside with a wave of her hand.

"I don't want anything to eat just now. By and by we'll have a snack; just as we used to get up for ourselves whenever we felt hungry. Don't you remember how scandalized White Sands folks used to be at our irregular hours? I'm hungry; but it's soul hunger, for a glimpse of all the dear old rooms and places. Come -- there are four hours yet before sunset, and I want to cram into them all I've missed out of these three years. Let us begin right here with the garden. Oh, daddy, by what witchcraft have you coaxed that sulky rose-bush into bloom?"

"No witchcraft at all -- it just bloomed because you were coming home, baby," said her father.

They had a glorious afternoon of it, those two children. They explored the garden and then the house. Sara danced through every room, and then up to her own, holding fast to her father's hand.

"Oh, it's lovely to see my little room again, daddy. I'm sure all my old hopes and dreams are waiting here for me."

She ran to the window and threw it open, leaning out.

"Daddy, there's no view in the world so beautiful as that curve of sea between the headlands. I've looked at magnificent scenery -- and then I'd shut my eyes and conjure up that picture. Oh, listen to the wind keening in the trees! How I've longed for that music!"

He took her to the orchard and followed out his crafty plan of surprise perfectly. She rewarded him by doing exactly what he had dreamed of her doing, clapping her hands and crying out:

"Oh, daddy! Why, daddy!"

They finished up with the shore, and then at sunset they came back and sat down on the old garden bench. Before them a sea of splendour, burning like a great jewel, stretched to the gateways of the west. The long headlands on either side were darkly purple, and the sun left behind him a vast, cloudless arc of fiery daffodil and elusive rose. Back over the orchard in a cool, green sky glimmered a crystal planet, and the night poured over them a clear wine of dew from her airy chalice. The spruces were rejoicing in the wind, and even the battered firs were singing of the sea. Old memories trooped into their hearts like shining spirits.

"Baby Blossom," said Old Man Shaw falteringly, "are you quite sure you'll be contented here? Out there" -- with a vague sweep of his hand towards horizons that shut out a world far removed from White Sands -- "there's pleasure and excitement and all that. Won't you miss it? Won't you get tired of your old father and White Sands?"

Sara patted his hand gently.

"The world out there is a good place," she said thoughtfully, "I've had three splendid years and I hope they'll enrich my whole life. There are wonderful things out there to see and learn, fine, noble people to meet, beautiful deeds to admire; but," she wound her arm about his neck and laid her cheek against his -- "there is no daddy!"

And Old Man Shaw looked silently at the sunset -- or, rather, through the sunset to still grander and more radiant splendours beyond, of which the things seen were only the pale reflections, not worthy of attention from those who had the gift of further sight.



VII. Aunt Olivia's Beau


Aunt Olivia told Peggy and me about him on the afternoon we went over to help her gather her late roses for pot-pourri. We found her strangely quiet and preoccupied. As a rule she was fond of mild fun, alert to hear East Grafton gossip, and given to sudden little trills of almost girlish laughter, which for the time being dispelled the atmosphere of gentle old-maidishness which seemed to hang about her as a garment. At such moments we did not find it hard to believe -- as we did at other times -- that Aunt Olivia had once been a girl herself.

This day she picked the roses absently, and shook the fairy petals into her little sweet-grass basket with the air of a woman whose thoughts were far away. We said nothing, knowing that Aunt Olivia's secrets always came our way in time. When the rose-leaves were picked, we carried them in and upstairs in single file, Aunt Olivia bringing up the rear to pick up any stray rose-leaf we might drop. In the south-west room, where there was no carpet to fade, we spread them on newspapers on the floor. Then we put our sweet-grass baskets back in the proper place in the proper closet in the proper room. What would have happened to us, or to the sweet-grass baskets, if this had not been done I do not know. Nothing was ever permitted to remain an instant out of place in Aunt Olivia's house.

When we went downstairs, Aunt Olivia asked us to go into the parlour. She had something to tell us, she said, and as she opened the door a delicate pink flush spread over her face. I noted it, with surprise, but no inkling of the truth came to me -- for nobody ever connected the idea of possible lovers or marriage with this prim little old maid, Olivia Sterling.

Aunt Olivia's parlour was much like herself -- painfully neat. Every article of furniture stood in exactly the same place it had always stood. Nothing was ever suffered to be disturbed. The tassels of the crazy cushion lay just so over the arm of the sofa, and the crochet antimacassar was always spread at precisely the same angle over the horsehair rocking chair. No speck of dust was ever visible; no fly ever invaded that sacred apartment.

Aunt Olivia pulled up a blind, to let in what light could sift finely through the vine leaves, and sat down in a high-backed old chair that had appertained to her great-grandmother. She folded her hands in her lap, and looked at us with shy appeal in her blue-gray eyes. Plainly she found it hard to tell us her secret, yet all the time there was an air of pride and exultation about her; somewhat, also, of a new dignity. Aunt Olivia could never be self-assertive, but if it had been possible that would have been her time for it.

"Have you ever heard me speak of Mr. Malcolm MacPherson?" asked Aunt Olivia.

We had never heard her, or anybody else, speak of Mr. Malcolm MacPherson; but volumes of explanation could not have told us more about him than did Aunt Olivia's voice when she pronounced his name. We knew, as if it had been proclaimed to us in trumpet tones, that Mr. Malcolm MacPherson must be Aunt Olivia's beau, and the knowledge took away our breath. We even forgot to be curious, so astonished were we.

And there sat Aunt Olivia, proud and shy and exulting and shamefaced, all at once!

"He is a brother of Mrs. John Seaman's across the bridge," explained Aunt Olivia with a little simper. "Of course you don't remember him. He went out to British Columbia twenty years ago. But he is coming home now -- and -- and -- tell your father, won't you -- I -- I -- don't like to tell him -- Mr. Malcolm MacPherson and I are going to be married."

"Married!" gasped Peggy. And "married!" I echoed stupidly.

Aunt Olivia bridled a little.

"There is nothing unsuitable in that, is there?" she asked, rather crisply.

"Oh, no, no," I hastened to assure her, giving Peggy a surreptitious kick to divert her thoughts from laughter. "Only you must realize, Aunt Olivia, that this is a very great surprise to us." "I thought it would be so," said Aunt Olivia complacently. "But your father will know -- he will remember. I do hope he won't think me foolish. He did not think Mr. Malcolm MacPherson was a fit person for me to marry once. But that was long ago, when Mr. Malcolm MacPherson was very poor. He is in very comfortable circumstances now."

"Tell us about it, Aunt Olivia," said Peggy. She did not look at me, which was my salvation. Had I caught Peggy's eye when Aunt Olivia said "Mr. Malcolm MacPherson" in that tone I must have laughed, willy-nilly.

"When I was a girl the MacPhersons used to live across the road from here. Mr. Malcolm MacPherson was my beau then. But my family -- and your father especially -- dear me, I do hope he won't be very cross -- were opposed to his attentions and were very cool to him. I think that was why he never said anything to me about getting married then. And after a time he went away, as I have said, and I never heard anything from him directly for many a year. Of course, his sister sometimes gave me news of him. But last June I had a letter from him. He said he was coming home to settle down for good on the old Island, and he asked me if I would marry him. I wrote back and said I would. Perhaps I ought to have consulted your father, but I was afraid he would think I ought to refuse Mr. Malcolm MacPherson."

"Oh, I don't think father will mind," said Peggy reassuringly.

"I hope not, because, of course, I would consider it my duty in any case to fulfil the promise I have given to Mr. Malcolm MacPherson. He will be in Grafton next week, the guest of his sister, Mrs. John Seaman, across the bridge."

Aunt Olivia said that exactly as if she were reading it from the personal column of the Daily Enterprise.

"When is the wedding to be?" I asked.

"Oh!" Aunt Olivia blushed distressfully. "I do not know the exact date. Nothing can be definitely settled until Mr. Malcolm MacPherson comes. But it will not be before September, at the earliest. There will be so much to do. You will tell your father, won't you?"

We promised that we would, and Aunt Olivia arose with an air of relief. Peggy and I hurried over home, stopping, when we were safely out of earshot, to laugh. The romances of the middle-aged may be to them as tender and sweet as those of youth, but they are apt to possess a good deal of humour for onlookers. Only youth can be sentimental without being mirth-provoking. We loved Aunt Olivia and were glad for her late, new-blossoming happiness; but we felt amused over it also. The recollection of her "Mr. Malcolm MacPherson" was too much for us every time we thought of it.

Father pooh-poohed incredulously at first, and, when we had convinced him, guffawed with laughter. Aunt Olivia need not have dreaded any more opposition from her cruel family.

"MacPherson was a good fellow enough, but horribly poor," said father. "I hear he has done very well out west, and if he and Olivia have a notion of each other they are welcome to marry as far as I am concerned. Tell Olivia she mustn't take a spasm if he tracks some mud into her house once in a while."

Thus it was all arranged, and, before we realized it at all, Aunt Olivia was mid-deep in marriage preparations, in all of which Peggy and I were quite indispensable. She consulted us in regard to everything, and we almost lived at her place in those days preceding the arrival of Mr. Malcolm MacPherson.

Aunt Olivia plainly felt very happy and important. She had always wished to be married; she was not in the least strong-minded and her old-maidenhood had always been a sore point with her. I think she looked upon it as somewhat of a disgrace. And yet she was a born old maid; looking at her, and taking all her primness and little set ways into consideration, it was quite impossible to picture her as the wife of Mr. Malcolm MacPherson, or anybody else.

We soon discovered that, to Aunt Olivia, Mr. Malcolm MacPherson represented a merely abstract proposition -- the man who was to confer on her the long-withheld dignity of matronhood. Her romance began and ended there, although she was quite unconscious of this herself, and believed that she was deeply in love with him.

"What will be the result, Mary, when he arrives in the flesh and she is compelled to deal with 'Mr. Malcolm MacPherson' as a real, live man, instead of a nebulous 'party of the second part' in the marriage ceremony?" queried Peggy, as she hemmed table-napkins for Aunt Olivia, sitting on her well-scoured sandstone steps, and carefully putting all thread-clippings and ravellings into the little basket which Aunt Olivia had placed there for that purpose.

"It may transform her from a self-centered old maid into a woman for whom marriage does not seem such an incongruous thing," I said.

The day on which Mr. Malcolm MacPherson was expected Peggy and I went over. We had planned to remain away, thinking that the lovers would prefer their first meeting to be unwitnessed, but Aunt Olivia insisted on our being present. She was plainly nervous; the abstract was becoming concrete. Her little house was in spotless, speckless order from top to bottom. Aunt Olivia had herself scrubbed the garret floor and swept the cellar steps that very morning with as much painstaking care as if she expected that Mr. Malcolm MacPherson would hasten to inspect each at once and she must stand or fall by his opinion of them.

Peggy and I helped her to dress. She insisted on wearing her best black silk, in which she looked unnaturally fine. Her soft muslin became her much better, but we could not induce her to wear it. Anything more prim and bandboxy than Aunt Olivia when her toilet was finished it has never been my lot to see. Peggy and I watched her as she went downstairs, her skirt held stiffly up all around her that it might not brush the floor.

"'Mr. Malcolm MacPherson' will be inspired with such awe that he will only be able to sit back and gaze at her," whispered Peggy. "I wish he would come and have it over. This is getting on my nerves."

Aunt Olivia went into the parlour, settled herself in the old carved chair, and folded her hands. Peggy and I sat down on the stairs to await his coming in a crisping suspense. Aunt Olivia's kitten, a fat, bewhiskered creature, looking as if it were cut out of black velvet, shared our vigil and purred in maddening peace of mind.

We could see the garden path and gate through the hall window, and therefore supposed we should have full warning of the approach of Mr. Malcolm MacPherson. It was no wonder, therefore, that we positively jumped when a thunderous knock crashed against the front door and re-echoed through the house. Had Mr. Malcolm MacPherson dropped from the skies?

We afterwards discovered that he had come across lots and around the house from the back, but just then his sudden advent was almost uncanny. I ran downstairs and opened the door. On the step stood a man about six feet two in height, and proportionately broad and sinewy. He had splendid shoulders, a great crop of curly black hair, big, twinkling blue eyes, and a tremendous crinkly black beard that fell over his breast in shining waves. In brief, Mr. Malcolm MacPherson was what one would call instinctively, if somewhat tritely, "a magnificent specimen of manhood."

In one hand he carried a bunch of early goldenrod and smoke-blue asters.

"Good afternoon," he said in a resonant voice which seemed to take possession of the drowsy summer afternoon. "Is Miss Olivia Sterling in? And will you please tell her that Malcolm MacPherson is here?"

I showed him into the parlour. Then Peggy and I peeped through the crack of the door. Anyone would have done it. We would have scorned to excuse ourselves. And, indeed, what we saw would have been worth several conscience spasms if we had felt any.

Aunt Olivia arose and advanced primly, with outstretched hand.

"Mr. MacPherson, I am very glad to see you," she said formally.

"It's yourself, Nillie!" Mr. Malcolm MacPherson gave two strides.

He dropped his flowers on the floor, knocked over a small table, and sent the ottoman spinning against the wall. Then he caught Aunt Olivia in his arms and -- smack, smack, smack! Peggy sank back upon the stair-step with her handkerchief stuffed in her mouth. Aunt Olivia was being kissed!

Presently, Mr. Malcolm MacPherson held her back at arm's length in his big paws and looked her over. I saw Aunt Olivia's eyes roam over his arm to the inverted table and the litter of asters and goldenrod. Her sleek crimps were all ruffled up, and her lace fichu twisted half around her neck. She looked distressed.

"It's not a bit changed you are, Nillie," said Mr. Malcolm MacPherson admiringly. "And it's good I'm feeling to see you again. Are you glad to see me, Nillie?"

"Oh, of course," said Aunt Olivia.

She twisted herself free and went to set up the table. Then she turned to the flowers, but Mr. Malcolm MacPherson had already gathered them up, leaving a goodly sprinkling of leaves and stalks on the carpet.

"I picked these for you in the river field, Nillie," he said. "Where will I be getting something to stick them in? Here, this will do."

He grasped a frail, painted vase on the mantel, stuffed the flowers in it, and set it on the table. The look on Aunt Olivia's face was too much for me at last. I turned, caught Peggy by the shoulder and dragged her out of the house.

"He will horrify the very soul out of Aunt Olivia's body if he goes on like this," I gasped. "But he's splendid -- and he thinks the world of her -- and, oh, Peggy, did you EVER hear such kisses? Fancy Aunt Olivia!"

It did not take us long to get well acquainted with Mr. Malcolm MacPherson. He almost haunted Aunt Olivia's house, and Aunt Olivia insisted on our staying with her most of the time. She seemed to be very shy of finding herself alone with him. He horrified her a dozen times in an hour; nevertheless, she was very proud of him, and liked to be teased about him, too. She was delighted that we admired him.

"Though, to be sure, he is very different in his looks from what he used to be," she said. "He is so dreadfully big! And I do not like a beard, but I have not the courage to ask him to shave it off. He might be offended. He has bought the old Lynde place in Avonlea and wants to be married in a month. But, dear me, that is too soon. It -- it would be hardly proper."

Peggy and I liked Mr. Malcolm MacPherson very much. So did father. We were glad that he seemed to think Aunt Olivia perfection. He was as happy as the day was long; but poor Aunt Olivia, under all her surface pride and importance, was not. Amid all the humour of the circumstances Peggy and I snuffed tragedy compounded with the humour.

Mr. Malcolm MacPherson could never be trained to old-maidishness, and even Aunt Olivia seemed to realize this. He never stopped to clear his boots when he came in, although she had an ostentatiously new scraper put at each door for his benefit. He seldom moved in the house without knocking some of Aunt Olivia's treasures over. He smoked cigars in her parlour and scattered the ashes over the floor. He brought her flowers every day and stuck them into whatever receptacle came handiest. He sat on her cushions and rolled her antimacassars up into balls. He put his feet on her chair rungs -- and all with the most distracting unconsciousness of doing anything out of the way. He never noticed Aunt Olivia's fluttering nervousness at all. Peggy and I laughed more than was good for us those days. It was so funny to see Aunt Olivia hovering anxiously around, picking up flower stems, and smoothing out tidies, and generally following him about to straighten out things. Once she even got a wing and dustpan and swept the cigar ashes under his very eyes.

"Now don't be worrying yourself over that, Nillie," he protested. "Why, I don't mind a litter, bless you!"

How good and jolly he was, that Mr. Malcolm MacPherson! Such songs as he sang, such stories as he told, such a breezy, unconventional atmosphere as he brought into that prim little house, where stagnant dullness had reigned for years! He worshipped Aunt Olivia, and his worship took the concrete form of presents galore. He brought her a present almost every visit -- generally some article of jewelry. Bracelets, rings, chains, ear-drops, lockets, bangles, were showered upon our precise little aunt; she accepted them deprecatingly, but never wore them. This hurt him a little, but she assured him she would wear them all sometimes.

"I am not used to jewelry, Mr. MacPherson," she would tell him.

Her engagement ring she did wear -- it was a rather "loud" combination of engraved gold and opals. Sometimes we caught her turning it on her finger with a very troubled face.

"I would be sorry for Mr. Malcolm MacPherson if he were not so much in love with her," said Peggy. "But as he thinks that she is perfection he doesn't need sympathy."

"I am sorry for Aunt Olivia," I said. "Yes, Peggy, I am. Mr. MacPherson is a splendid man, but Aunt Olivia is a born old maid, and it is outraging her very nature to be anything else. Don't you see how it's hurting her? His big, splendid man-ways are harrowing her very soul up -- she can't get out of her little, narrow groove, and it is killing her to be pulled out."

"Nonsense!" said Peggy. Then she added with a laugh,

"Mary, did you ever see anything so funny as Aunt Olivia sitting on 'Mr. Malcolm MacPherson's' knee?"

It WAS funny. Aunt Olivia thought it very unbecoming to sit there before us, but he made her do it. He would say, with his big, jolly laugh, "Don't be minding the little girls," and pull her down on his knee and hold her there. To my dying day I shall never forget the expression on the poor little woman's face.

But, as the days went by and Mr. Malcolm MacPherson began to insist on a date being set for the wedding, Aunt Olivia grew to have a strangely disturbed look. She became very quiet, and never laughed except under protest. Also, she showed signs of petulance when any of us, but especially father, teased her about her beau. I pitied her, for I think I understood better than the others what her feelings really were. But even I was not prepared for what did happen. I would not have believed that Aunt Olivia could do it. I thought that her desire for marriage in the abstract would outweigh the disadvantages of the concrete. But one can never reckon with real, bred-in-the-bone old-maidism.

One morning Mr. Malcolm MacPherson told us all that he was coming up that evening to make Aunt Olivia set the day. Peggy and I laughingly approved, telling him that it was high time for him to assert his authority, and he went off in great good humour across the river field, whistling a Highland strathspey. But Aunt Olivia looked like a martyr. She had a fierce attack of housecleaning that day, and put everything in flawless order, even to the corners.

"As if there was going to be a funeral in the house," sniffed Peggy.

Peggy and I were up in the south-west room at dusk that evening, piecing a quilt, when we heard Mr. Malcolm MacPherson shouting out in the hall below to know if anyone was home. I ran out to the landing, but as I did so Aunt Olivia came out of her room, brushed past me, and flitted downstairs.

"Mr. MacPherson," I heard her say with double-distilled primness, "will you please come into the parlour? I have something to say to you."

They went in, and I returned to the south-west room.

"Peg, there's trouble brewing," I said. "I'm sure of it by Aunt Olivia's face, it was GRAY. And she has gone down ALONE -- and shut the door."

"I am going to hear what she says to him," said Peggy resolutely. "It is her own fault -- she has spoiled us by always insisting that we should be present at their interviews. That poor man has had to do his courting under our very eyes. Come on, Mary."

The south-west room was directly over the parlour and there was an open stovepipe-hole leading up therefrom. Peggy removed the hat box that was on it, and we both deliberately and shamelessly crouched down and listened with all our might.

It was easy enough to hear what Mr. Malcolm MacPherson was saying.

"I've come up to get the date settled, Nillie, as I told you. Come now, little woman, name the day."

Smack!

"Don't, Mr. MacPherson," said Aunt Olivia. She spoke as a woman who has keyed herself up to the doing of some very distasteful task and is anxious to have it over and done with as soon as possible. "There is something I must say to you. I cannot marry you, Mr. MacPherson."

There was a pause. I would have given much to have seen the pair of them. When Mr. Malcolm MacPherson spoke his voice was that of blank, uncomprehending amazement.

"Nillie, what is it you are meaning?" he said.

"I cannot marry you, Mr. MacPherson," repeated Aunt Olivia.

"Why not?" Surprise was giving way to dismay.

"I don't think you will understand, Mr. MacPherson," said Aunt Olivia, faintly. "You don't realize what it means for a woman to give up everything -- her own home and friends and all her past life, so to speak, and go far away with a stranger."

"Why, I suppose it will be rather hard. But, Nillie, Avonlea isn't very far away -- not more than twelve miles, if it will be that."

"Twelve miles! It might as well be at the other side of the world to all intents and purposes," said Aunt Olivia obstinately. "I don't know a living soul there, except Rachel Lynde."

"Why didn't you say so before I bought the place, then? But it's not too late. I can be selling it and buying right here in East Grafton if that will please you -- though there isn't half as nice a place to be had. But I'll fix it up somehow!"

"No, Mr. MacPherson," said Aunt Olivia firmly, "that doesn't cover the difficulty. I knew you would not understand. My ways are not your ways and I cannot make them over. For -- you track mud in -- and -- and -- you don't care whether things are tidy or not."

Poor Aunt Olivia had to be Aunt Olivia; if she were being burned at the stake I verily believe she would have dragged some grotesqueness into the tragedy of the moment.

"The devil!" said Mr. Malcolm MacPherson -- not profanely or angrily, but as in sheer bewilderment. Then he added, "Nillie, you must be joking. It's careless enough I am -- the west isn't a good place to learn finicky ways -- but you can teach me. You're not going to throw me over because I track mud in!"

"I cannot marry you, Mr. MacPherson," said Aunt Olivia again.

"You can't be meaning it!" he exclaimed, because he was beginning to understand that she did mean it, although it was impossible for his man mind to understand anything else about the puzzle. "Nillie, it's breaking my heart you are! I'll do anything -- go anywhere -- be anything you want -- only don't be going back on me like this."

"I cannot marry you, Mr. MacPherson," said Aunt Olivia for the fourth time.

"Nillie!" exclaimed Mr. Malcolm MacPherson. There was such real agony in his tone that Peggy and I were suddenly stricken with contrition. What were we doing? We had no right to be listening to this pitiful interview. The pain and protest in his voice had suddenly banished all the humour from it, and left naught but the bare, stark tragedy. We rose and tiptoed out of the room, wholesomely ashamed of ourselves.

When Mr. Malcolm MacPherson had gone, after an hour of useless pleading, Aunt Olivia came up to us, pale and prim and determined, and told us that there was to be no wedding. We could not pretend surprise, but Peggy ventured a faint protest.

"Oh, Aunt Olivia, do you think you have done right?"

"It was the only thing I could do," said Aunt Olivia stonily. "I could not marry Mr. Malcolm MacPherson and I told him so. Please tell your father -- and kindly say nothing more to me about the matter."

Then Aunt Olivia went downstairs, got a broom, and swept up the mud Mr. Malcolm MacPherson had tracked over the steps.

Peggy and I went home and told father. We felt very flat, but there was nothing to be done or said. Father laughed at the whole thing, but I could not laugh. I was sorry for Mr. Malcolm MacPherson and, though I was angry with her, I was sorry for Aunt Olivia, too. Plainly she felt badly enough over her vanished hopes and plans, but she had developed a strange and baffling reserve which nothing could pierce.

"It's nothing but a chronic case of old-maidism," said father impatiently.

Things were very dull for a week. We saw no more of Mr. Malcolm MacPherson and we missed him dreadfully. Aunt Olivia was inscrutable, and worked with fierceness at superfluous tasks.

One evening father came home with some news. "Malcolm MacPherson is leaving on the 7:30 train for the west," he said. "He has rented the Avonlea place and he's off. They say he is mad as a hatter at the trick Olivia played on him."

After tea Peggy and I went over to see Aunt Olivia, who had asked our advice about a wrapper. She was sewing as for dear life, and her face was primmer and colder than ever. I wondered if she knew of Mr. Malcolm MacPherson's departure. Delicacy forbade me to mention it but Peggy had no such scruples.

"Well, Aunt Olivia, your beau is off," she announced cheerfully. "You won't be bothered with him again. He is leaving on the mail train for the west."

Aunt Olivia dropped her sewing and stood up. I have never seen anything like the transformation that came over her. It was so thorough and sudden as to be almost uncanny. The old maid vanished completely, and in her place was a woman, full to the lips with primitive emotion and pain.

"What shall I do?" she cried in a terrible voice. "Mary -- Peggy -- what shall I do?"

It was almost a shriek. Peggy turned pale.

"Do you care?" she said stupidly.

"Care! Girls, I shall DIE if Malcolm MacPherson goes away! I have been mad -- I must have been mad. I have almost died of loneliness since I sent him away. But I thought he would come back! I must see him -- there is time to reach the station before the train goes if I go by the fields."

She took a wild step towards the door, but I caught her back with a sudden mind-vision of Aunt Olivia flying bareheaded and distraught across the fields.

"Wait a moment, Aunt Olivia. Peggy, run home and get father to harness Dick in the buggy as quickly as he can. We'll drive Aunt Olivia to the station. We'll get you there in time, Aunty."

Peggy flew, and Aunt Olivia dashed upstairs. I lingered behind to pick up her sewing, and when I got to her room she had her hat and cape on. Spread out on the bed were all the boxes of gifts which Mr. Malcolm MacPherson had brought her, and Aunt Olivia was stringing their contents feverishly about her person. Rings, three brooches, a locket, three chains and a watch all went on -- anyway and anyhow. A wonderful sight it was to see Aunt Olivia bedizened like that!

"I would never wear them before -- but I'll put them all on now to show him I'm sorry," she gasped, with trembling lips.

When the three of us crowded into the buggy, Aunt Olivia grasped the whip before we could prevent her and, leaning out, gave poor Dick such a lash as he had never felt in his life before. He went tearing down the steep, stony, fast-darkening road in a fashion which made Peggy and me cry out in alarm. Aunt Olivia was usually the most timid of women, but now she didn't seem to know what fear was. She kept whipping and urging poor Dick the whole way to the station, quite oblivious to our assurances that there was plenty of time. The people who met us that night must have thought we were quite mad. I held on the reins, Peggy gripped the swaying side of the buggy, and Aunt Olivia bent forward, hat and hair blowing back from her set face with its strangely crimson cheeks, and plied the whip. In such a guise did we whirl through the village and over the two-mile station road.

When we drove up to the station, where the train was shunting amid the shadows, Aunt Olivia made a flying leap from the buggy and ran along the platform, with her cape streaming behind her and all her brooches and chains glittering in the lights. I tossed the reins to a boy standing near and we followed. Just under the glare of the station lamp we saw Mr. Malcolm MacPherson, grip in hand. Fortunately no one else was very near, but it would have been all the same had they been the centre of a crowd. Aunt Olivia fairly flung herself against him.

"Malcolm," she cried, "don't go -- don't go -- I'll marry you -- I'll go anywhere -- and I don't care how much mud you bring in!"

That truly Aunt Olivia touch relieved the tension of the situation a little. Mr. MacPherson put his arm about her and drew her back into the shadows.

"There, there," he soothed. "Of course I won't be going. Don't cry, Nillie-girl."

"And you'll come right back with me now?" implored Aunt Olivia, clinging to him as if she feared he would be whisked away from her yet if she let go for a moment.

"Of course, of course," he said.

Peggy got a chance home with a friend, and Aunt Olivia and Mr. Malcolm MacPherson and I drove back in the buggy. Mr. MacPherson held Aunt Olivia on his knee because there was no room, but she would have sat there, I think, had there been a dozen vacant seats. She clung to him in the most barefaced fashion, and all her former primness and reserve were swept away completely. She kissed him a dozen times or more and told him she loved him -- and I did not even smile, nor did I want to. Somehow, it did not seem in the least funny to me then, nor does it now, although it doubtless will to others. There was too much real intensity of feeling in it all to leave any room for the ridiculous. So wrapped up in each other were they that I did not even feel superfluous.

I set them safely down in Aunt Olivia's yard and turned homeward, completely forgotten by the pair. But in the moonlight, which flooded the front of the house, I saw something that testified eloquently to the transformation in Aunt Olivia. It had rained that afternoon and the yard was muddy. Nevertheless, she went in at her front door and took Mr. Malcolm MacPherson in with her without even a glance at the scraper!



VIII. The Quarantine at Alexander Abraham's


I refused to take that class in Sunday School the first time I was asked. It was not that I objected to teaching in the Sunday School. On the contrary I rather liked the idea; but it was the Rev. Mr. Allan who asked me, and it had always been a matter of principle with me never to do anything a man asked me to do if I could help it. I was noted for that. It saves a great deal of trouble and it simplifies everything beautifully. I had always disliked men. It must have been born in me, because, as far back as I can remember, an antipathy to men and dogs was one of my strongest characteristics. I was noted for that. My experiences through life only served to deepen it. The more I saw of men, the more I liked cats.

So, of course, when the Rev. Allan asked me if I would consent to take a class in Sunday School, I said no in a fashion calculated to chasten him wholesomely. If he had sent his wife the first time, as he did the second, it would have been wiser. People generally do what Mrs. Allan asks them to do because they know it saves time.

Mrs. Allan talked smoothly for half an hour before she mentioned the Sunday School, and paid me several compliments. Mrs. Allan is famous for her tact. Tact is a faculty for meandering around to a given point instead of making a bee-line. I have no tact. I am noted for that. As soon as Mrs. Allan's conversation came in sight of the Sunday School, I, who knew all along whither it was tending, said, straight out,

"What class do you want me to teach?"

Mrs. Allan was so surprised that she forgot to be tactful, and answered plainly for once in her life,

"There are two classes -- one of boys and one of girls -- needing a teacher. I have been teaching the girls' class, but I shall have to give it up for a little time on account of the baby's health. You may have your choice, Miss MacPherson."

"Then I shall take the boys," I said decidedly. I am noted for my decision. "Since they have to grow up to be men it's well to train them properly betimes. Nuisances they are bound to become under any circumstances; but if they are taken in hand young enough they may not grow up to be such nuisances as they otherwise would and that will be some unfortunate woman's gain." Mrs. Allan looked dubious. I knew she had expected me to choose the girls.

"They are a very wild set of boys," she said.

"I never knew boys who weren't," I retorted.

"I -- I -- think perhaps you would like the girls best," said Mrs. Allan hesitatingly. If it had not been for one thing -- which I would never in this world have admitted to Mrs. Allan -- I might have liked the girls' class best myself. But the truth was, Anne Shirley was in that class; and Anne Shirley was the one living human being that I was afraid of. Not that I disliked her. But she had such a habit of asking weird, unexpected questions, which a Philadelphia lawyer couldn't answer. Miss Rogerson had that class once and Anne routed her, horse, foot and artillery. I wasn't going to undertake a class with a walking interrogation point in it like that. Besides, I thought Mrs. Allan required a slight snub. Ministers' wives are rather apt to think they can run everything and everybody, if they are not wholesomely corrected now and again.

"It is not what I like best that must be considered, Mrs. Allan," I said rebukingly. "It is what is best for those boys. I feel that I shall be best for THEM."

"Oh, I've no doubt of that, Miss MacPherson," said Mrs. Allan amiably. It was a fib for her, minister's wife though she was. She HAD doubt. She thought I would be a dismal failure as teacher of a boys' class.

But I was not. I am not often a dismal failure when I make up my mind to do a thing. I am noted for that.

"It is wonderful what a reformation you have worked in that class, Miss MacPherson -- wonderful," said the Rev. Mr. Allan some weeks later. He didn't mean to show how amazing a thing he thought it that an old maid noted for being a man hater should have managed it, but his face betrayed him.

"Where does Jimmy Spencer live?" I asked him crisply. "He came one Sunday three weeks ago and hasn't been back since. I mean to find out why."

Mr. Allan coughed.

"I believe he is hired as handy boy with Alexander Abraham Bennett, out on the White Sands road," he said.

"Then I am going out to Alexander Abraham Bennett's on the White Sands road to see why Jimmy Spencer doesn't come to Sunday school," I said firmly.

Mr. Allan's eyes twinkled ever so slightly. I have always insisted that if that man were not a minister he would have a sense of humour.

"Possibly Mr. Bennett will not appreciate your kind interest! He has -- ah -- a singular aversion to your sex, I understand. No woman has ever been known to get inside of Mr. Bennett's house since his sister died twenty years ago."

"Oh, he is the one, is he?" I said, remembering. "He is the woman hater who threatens that if a woman comes into his yard he'll chase her out with a pitch-fork. Well, he will not chase ME out!"

Mr. Allan gave a chuckle -- a ministerial chuckle, but still a chuckle. It irritated me slightly, because it seemed to imply that he thought Alexander Abraham Bennett would be one too many for me. But I did not show Mr. Allan that he annoyed me. It is always a great mistake to let a man see that he can vex you.

The next afternoon I harnessed my sorrel pony to the buggy and drove down to Alexander Abraham Bennett's. As usual, I took William Adolphus with me for company. William Adolphus is my favourite among my six cats. He is black, with a white dicky and beautiful white paws. He sat up on the seat beside me and looked far more like a gentleman than many a man I've seen in a similar position.

Alexander Abraham's place was about three miles along the White Sands road. I knew the house as soon as I came to it by its neglected appearance. It needed paint badly; the blinds were crooked and torn; weeds grew up to the very door. Plainly, there was no woman about THAT place. Still, it was a nice house, and the barns were splendid. My father always said that when a man's barns were bigger than his house it was a sign that his income exceeded his expenditure. So it was all right that they should be bigger; but it was all wrong that they should be trimmer and better painted. Still, thought I, what else could you expect of a woman hater?

"But Alexander Abraham evidently knows how to run a farm, even it he is a woman hater," I remarked to William Adolphus as I got out and tied the pony to the railing.

I had driven up to the house from the back way and now I was opposite a side door opening on the veranda. I thought I might as well go to it, so I tucked William Adolphus under my arm and marched up the path. Just as I was half-way up, a dog swooped around the front corner and made straight for me. He was the ugliest dog I had ever seen; and he didn't even bark -- just came silently and speedily on, with a business-like eye.

I never stop to argue matters with a dog that doesn't bark. I know when discretion is the better part of valour. Firmly clasping William Adolphus, I ran -- not to the door, because the dog was between me and it, but to a big, low-branching cherry tree at the back corner of the house. I reached it in time and no more. First thrusting William Adolphus on to a limb above my head, I scrambled up into that blessed tree without stopping to think how it might look to Alexander Abraham if he happened to be watching.

My time for reflection came when I found myself perched half way up the tree with William Adolphus beside me. William Adolphus was quite calm and unruffled. I can hardly say with truthfulness what I was. On the contrary, I admit that I felt considerably upset.

The dog was sitting on his haunches on the ground below, watching us, and it was quite plain to be seen, from his leisurely manner, that it was not his busy day. He bared his teeth and growled when he caught my eye.

"You LOOK like a woman hater's dog," I told him. I meant it for an insult; but the beast took it for a compliment.

Then I set myself to solving the question, "How am I to get out of this predicament?"

It did not seem easy to solve it.

"Shall I scream, William Adolphus?" I demanded of that intelligent animal. William Adolphus shook his head. This is a fact. And I agreed with him.

"No, I shall not scream, William Adolphus," I said. "There is probably no one to hear me except Alexander Abraham, and I have my painful doubts about his tender mercies. Now, it is impossible to go down. Is it, then, William Adolphus, possible to go up?"

I looked up. Just above my head was an open window with a tolerably stout branch extending right across it.

"Shall we try that way, William Adolphus?" I asked.

William Adolphus, wasting no words, began to climb the tree. I followed his example. The dog ran in circles about the tree and looked things not lawful to be uttered. It probably would have been a relief to him to bark if it hadn't been so against his principles.

I got in by the window easily enough, and found myself in a bedroom the like of which for disorder and dust and general awfulness I had never seen in all my life. But I did not pause to take in details. With William Adolphus under my arm I marched downstairs, fervently hoping I should meet no one on the way.

I did not. The hall below was empty and dusty. I opened the first door I came to and walked boldly in. A man was sitting by the window, looking moodily out. I should have known him for Alexander Abraham anywhere. He had just the same uncared-for, ragged appearance that the house had; and yet, like the house, it seemed that he would not be bad looking if he were trimmed up a little. His hair looked as if it had never been combed, and his whiskers were wild in the extreme.

He looked at me with blank amazement in his countenance.

"Where is Jimmy Spencer?" I demanded. "I have come to see him."

"How did he ever let you in?" asked the man, staring at me.

"He didn't let me in," I retorted. "He chased me all over the lawn, and I only saved myself from being torn piecemeal by scrambling up a tree. You ought to be prosecuted for keeping such a dog! Where is Jimmy?"

Instead of answering Alexander Abraham began to laugh in a most unpleasant fashion.

"Trust a woman for getting into a man's house if she has made up her mind to," he said disagreeably.

Seeing that it was his intention to vex me I remained cool and collected.

"Oh, I wasn't particular about getting into your house, Mr. Bennett," I said calmly. "I had but little choice in the matter. It was get in lest a worse fate befall me. It was not you or your house I wanted to see -- although I admit that it is worth seeing if a person is anxious to find out how dirty a place CAN be. It was Jimmy. For the third and last time -- where is Jimmy?"

"Jimmy is not here," said Mr. Bennett gruffly -- but not quite so assuredly. "He left last week and hired with a man over at Newbridge."

"In that case," I said, picking up William Adolphus, who had been exploring the room with a disdainful air, "I won't disturb you any longer. I shall go."

"Yes, I think it would be the wisest thing," said Alexander Abraham -- not disagreeably this time, but reflectively, as if there was some doubt about the matter. "I'll let you out by the back door. Then the -- ahem! -- the dog will not interfere with you. Please go away quietly and quickly."

I wondered if Alexander Abraham thought I would go away with a whoop. But I said nothing, thinking this the most dignified course of conduct, and I followed him out to the kitchen as quickly and quietly as he could have wished. Such a kitchen!

Alexander Abraham opened the door -- which was locked -- just as a buggy containing two men drove into the yard.

"Too late!" he exclaimed in a tragic tone. I understood that something dreadful must have happened, but I did not care, since, as I fondly supposed, it did not concern me. I pushed out past Alexander Abraham -- who was looking as guilty as if he had been caught burglarizing -- and came face to face with the man who had sprung from the buggy. It was old Dr. Blair, from Carmody, and he was looking at me as if he had found me shoplifting.

"My dear Peter," he said gravely, "I am VERY sorry to see you here -- very sorry indeed."

I admit that this exasperated me. Besides, no man on earth, not even my own family doctor, has any right to "My dear Peter" me!

"There is no loud call for sorrow, doctor," I said loftily. "If a woman, forty-eight years of age, a member of the Presbyterian church in good and regular standing, cannot call upon one of her Sunday School scholars without wrecking all the proprieties, how old must she be before she can?"

The doctor did not answer my question. Instead, he looked reproachfully at Alexander Abraham.

"Is this how you keep your word, Mr. Bennett?" he said. "I thought that you promised me that you would not let anyone into the house."

"I didn't let her in," growled Mr. Bennett. "Good heavens, man, she climbed in at an upstairs window, despite the presence on my grounds of a policeman and a dog! What is to be done with a woman like that?"

"I do not understand what all this means," I said addressing myself to the doctor and ignoring Alexander Abraham entirely, "but if my presence here is so extremely inconvenient to all concerned, you can soon be relieved of it. I am going at once."

"I am very sorry, my dear Peter," said the doctor impressively, "but that is just what I cannot allow you to do. This house is under quarantine for smallpox. You will have to stay here."

Smallpox! For the first and last time in my life, I openly lost my temper with a man. I wheeled furiously upon Alexander Abraham.

"Why didn't you tell me?" I cried.

"Tell you!" he said, glaring at me. "When I first saw you it was too late to tell you. I thought the kindest thing I could do was to hold my tongue and let you get away in happy ignorance. This will teach you to take a man's house by storm, madam!"

"Now, now, don't quarrel, my good people," interposed the doctor seriously -- but I saw a twinkle in his eye. "You'll have to spend some time together under the same roof and you won't improve the situation by disagreeing. You see, Peter, it was this way. Mr. Bennett was in town yesterday -- where, as you are aware, there is a bad outbreak of smallpox -- and took dinner in a boarding-house where one of the maids was ill. Last night she developed unmistakable symptoms of smallpox. The Board of Health at once got after all the people who were in the house yesterday, so far as they could locate them, and put them under quarantine. I came down here this morning and explained the matter to Mr. Bennett. I brought Jeremiah Jeffries to guard the front of the house and Mr. Bennett gave me his word of honour that he would not let anyone in by the back way while I went to get another policeman and make all the necessary arrangements. I have brought Thomas Wright and have secured the services of another man to attend to Mr. Bennett's barn work and bring provisions to the house. Jacob Green and Cleophas Lee will watch at night. I don't think there is much danger of Mr. Bennett's taking the smallpox, but until we are sure you must remain here, Peter."

While listening to the doctor I had been thinking. It was the most distressing predicament I had ever got into in my life, but there was no sense in making it worse.

"Very well, doctor," I said calmly. "Yes, I was vaccinated a month ago, when the news of the smallpox first came. When you go back through Avonlea kindly go to Sarah Pye and ask her to live in my house during my absence and look after things, especially the cats. Tell her to give them new milk twice a day and a square inch of butter apiece once a week. Get her to put my two dark print wrappers, some aprons, and some changes of underclothing in my third best valise and have it sent down to me. My pony is tied out there to the fence. Please take him home. That is all, I think."

"No, it isn't all," said Alexander Abraham grumpily. "Send that cat home, too. I won't have a cat around the place -- I'd rather have smallpox."

I looked Alexander Abraham over gradually, in a way I have, beginning at his feet and traveling up to his head. I took my time over it; and then I said, very quietly.

"You may have both. Anyway, you'll have to have William Adolphus. He is under quarantine as well as you and I. Do you suppose I am going to have my cat ranging at large through Avonlea, scattering smallpox germs among innocent people? I'll have to put up with that dog of yours. You will have to endure William Adolphus."

Alexander Abraham groaned, but I could see that the way I had looked him over had chastened him considerably.

The doctor drove away, and I went into the house, not choosing to linger outside and be grinned at by Thomas Wright. I hung my coat up in the hall and laid my bonnet carefully on the sitting-room table, having first dusted a clean place for it with my handkerchief. I longed to fall upon that house at once and clean it up, but I had to wait until the doctor came back with my wrapper. I could not clean house in my new suit and a silk shirtwaist.

Alexander Abraham was sitting on a chair looking at me. Presently he said,

"I am NOT curious -- but will you kindly tell me why the doctor called you Peter?"

"Because that is my name, I suppose," I answered, shaking up a cushion for William Adolphus and thereby disturbing the dust of years.

Alexander Abraham coughed gently.

"Isn't that -- ahem! -- rather a peculiar name for a woman?"

"It is," I said, wondering how much soap, if any, there was in the house.

"I am NOT curious," said Alexander Abraham, "but would you mind telling me how you came to be called Peter?"

"If I had been a boy my parents intended to call me Peter in honour of a rich uncle. When I -- fortunately -- turned out to be a girl my mother insisted that I should be called Angelina. They gave me both names and called me Angelina, but as soon as I grew old enough I decided to be called Peter. It was bad enough, but not so bad as Angelina."

"I should say it was more appropriate," said Alexander Abraham, intending, as I perceived, to be disagreeable.

"Precisely," I agreed calmly. "My last name is MacPherson, and I live in Avonlea. As you are NOT curious, that will be all the information you will need about me."

"Oh!" Alexander Abraham looked as if a light had broken in on him. "I've heard of you. You -- ah -- pretend to dislike men."

Pretend! Goodness only knows what would have happened to Alexander Abraham just then if a diversion had not taken place. But the door opened and a dog came in -- THE dog. I suppose he had got tired waiting under the cherry tree for William Adolphus and me to come down. He was even uglier indoors than out.

"Oh, Mr. Riley, Mr. Riley, see what you have let me in for," said Alexander Abraham reproachfully.

But Mr. Riley -- since that was the brute's name -- paid no attention to Alexander Abraham. He had caught sight of William Adolphus curled up on the cushion, and he started across the room to investigate him. William Adolphus sat up and began to take notice.

"Call off that dog," I said warningly to Alexander Abraham.

"Call him off yourself," he retorted. "Since you've brought that cat here you can protect him."

"Oh, it wasn't for William Adolphus' sake I spoke," I said pleasantly. "William Adolphus can protect himself."

William Adolphus could and did. He humped his back, flattened his ears, swore once, and then made a flying leap for Mr. Riley. William Adolphus landed squarely on Mr. Riley's brindled back and promptly took fast hold, spitting and clawing and caterwauling.

You never saw a more astonished dog than Mr. Riley. With a yell of terror he bolted out to the kitchen, out of the kitchen into the hall, through the hall into the room, and so into the kitchen and round again. With each circuit he went faster and faster, until he looked like a brindled streak with a dash of black and white on top. Such a racket and commotion I never heard, and I laughed until the tears came into my eyes. Mr. Riley flew around and around, and William Adolphus held on grimly and clawed. Alexander Abraham turned purple with rage.

"Woman, call off that infernal cat before he kills my dog," he shouted above the din of yelps and yowls.

"Oh, he won't kill him," I said reassuringly, "and he's going too fast to hear me if I did call him. If you can stop the dog, Mr. Bennett, I'll guarantee to make William Adolphus listen to reason, but there's no use trying to argue with a lightning flash."

Alexander Abraham made a frantic lunge at the brindled streak as it whirled past him, with the result that he overbalanced himself and went sprawling on the floor with a crash. I ran to help him up, which only seemed to enrage him further.

"Woman," he spluttered viciously, "I wish you and your fiend of a cat were in -- in -- "

"In Avonlea," I finished quickly, to save Alexander Abraham from committing profanity. "So do I, Mr. Bennett, with all my heart. But since we are not, let us make the best of it like sensible people. And in future you will kindly remember that my name is Miss MacPherson, NOT Woman!"

With this the end came and I was thankful, for the noise those two animals made was so terrific that I expected the policeman would be rushing in, smallpox or no smallpox, to see if Alexander Abraham and I were trying to murder each other. Mr. Riley suddenly veered in his mad career and bolted into a dark corner between the stove and the wood-box, William Adolphus let go just in time.

There never was any more trouble with Mr. Riley after that. A meeker, more thoroughly chastened dog you could not find. William Adolphus had the best of it and he kept it.

Seeing that things had calmed down and that it was five o'clock I decided to get tea. I told Alexander Abraham that I would prepare it, if he would show me where the eatables were.

"You needn't mind," said Alexander Abraham. "I've been in the habit of getting my own tea for twenty years."

"I daresay. But you haven't been in the habit of getting mine," I said firmly. "I wouldn't eat anything you cooked if I starved to death. If you want some occupation, you'd better get some salve and anoint the scratches on that poor dog's back."

Alexander Abraham said something that I prudently did not hear. Seeing that he had no information to hand out I went on an exploring expedition into the pantry. The place was awful beyond description, and for the first time a vague sentiment of pity for Alexander Abraham glimmered in my breast. When a man had to live in such surroundings the wonder was, not that he hated women, but that he didn't hate the whole human race.

But I got up a supper somehow. I am noted for getting up suppers. The bread was from the Carmody bakery and I made good tea and excellent toast; besides, I found a can of peaches in the pantry which, as they were bought, I wasn't afraid to eat.

That tea and toast mellowed Alexander Abraham in spite of himself. He ate the last crust, and didn't growl when I gave William Adolphus all the cream that was left. Mr. Riley did not seem to want anything. He had no appetite.

By this time the doctor's boy had arrived with my valise. Alexander Abraham gave me quite civilly to understand that there was a spare room across the hall and that I might take possession of it. I went to it and put on a wrapper. There was a set of fine furniture in the room, and a comfortable bed. But the dust! William Adolphus had followed me in and his paws left marks everywhere he walked.

"Now," I said briskly, returning to the kitchen, "I'm going to clean up and I shall begin with this kitchen. You'd better betake yourself to the sitting-room, Mr. Bennett, so as to be out of the way."

Alexander Abraham glared at me.

"I'm not going to have my house meddled with," he snapped. "It suits me. If you don't like it you can leave it."

"No, I can't. That is just the trouble," I said pleasantly. "If I could leave it I shouldn't be here for a minute. Since I can't, it simply has to be cleaned. I can tolerate men and dogs when I am compelled to, but I cannot and will not tolerate dirt and disorder. Go into the sitting-room."

Alexander Abraham went. As he closed the door, I heard him say, in capitals, "WHAT AN AWFUL WOMAN!"

I cleared that kitchen and the pantry adjoining. It was ten o'clock when I got through, and Alexander Abraham had gone to bed without deigning further speech. I locked Mr. Riley in one room and William Adolphus in another and went to bed, too. I had never felt so dead tired in my life before. It had been a hard day.

But I got up bright and early the next morning and got a tiptop breakfast, which Alexander Abraham condescended to eat. When the provision man came into the yard I called to him from the window to bring me a box of soap in the afternoon, and then I tackled the sitting-room.

It took me the best part of a week to get that house in order, but I did it thoroughly. I am noted for doing things thoroughly. At the end of the time it was clean from garret to cellar. Alexander Abraham made no comments on my operations, though he groaned loud and often, and said caustic things to poor Mr. Riley, who hadn't the spirit to answer back after his drubbing by William Adolphus. I made allowances for Alexander Abraham because his vaccination had taken and his arm was real sore; and I cooked elegant meals, not having much else to do, once I had got things scoured up. The house was full of provisions -- Alexander Abraham wasn't mean about such things, I will say that for him. Altogether, I was more comfortable than I had expected to be. When Alexander Abraham wouldn't talk I let him alone; and when he would I just said as sarcastic things as he did, only I said them smiling and pleasant. I could see he had a wholesome awe for me. But now and then he seemed to forget his disposition and talked like a human being. We had one or two real interesting conversations. Alexander Abraham was an intelligent man, though he had got terribly warped. I told him once I thought he must have been nice when he was a boy.

One day he astonished me by appearing at the dinner table with his hair brushed and a white collar on. We had a tiptop dinner that day, and I had made a pudding that was far too good for a woman hater. When Alexander Abraham had disposed of two large platefuls of it, he sighed and said,

"You can certainly cook. It's a pity you are such a detestable crank in other respects."

"It's kind of convenient being a crank," I said. "People are careful how they meddle with you. Haven't you found that out in your own experience?"

"I am NOT a crank," growled Alexander Abraham resentfully. "All I ask is to be let alone."

"That's the very crankiest kind of crank," I said. "A person who wants to be let alone flies in the face of Providence, who decreed that folks for their own good were not to be let alone. But cheer up, Mr. Bennett. The quarantine will be up on Tuesday and then you'll certainly be let alone for the rest of your natural life, as far as William Adolphus and I are concerned. You may then return to your wallowing in the mire and be as dirty and comfortable as of yore."

Alexander Abraham growled again. The prospect didn't seem to cheer him up as much as I should have expected. Then he did an amazing thing. He poured some cream into a saucer and set it down before William Adolphus. William Adolphus lapped it up, keeping one eye on Alexander Abraham lest the latter should change his mind. Not to be outdone, I handed Mr. Riley a bone.

Neither Alexander Abraham nor I had worried much about the smallpox. We didn't believe he would take it, for he hadn't even seen the girl who was sick. But the very next morning I heard him calling me from the upstairs landing.

"Miss MacPherson," he said in a voice so uncommonly mild that it gave me an uncanny feeling, "what are the symptoms of smallpox?"

"Chills and flushes, pain in the limbs and back, nausea and vomiting," I answered promptly, for I had been reading them up in a patent medicine almanac.

"I've got them all," said Alexander Abraham hollowly.

I didn't feel as much scared as I should have expected. After enduring a woman hater and a brindled dog and the early disorder of that house -- and coming off best with all three -- smallpox seemed rather insignificant. I went to the window and called to Thomas Wright to send for the doctor.

The doctor came down from Alexander Abraham's room looking grave.

"It's impossible to pronounce on the disease yet," he said. "There is no certainty until the eruption appears. But, of course, there is every likelihood that it is the smallpox. It is very unfortunate. I am afraid that it will be difficult to get a nurse. All the nurses in town who will take smallpox cases are overbusy now, for the epidemic is still raging there. However, I'll go into town to-night and do my best. Meanwhile, at present, you must not go near him, Peter."

I wasn't going to take orders from any man, and as soon as the doctor had gone I marched straight up to Alexander Abraham's room with some dinner for him on a tray. There was a lemon cream I thought he could eat even if he had the smallpox.

"You shouldn't come near me," he growled. "You are risking your life."

"I am not going to see a fellow creature starve to death, even if he is a man," I retorted.

"The worst of it all," groaned Alexander Abraham, between mouthfuls of lemon cream, "is that the doctor says I've got to have a nurse. I've got so kind of used to you being in the house that I don't mind you, but the thought of another woman coming here is too much. Did you give my poor dog anything to eat?"

"He has had a better dinner than many a Christian," I said severely.

Alexander Abraham need not have worried about another woman coming in. The doctor came back that night with care on his brow.

"I don't know what is to be done," he said. "I can't get a soul to come here."

"I shall nurse Mr. Bennett," I said with dignity. "It is my duty and I never shirk my duty. I am noted for that. He is a man, and he has smallpox, and he keeps a vile dog; but I am not going to see him die for lack of care for all that."

"You're a good soul, Peter," said the doctor, looking relieved, manlike, as soon as he found a woman to shoulder the responsibility.

I nursed Alexander Abraham through the smallpox, and I didn't mind it much. He was much more amiable sick than well, and he had the disease in a very mild form. Below stairs I reigned supreme and Mr. Riley and William Adolphus lay down together like the lion and the lamb. I fed Mr. Riley regularly, and once, seeing him looking lonesome, I patted him gingerly. It was nicer than I thought it would be. Mr. Riley lifted his head and looked at me with an expression in his eyes which cured me of wondering why on earth Alexander Abraham was so fond of the beast.

When Alexander Abraham was able to sit up, he began to make up for the time he'd lost being pleasant. Anything more sarcastic than that man in his convalescence you couldn't imagine. I just laughed at him, having found out that that could be depended on to irritate him. To irritate him still further I cleaned the house all over again. But what vexed him most of all was that Mr. Riley took to following me about and wagging what he had of a tail at me.

"It wasn't enough that you should come into my peaceful home and turn it upside down, but you have to alienate the affections of my dog," complained Alexander Abraham.

"He'll get fond of you again when I go home," I said comfortingly. "Dogs aren't very particular that way. What they want is bones. Cats now, they love disinterestedly. William Adolphus has never swerved in his allegiance to me, although you do give him cream in the pantry on the sly."

Alexander Abraham looked foolish. He hadn't thought I knew that.

I didn't take the smallpox and in another week the doctor came out and sent the policeman home. I was disinfected and William Adolphus was fumigated, and then we were free to go.

"Good-bye, Mr. Bennett," I said, offering to shake hands in a forgiving spirit. "I've no doubt that you are glad to be rid of me, but you are no gladder than I am to go. I suppose this house will be dirtier than ever in a month's time, and Mr. Riley will have discarded the little polish his manners have taken on. Reformation with men and dogs never goes very deep."

With this Parthian shaft I walked out of the house, supposing that I had seen the last of it and Alexander Abraham.

I was glad to get back home, of course; but it did seem queer and lonesome. The cats hardly knew me, and William Adolphus roamed about forlornly and appeared to feel like an exile. I didn't take as much pleasure in cooking as usual, for it seemed kind of foolish to be fussing over oneself. The sight of a bone made me think of poor Mr. Riley. The neighbours avoided me pointedly, for they couldn't get rid of the fear that I might erupt into smallpox at any moment. My Sunday School class had been given to another woman, and altogether I felt as if I didn't belong anywhere.

I had existed like this for a fortnight when Alexander Abraham suddenly appeared. He walked in one evening at dusk, but at first sight I didn't know him he was so spruced and barbered up. But William Adolphus knew him. Will you believe it, William Adolphus, my own William Adolphus, rubbed up against that man's trouser leg with an undisguised purr of satisfaction.

"I had to come, Angelina," said Alexander Abraham. "I couldn't stand it any longer."

"My name is Peter," I said coldly, although I was feeling ridiculously glad about something.

"It isn't," said Alexander Abraham stubbornly. "It is Angelina for me, and always will be. I shall never call you Peter. Angelina just suits you exactly; and Angelina Bennett would suit you still better. You must come back, Angelina. Mr. Riley is moping for you, and I can't get along without somebody to appreciate my sarcasms, now that you have accustomed me to the luxury."

"What about the other five cats?" I demanded.

Alexander Abraham sighed.

"I suppose they'll have to come too," he sighed, "though no doubt they'll chase poor Mr. Riley clean off the premises. But I can live without him, and I can't without you. How soon can you be ready to marry me?"

"I haven't said that I was going to marry you at all, have I?" I said tartly, just to be consistent. For I wasn't feeling tart.

"No, but you will, won't you?" said Alexander Abraham anxiously. "Because if you won't, I wish you'd let me die of the smallpox. Do, dear Angelina."

To think that a man should dare to call me his "dear Angelina!" And to think that I shouldn't mind!

"Where I go, William Adolphus goes," I said, "but I shall give away the other five cats for -- for the sake of Mr. Riley."



IX. Pa Sloane's Purchase


"I guess the molasses is getting low, ain't it?" said Pa Sloane insinuatingly. "S'pose I'd better drive up to Carmody this afternoon and get some more."

"There's a good half-gallon of molasses in the jug yet," said ma Sloane ruthlessly.

"That so? Well, I noticed the kerosene demijohn wasn't very hefty the last time I filled the can. Reckon it needs replenishing."

"We have kerosene enough to do for a fortnight yet." Ma continued to eat her dinner with an impassive face, but a twinkle made itself apparent in her eye. Lest Pa should see it, and feel encouraged thereby, she looked immovably at her plate.

Pa Sloane sighed. His invention was giving out.

"Didn't I hear you say day before yesterday that you were out of nutmegs?" he queried, after a few moments' severe reflection.

"I got a supply of them from the egg-pedlar yesterday," responded Ma, by a great effort preventing the twinkle from spreading over her entire face. She wondered if this third failure would squelch Pa. But Pa was not to be squelched.

"Well, anyway," he said, brightening up under the influence of a sudden saving inspiration. "I'll have to go up to get the sorrel mare shod. So, if you've any little errands you want done at the store, Ma, just make a memo of them while I hitch up."

The matter of shoeing the sorrel mare was beyond Ma's province, although she had her own suspicions about the sorrel mare's need of shoes.

"Why can't you give up beating about the bush, Pa?" she demanded, with contemptuous pity. "You might as well own up what's taking you to Carmody. I can see through your design. You want to get away to the Garland auction. That is what is troubling you, Pa Sloane."

"I dunno but what I might step over, seeing it's so handy. But the sorrel mare really does need shoeing, Ma," protested Pa.

"There's always something needing to be done if it's convenient," retorted Ma. "Your mania for auctions will be the ruin of you yet, Pa. A man of fifty-five ought to have grown out of such a hankering. But the older you get the worse you get. Anyway, if I wanted to go to auctions, I'd select them as was something like, and not waste my time on little one-horse affairs like this of Garland's."

"One might pick up something real cheap at Garland's," said Pa defensively.

"Well, you are not going to pick up anything, cheap or otherwise, Pa Sloane, because I'm going with you to see that you don't. I know I can't stop you from going. I might as well try to stop the wind from blowing. But I shall go, too, out of self-defence. This house is so full now of old clutter and truck that you've brought home from auctions that I feel as if I was made up out of pieces and left overs."

Pa Sloane sighed again. It was not exhilarating to attend an auction with Ma. She would never let him bid on anything. But he realized that Ma's mind was made up beyond the power of mortal man's persuasion to alter it, so he went out to hitch up.

Pa Sloane's dissipation was going to auctions and buying things that nobody else would buy. Ma Sloane's patient endeavours of over thirty years had been able to effect only a partial reform. Sometimes Pa heroically refrained from going to an auction for six months at a time; then he would break out worse than ever, go to all that took place for miles around, and come home with a wagonful of misfits. His last exploit had been to bid on an old dasher churn for five dollars -- the boys "ran things up" on Pa Sloane for the fun of it -- and bring it home to outraged Ma, who had made her butter for fifteen years in the very latest, most up-to-date barrel churn. To add insult to injury this was the second dasher churn Pa had bought at auction. That settled it. Ma decreed that henceforth she would chaperon Pa when he went to auctions.

But this was the day of Pa's good angel. When he drove up to the door where Ma was waiting, a breathless, hatless imp of ten flew into the yard, and hurled himself between Ma and the wagon-step.

"Oh, Mrs. Sloane, won't you come over to our house at once?" he gasped. "The baby, he's got colic, and ma's just wild, and he's all black in the face."

Ma went, feeling that the stars in their courses fought against a woman who was trying to do her duty by her husband. But first she admonished Pa.

"I shall have to let you go alone. But I charge you, Pa, not to bid on anything -- on ANYTHING, do you hear?"

Pa heard and promised to heed, with every intention of keeping his promise. Then he drove away joyfully. On any other occasion Ma would have been a welcome companion. But she certainly spoiled the flavour of an auction.

When Pa arrived at the Carmody store, he saw that the little yard of the Garland place below the hill was already full of people. The auction had evidently begun; so, not to miss any more of it, Pa hurried down. The sorrel mare could wait for her shoes until afterwards.

Ma had been within bounds when she called the Garland auction a "one-horse affair." It certainly was very paltry, especially when compared to the big Donaldson auction of a month ago, which Pa still lived over in happy dreams.

Horace Garland and his wife had been poor. When they died within six weeks of each other, one of consumption and one of pneumonia, they left nothing but debts and a little furniture. The house had been a rented one.

The bidding on the various poor articles of household gear put up for sale was not brisk, but had an element of resigned determination. Carmody people knew that these things had to be sold to pay the debts, and they could not be sold unless they were bought. Still, it was a very tame affair.

A woman came out of the house carrying a baby of about eighteen months in her arms, and sat down on the bench beneath the window.

"There's Marthy Blair with the Garland Baby," said Robert Lawson to Pa. "I'd like to know what's to become of that poor young one!"

"Ain't there any of the father's or mother's folks to take him?" asked Pa.

"No. Horace had no relatives that anybody ever heard of. Mrs. Horace had a brother; but he went to Manitoba years ago, and nobody knows where he is now. Somebody'll have to take the baby and nobody seems anxious to. I've got eight myself, or I'd think about it. He's a fine little chap."

Pa, with Ma's parting admonition ringing in his ears, did not bid on anything, although it will never be known how great was the heroic self-restraint he put on himself, until just at the last, when he did bid on a collection of flower-pots, thinking he might indulge himself to that small extent. But Josiah Sloane had been commissioned by his wife to bring those flower-pots home to her; so Pa lost them.

"There, that's all," said the auctioneer, wiping his face, for the day was very warm for October.

"There's nothing more unless we sell the baby."

A laugh went through the crowd. The sale had been a dull affair, and they were ready for some fun. Someone called out, "Put him up, Jacob." The joke found favour and the call was repeated hilariously.

Jacob Blair took little Teddy Garland out of Martha's arms and stood him up on the table by the door, steadying the small chap with one big brown hand. The baby had a mop of yellow curls, and a pink and white face, and big blue eyes. He laughed out at the men before him and waved his hands in delight. Pa Sloane thought he had never seen so pretty a baby.

"Here's a baby for sale," shouted the auctioneer. "A genuine article, pretty near as good as brand-new. A real live baby, warranted to walk and talk a little. Who bids? A dollar? Did I hear anyone mean enough to bid a dollar? No, sir, babies don't come as cheap as that, especially the curly-headed brand."

The crowd laughed again. Pa Sloane, by way of keeping on the joke, cried, "Four dollars!"

Everybody looked at him. The impression flashed through the crowd that Pa was in earnest, and meant thus to signify his intention of giving the baby a home. He was well-to-do, and his only son was grown up and married.

"Six," cried out John Clarke from the other side of the yard. John Clarke lived at White Sands and he and his wife were childless.

That bid of John Clarke's was Pa's undoing. Pa Sloane could not have an enemy; but a rival he had, and that rival was John Clarke. Everywhere at auctions John Clarke was wont to bid against Pa. At the last auction he had outbid Pa in everything, not having the fear of his wife before his eyes. Pa's fighting blood was up in a moment; he forgot Ma Sloane; he forgot what he was bidding for; he forgot everything except a determination that John Clarke should not be victor again.

"Ten," he called shrilly.

"Fifteen," shouted Clarke.

"Twenty," vociferated Pa.

"Twenty-five," bellowed Clarke.

"Thirty," shrieked Pa. He nearly bust a blood-vessel in his shrieking, but he had won. Clarke turned off with a laugh and a shrug, and the baby was knocked down to Pa Sloane by the auctioneer, who had meanwhile been keeping the crowd in roars of laughter by a quick fire of witticisms. There had not been such fun at an auction in Carmody for many a long day.

Pa Sloane came, or was pushed, forward. The baby was put into his arms; he realized that he was expected to keep it, and he was too dazed to refuse; besides, his heart went out to the child.

The auctioneer looked doubtfully at the money which Pa laid mutely down.

"I s'pose that part was only a joke," he said.

"Not a bit of it," said Robert Lawson. "All the money won't be too much to pay the debts. There's a doctor's bill, and this will just about pay it."

Pa Sloane drove back home, with the sorrel mare still unshod, the baby, and the baby's meager bundle of clothes. The baby did not trouble him much; it had become well used to strangers in the past two months, and promptly fell asleep on his arm; but Pa Sloane did not enjoy that drive; at the end of it he mentally saw Ma Sloane.

Ma was there, too, waiting for him on the back door-step as he drove into the yard at sunset. Her face, when she saw the baby, expressed the last degree of amazement.

"Pa Sloane," she demanded, "whose is that young one, and where did you get it?"

"I -- I -- bought it at the auction, Ma," said Pa feebly. Then he waited for the explosion. None came. This last exploit of Pa's was too much for Ma.

With a gasp she snatched the baby from Pa's arms, and ordered him to go out and put the mare in. When Pa returned to the kitchen Ma had set the baby on the sofa, fenced him around with chairs so that he couldn't fall off and given him a molassed cooky.

"Now, Pa Sloane, you can explain," she said.

Pa explained. Ma listened in grim silence until he had finished. Then she said sternly:

"Do you reckon we're going to keep this baby?"

"I -- I -- dunno," said Pa. And he didn't.

"Well, we're NOT. I brought up one boy and that's enough. I don't calculate to be pestered with any more. I never was much struck on children as children, anyhow. You say that Mary Garland had a brother out in Manitoba? Well, we shall just write to him and tell him he's got to look out for his nephew."

"But how can you do that, Ma, when nobody knows his address?" objected Pa, with a wistful look at that delicious, laughing baby.

"I'll find out his address if I have to advertise in the papers for him," retorted Ma. "As for you, Pa Sloane, you're not fit to be out of a lunatic asylum. The next auction you'll be buying a wife, I s'pose?"

Pa, quite crushed by Ma's sarcasm, pulled his chair in to supper. Ma picked up the baby and sat down at the head of the table. Little Teddy laughed and pinched her face -- Ma's face! Ma looked very grim, but she fed him his supper as skilfully as if it had not been thirty years since she had done such a thing. But then, the woman who once learns the mother knack never forgets it.

After tea Ma despatched Pa over to William Alexander's to borrow a high chair. When Pa returned in the twilight, the baby was fenced in on the sofa again, and Ma was stepping briskly about the garret. She was bringing down the little cot bed her own boy had once occupied, and setting it up in their room for Teddy. Then she undressed the baby and rocked him to sleep, crooning an old lullaby over him. Pa Sloane sat quietly and listened, with very sweet memories of the long ago, when he and Ma had been young and proud, and the bewhiskered William Alexander had been a curly-headed little fellow like this one.

Ma was not driven to advertising for Mrs. Garland's brother. That personage saw the notice of his sister's death in a home paper and wrote to the Carmody postmaster for full information. The letter was referred to Ma and Ma answered it.

She wrote that they had taken in the baby, pending further arrangements, but had no intention of keeping it; and she calmly demanded of its uncle what was to be done with it. Then she sealed and addressed the letter with an unfaltering hand; but, when it was done, she looked across the table at Pa Sloane, who was sitting in the armchair with the baby on his knee. They were having a royal good time together. Pa had always been dreadfully foolish about babies. He looked ten years younger. Ma's keen eyes softened a little as she watched them.

A prompt answer came to her letter. Teddy's uncle wrote that he had six children of his own, but was nevertheless willing and glad to give his little nephew a home. But he could not come after him. Josiah Spencer, of White Sands, was going out to Manitoba in the spring. If Mr. and Mrs. Sloane could only keep the baby till then he could be sent out with the Spencers. Perhaps they would see a chance sooner.

"There'll be no chance sooner," said Pa Sloane in a tone of satisfaction.

"No, worse luck!" retorted Ma crisply.

The winter passed by. Little Teddy grew and throve, and Pa Sloane worshipped him. Ma was very good to him, too, and Teddy was just as fond of her as of Pa.

Nevertheless, as the spring drew near, Pa became depressed. Sometimes he sighed heavily, especially when he heard casual references to the Josiah Spencer emigration.

One warm afternoon in early May Josiah Spencer arrived. He found Ma knitting placidly in the kitchen, while Pa nodded over his newspaper and the baby played with the cat on the floor.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Sloane," said Josiah with a flourish. "I just dropped in to see about this young man here. We are going to leave next Wednesday; so you'd better send him down to our place Monday or Tuesday, so that he can get used to us, and -- "

"Oh, Ma," began Pa, rising imploringly to his feet.

Ma transfixed him with her eye.

"Sit down, Pa," she commanded.

Unhappy Pa sat.

Then Ma glared at the smiling Josiah, who instantly felt as guilty as if he had been caught stealing sheep red-handed.

"We are much obliged to you, Mr. Spencer," said Ma icily, "but this baby is OURS. We bought him, and we paid for him. A bargain is a bargain. When I pay cash down for babies, I propose to get my money's worth. We are going to keep this baby in spite of any number of uncles in Manitoba. Have I made this sufficiently clear to your understanding, Mr. Spencer?"

"Certainly, certainly," stammered the unfortunate man, feeling guiltier than ever, "but I thought you didn't want him -- I thought you'd written to his uncle -- I thought -- "

"I really wouldn't think quite so much if I were you," said Ma kindly. "It must be hard on you. Won't you stay and have tea with us?"

But, no, Josiah would not stay. He was thankful to make his escape with such rags of self-respect as remained to him.

Pa Sloane arose and came around to Ma's chair. He laid a trembling hand on her shoulder.

"Ma, you're a good woman," he said softly.

"Go 'long, Pa," said Ma.



X. The Courting of Prissy Strong


I WASN'T able to go to prayer meeting that evening because I had neuralgia in my face; but Thomas went, and the minute he came home I knew by the twinkle in his eye that he had some news.

"Who do you s'pose Stephen Clark went home with from meeting to-night?" he said, chuckling.

"Jane Miranda Blair," I said promptly. Stephen Clark's wife had been dead for two years and he hadn't taken much notice of anybody, so far as was known. But Carmody had Jane Miranda all ready for him, and really I don't know why she didn't suit him, except for the reason that a man never does what he is expected to do when it comes to marrying.

Thomas chuckled again.

"Wrong. He stepped up to Prissy Strong and walked off with her. Cold soup warmed over."

"Prissy Strong!" I just held up my hands. Then I laughed. "He needn't try for Prissy," I said. "Emmeline nipped that in the bud twenty years ago, and she'll do it again."

"Em'line is an old crank," growled Thomas. He detested Emmeline Strong, and always did.

"She's that, all right," I agreed, "and that is just the reason she can turn poor Prissy any way she likes. You mark my words, she'll put her foot right down on this as soon as she finds it out."

Thomas said that I was probably right. I lay awake for a long time after I went to bed that night, thinking of Prissy and Stephen. As a general rule, I don't concern my head about other people's affairs, but Prissy was such a helpless creature I couldn't get her off my mind.

Twenty years ago Stephen Clark had tried to go with Prissy Strong. That was pretty soon after Prissy's father had died. She and Emmeline were living alone together. Emmeline was thirty, ten years older than Prissy, and if ever there were two sisters totally different from each other in every way, those two were Emmeline and Prissy Strong.

Emmeline took after her father; she was big and dark and homely, and she was the most domineering creature that ever stepped on shoe leather. She simply ruled poor Prissy with a rod of iron.

Prissy herself was a pretty girl -- at least most people thought so. I can't honestly say I ever admired her style much myself. I like something with more vim and snap to it. Prissy was slim and pink, with soft, appealing blue eyes, and pale gold hair all clinging in baby rings around her face. She was just as meek and timid as she looked and there wasn't a bit of harm in her. I always liked Prissy, even if I didn't admire her looks as much as some people did.

Anyway, it was plain her style suited Stephen Clark. He began to drive her, and there wasn't a speck of doubt that Prissy liked him. Then Emmeline just put a stopper on the affair. It was pure cantankerousness in her. Stephen was a good match and nothing could be said against him. But Emmeline was just determined that Prissy shouldn't marry. She couldn't get married herself, and she was sore enough about it.

Of course, if Prissy had had a spark of spirit she wouldn't have given in. But she hadn't a mite; I believe she would have cut off her nose if Emmeline had ordered her to do it. She was just her mother over again. If ever a girl belied her name, Prissy Strong did. There wasn't anything strong about her.

One night, when prayer meeting came out, Stephen stepped up to Prissy as usual and asked if he might see her home. Thomas and I were just behind -- we weren't married ourselves then -- and we heard it all. Prissy gave one scared, appealing look at Emmeline and then said, "No, thank you, not to-night."

Stephen just turned on his heel and went. He was a high-spirited fellow and I knew he would never overlook a public slight like that. If he had had as much sense as he ought to have had he would have known that Emmeline was at the bottom of it; but he didn't, and he began going to see Althea Gillis, and they were married the next year. Althea was a rather nice girl, though giddy, and I think she and Stephen were happy enough together. In real life things are often like that.

Nobody ever tried to go with Prissy again. I suppose they were afraid of Emmeline. Prissy's beauty soon faded. She was always kind of sweet looking, but her bloom went, and she got shyer and limper every year of her life. She wouldn't have dared put on her second best dress without asking Emmeline's permission. She was real fond of cats and Emmeline wouldn't let her keep one. Emmeline even cut the serial out of the religious weekly she took before she would give it to Prissy, because she didn't believe in reading novels. It used to make me furious to see it all. They were my next door neighbours after I married Thomas, and I was often in and out. Sometimes I'd feel real vexed at Prissy for giving in the way she did; but, after all, she couldn't help it -- she was born that way.

And now Stephen was going to try his luck again. It certainly did seem funny.

Stephen walked home with Prissy from prayer meeting four nights before Emmeline found it out. Emmeline hadn't been going to prayer meeting all that summer because she was mad at Mr. Leonard. She had expressed her disapproval to him because he had buried old Naomi Clark at the harbour "just as if she was a Christian," and Mr. Leonard had said something to her she couldn't get over for a while. I don't know what it was, but I know that when Mr. Leonard WAS roused to rebuke anyone the person so rebuked remembered it for a spell.

All at once I knew she must have discovered about Stephen and Prissy, for Prissy stopped going to prayer meeting.

I felt real worried about it, someway, and although Thomas said for goodness' sake not to go poking my fingers into other people's pies, I felt as if I ought to do something. Stephen Clark was a good man and Prissy would have a beautiful home; and those two little boys of Althea's needed a mother if ever boys did. Besides, I knew quite well that Prissy, in her secret soul, was hankering to be married. So was Emmeline, too -- but nobody wanted to help HER to a husband.

The upshot of my meditations was that I asked Stephen down to dinner with us from church one day. I had heard a rumour that he was going to see Lizzie Pye over at Avonlea, and I knew it was time to be stirring, if anything were to be done. If it had been Jane Miranda I don't know that I'd have bothered; but Lizzie Pye wouldn't have done for a stepmother for Althea's boys at all. She was too bad-tempered, and as mean as second skimmings besides.

Stephen came. He seemed dull and moody, and not much inclined to talk. After dinner I gave Thomas a hint. I said,

"You go to bed and have your nap. I want to talk to Stephen."

Thomas shrugged his shoulders and went. He probably thought I was brewing up lots of trouble for myself, but he didn't say anything. As soon as he was out of the way I casually remarked to Stephen that I understood that he was going to take one of my neighbours away and that I couldn't be sorry, though she was an excellent neighbour and I would miss her a great deal.

"You won't have to miss her much, I reckon," said Stephen grimly. "I've been told I'm not wanted there."

I was surprised to hear Stephen come out so plump and plain about it, for I hadn't expected to get at the root of the matter so easily. Stephen wasn't the confidential kind. But it really seemed to be a relief to him to talk about it; I never saw a man feeling so sore about anything. He told me the whole story.

Prissy had written him a letter -- he fished it out of his pocket and gave it to me to read. It was in Prissy's prim, pretty little writing, sure enough, and it just said that his attentions were "unwelcome," and would he be "kind enough to refrain from offering them." Not much wonder the poor man went to see Lizzie Pye!

"Stephen, I'm surprised at you for thinking that Prissy Strong wrote that letter," I said.

"It's in her handwriting," he said stubbornly.

"Of course it is. 'The hand is the hand of Esau, but the voice is the voice of Jacob,'" I said, though I wasn't sure whether the quotation was exactly appropriate. "Emmeline composed that letter and made Prissy copy it out. I know that as well as if I'd seen her do it, and you ought to have known it, too."

"If I thought that I'd show Emmeline I could get Prissy in spite of her," said Stephen savagely. "But if Prissy doesn't want me I'm not going to force my attentions on her."

Well, we talked it over a bit, and in the end I agreed to sound Prissy, and find out what she really thought about it. I didn't think it would be hard to do; and it wasn't. I went over the very next day because I saw Emmeline driving off to the store. I found Prissy alone, sewing carpet rags. Emmeline kept her constantly at that -- because Prissy hated it I suppose. Prissy was crying when I went in, and in a few minutes I had the whole story.

Prissy wanted to get married -- and she wanted to get married to Stephen -- and Emmeline wouldn't let her.

"Prissy Strong," I said in exasperation, "you haven't the spirit of a mouse! Why on earth did you write him such a letter?"

"Why, Emmeline made me," said Prissy, as if there couldn't be any appeal from that; and I knew there couldn't -- for Prissy. I also knew that if Stephen wanted to see Prissy again Emmeline must know nothing of it, and I told him so when he came down the next evening -- to borrow a hoe, he said. It was a long way to come for a hoe.

"Then what am I to do?" he said. "It wouldn't be any use to write, for it would likely fall into Emmeline's hands. She won't let Prissy go anywhere alone after this, and how am I to know when the old cat is away?"

"Please don't insult cats," I said. "I'll tell you what we'll do. You can see the ventilator on our barn from your place, can't you? You'd be able to make out a flag or something tied to it, wouldn't you, through that spy-glass of yours?"

Stephen thought he could.

"Well, you take a squint at it every now and then," I said. "Just as soon as Emmeline leaves Prissy alone I'll hoist the signal."

The chance didn't come for a whole fortnight. Then, one evening, I saw Emmeline striding over the field below our house. As soon as she was out of sight I ran through the birch grove to Prissy.

"Yes, Em'line's gone to sit up with Jane Lawson to-night," said Prissy, all fluttered and trembling.

"Then you put on your muslin dress and fix your hair," I said. "I'm going home to get Thomas to tie something to that ventilator."

But do you think Thomas would do it? Not he. He said he owed something to his position as elder in the church. In the end I had to do it myself, though I don't like climbing ladders. I tied Thomas' long red woollen scarf to the ventilator, and prayed that Stephen would see it. He did, for in less than an hour he drove down our lane and put his horse in our barn. He was all spruced up, and as nervous and excited as a schoolboy. He went right over to Prissy, and I began to tuft my new comfort with a clear conscience. I shall never know why it suddenly came into my head to go up to the garret and make sure that the moths hadn't got into my box of blankets; but I always believed that it was a special interposition of Providence. I went up and happened to look out of the east window; and there I saw Emmeline Strong coming home across our pond field.

I just flew down those garret stairs and out through the birches. I burst into the Strong kitchen, where Stephen and Prissy were sitting as cozy as you please.

"Stephen, come quick! Emmeline's nearly here," I cried.

Prissy looked out of the window and wrung her hands.

"Oh, she's in the lane now," she gasped. "He can't get out of the house without her seeing him. Oh, Rosanna, what shall we do?"

I really don't know what would have become of those two people if I hadn't been in existence to find ideas for them.

"Take Stephen up to the garret and hide him there, Prissy," I said firmly, "and take him quick."

Prissy took him quick, but she had barely time to get back to the kitchen before Emmeline marched in -- mad as a wet hen because somebody had been ahead of her offering to sit up with Jane Lawson, and so she lost the chance of poking and prying into things while Jane was asleep. The minute she clapped eyes on Prissy she suspected something. It wasn't any wonder, for there was Prissy, all dressed up, with flushed cheeks and shining eyes. She was all in a quiver of excitement, and looked ten years younger.

"Priscilla Strong, you've been expecting Stephen Clark here this evening!" burst out Emmeline. "You wicked, deceitful, underhanded, ungrateful creature!"

And she went on storming at Prissy, who began to cry, and looked so weak and babyish that I was frightened she would betray the whole thing.

"This is between you and Prissy, Emmeline," I struck in, "and I'm not going to interfere. But I want to get you to come over and show me how to tuft my comfort that new pattern you learned in Avonlea, and as it had better be done before dark I wish you'd come right away."

"I s'pose I'll go," said Emmeline ungraciously, "but Priscilla shall come, too, for I see that she isn't to be trusted out of my sight after this."

I hoped Stephen would see us from the garret window and make good his escape. But I didn't dare trust to chance, so when I got Emmeline safely to work on my comfort I excused myself and slipped out. Luckily my kitchen was on the off side of the house, but I was a nervous woman as I rushed across to the Strong place and dashed up Emmeline's garret stairs to Stephen. It was fortunate I had come, for he didn't know we had gone. Prissy had hidden him behind the loom and he didn't dare move for fear Emmeline would hear him on that creaky floor. He was a sight with cobwebs.

I got him down and smuggled him into our barn, and he stayed there until it was dark and the Strong girls had gone home. Emmeline began to rage at Prissy the moment they were outside my door.

Then Stephen came in and we talked things over. He and Prissy had made good use of their time, short as it had been. Prissy had promised to marry him, and all that remained was to get the ceremony performed.

"And that will be no easy matter," I warned him. "Now that Emmeline's suspicions are aroused she'll never let Prissy out of her sight until you're married to another woman, if it's years. I know Emmeline Strong. And I know Prissy. If it was any other girl in the world she'd run away, or manage it somehow, but Prissy never will. She's too much in the habit of obeying Emmeline. You'll have an obedient wife, Stephen -- if you ever get her."

Stephen looked as if he thought that wouldn't be any drawback. Gossip said that Althea had been pretty bossy. I don't know. Maybe it was so.

"Can't you suggest something, Rosanna?" he implored. "You've helped us so far, and I'll never forget it."

"The only thing I can think of is for you to have the license ready, and speak to Mr. Leonard, and keep an eye on our ventilator," I said. "I'll watch here and signal whenever there's an opening."

Well, I watched and Stephen watched, and Mr. Leonard was in the plot, too. Prissy was always a favourite of his, and he would have been more than human, saint as he is, if he'd had any love for Emmeline, after the way she was always trying to brew up strife in the church.

But Emmeline was a match for us all. She never let Prissy out of her sight. Everywhere she went she toted Prissy, too. When a month had gone by, I was almost in despair. Mr. Leonard had to leave for the Assembly in another week and Stephen's neighbours were beginning to talk about him. They said that a man who spent all his time hanging around the yard with a spyglass, and trusting everything to a hired boy, couldn't be altogether right in his mind.

I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw Emmeline driving away one day alone. As soon as she was out of sight I whisked over, and Anne Shirley and Diana Barry went with me.

They were visiting me that afternoon. Diana's mother was my second cousin, and, as we visited back and forth frequently, I'd often seen Diana. But I'd never seen her chum, Anne Shirley, although I'd heard enough about her to drive anyone frantic with curiosity. So when she came home from Redmond College that summer I asked Diana to take pity on me and bring her over some afternoon.

I wasn't disappointed in her. I considered her a beauty, though some people couldn't see it. She had the most magnificent red hair and the biggest, shiningest eyes I ever saw in a girl's head. As for her laugh, it made me feel young again to hear it. She and Diana both laughed enough that afternoon, for I told them, under solemn promise of secrecy, all about poor Prissy's love affair. So nothing would do them but they must go over with me.

The appearance of the house amazed me. All the shutters were closed and the door locked. I knocked and knocked, but there was no answer. Then I walked around the house to the only window that hadn't shutters -- a tiny one upstairs. I knew it was the window in the closet off the room where the girls slept. I stopped under it and called Prissy. Before long Prissy came and opened it. She was so pale and woe-begone looking that I pitied her with all my heart.

"Prissy, where has Emmeline gone?" I asked.

"Down to Avonlea to see the Roger Pyes. They're sick with measles, and Emmeline couldn't take me because I've never had measles."

Poor Prissy! She had never had anything a body ought to have.

"Then you just come and unfasten a shutter, and come right over to my house," I said exultantly. "We'll have Stephen and the minister here in no time."

"I can't -- Em'line has locked me in here," said Prissy woefully.

I was posed. No living mortal bigger than a baby could have got in or out of that closet window.

"Well," I said finally, "I'll put the signal up for Stephen anyhow, and we'll see what can be done when he gets here."

I didn't know how I was ever to get the signal up on that ventilator, for it was one of the days I take dizzy spells; and if I took one up on the ladder there'd probably be a funeral instead of a wedding. But Anne Shirley said she'd put it up for me, and she did. I had never seen that girl before, and I've never seen her since, but it's my opinion that there wasn't much she couldn't do if she made up her mind to do it.

Stephen wasn't long in getting there and he brought the minister with him. Then we all, including Thomas -- who was beginning to get interested in the affair in spite of himself -- went over and held council of war beneath the closet window.

Thomas suggested breaking in doors and carrying Prissy off boldly, but I could see that Mr. Leonard looked very dubious over that, and even Stephen said he thought it could only be done as a last resort. I agreed with him. I knew Emmeline Strong would bring an action against him for housebreaking as likely as not. She'd be so furious she'd stick at nothing if we gave her any excuse. Then Anne Shirley, who couldn't have been more excited if she was getting married herself, came to the rescue again.

"Couldn't you put a ladder up to the closet window," she said, "And Mr. Clark can go up it and they can be married there. Can't they, Mr. Leonard?"

Mr. Leonard agreed that they could. He was always the most saintly looking man, but I know I saw a twinkle in his eye.

"Thomas, go over and bring our little ladder over here," I said.

Thomas forgot he was an elder, and he brought the ladder as quick as it was possible for a fat man to do it. After all it was too short to reach the window, but there was no time to go for another. Stephen went up to the top of it, and he reached up and Prissy reached down, and they could just barely clasp hands so. I shall never forget the look of Prissy. The window was so small she could only get her head and one arm out of it. Besides, she was almost frightened to death.

Mr. Leonard stood at the foot of the ladder and married them. As a rule, he makes a very long and solemn thing of the marriage ceremony, but this time he cut out everything that wasn't absolutely necessary; and it was well that he did, for just as he pronounced them man and wife, Emmeline drove into the lane.

She knew perfectly well what had happened when she saw the minister with his blue book in his hand. Never a word said she. She marched to the front door, unlocked it, and strode upstairs. I've always been convinced it was a mercy that closet window was so small, or I believe that she would have thrown Prissy out of it. As it was, she walked her downstairs by the arm and actually flung her at Stephen.

"There, take your wife," she said, "and I'll pack up every stitch she owns and send it after her; and I never want to see her or you again as long as I live."

Then she turned to me and Thomas.

"As for you that have aided and abetted that weakminded fool in this, take yourselves out of my yard and never darken my door again."

"Goodness, who wants to, you old spitfire?" said Thomas.

It wasn't just the thing for him to say, perhaps, but we are all human, even elders.

The girls didn't escape. Emmeline looked daggers at them.

"This will be something for you to carry back to Avonlea," she said. "You gossips down there will have enough to talk about for a spell. That's all you ever go out of Avonlea for -- just to fetch and carry tales."

Finally she finished up with the minister.

"I'm going to the Baptist church in Spencervale after this," she said. Her tone and look said a hundred other things. She whirled into the house and slammed the door.

Mr. Leonard looked around on us with a pitying smile as Stephen put poor, half-fainting Prissy into the buggy.

"I am very sorry," he said in that gently, saintly way of his, "for the Baptists."



XI. The Miracle at Carmody


Salome looked out of the kitchen window, and a pucker of distress appeared on her smooth forehead.

"Dear, dear, what has Lionel Hezekiah been doing now?" she murmured anxiously.

Involuntarily she reached out for her crutch; but it was a little beyond her reach, having fallen on the floor, and without it Salome could not move a step.

"Well, anyway, Judith is bringing him in as fast as she can," she reflected. "He must have been up to something terrible this time; for she looks very cross, and she never walks like that unless she is angry clear through. Dear me, I am sometimes tempted to think that Judith and I made a mistake in adopting the child. I suppose two old maids don't know much about bringing up a boy properly. But he is NOT a bad child, and it really seems to me that there must be some way of making him behave better if we only knew what it was."

Salome's monologue was cut short by the entrance of her sister Judith, holding Lionel Hezekiah by his chubby wrist with a determined grip.

Judith Marsh was ten years older than Salome, and the two women were as different in appearance as night and day. Salome, in spite of her thirty-five years, looked almost girlish. She was small and pink and flower-like, with little rings of pale golden hair clustering all over her head in a most unspinster-like fashion, and her eyes were big and blue, and mild as a dove's. Her face was perhaps a weak one, but it was very sweet and appealing.

Judith Marsh was tall and dark, with a plain, tragic face and iron-gray hair. Her eyes were black and sombre, and every feature bespoke unyielding will and determination. Just now she looked, as Salome had said, "angry clear through," and the baleful glances she cast on the small mortal she held would have withered a more hardened criminal than six happy-go-lucky years had made of Lionel Hezekiah.

Lionel Hezekiah, whatever his shortcomings, did not look bad. Indeed, he was as engaging an urchin as ever beamed out on a jolly good world through a pair of big, velvet-brown eyes. He was chubby and firm-limbed, with a mop of beautiful golden curls, which were the despair of his heart and the pride and joy of Salome's; and his round face was usually a lurking-place for dimples and smiles and sunshine.

But just now Lionel Hezekiah was under a blight; he had been caught red-handed in guilt, and was feeling much ashamed of himself. He hung his head and squirmed his toes under the mournful reproach in Salome's eyes. When Salome looked at him like that, Lionel Hezekiah always felt that he was paying more for his fun than it was worth.

"What do you suppose I caught him doing this time?" demanded Judith.

"I -- I don't know," faltered Salome.

"Firing -- at -- a -- mark -- on -- the -- henhouse -- door -- with -- new-laid -- eggs," said Judith with measured distinctness. "He has broken every egg that was laid to-day except three. And as for the state of that henhouse door -- "

Judith paused, with an indignant gesture meant to convey that the state of the henhouse door must be left to Salome's imagination, since the English language was not capable of depicting it.

"O Lionel Hezekiah, why will you do such things?" said Salome miserably.

"I -- didn't know it was wrong," said Lionel Hezekiah, bursting into prompt tears. "I -- I thought it would be bully fun. Seems's if everything what's fun 's wrong."

Salome's heart was not proof against tears, as Lionel Hezekiah very well knew. She put her arm about the sobbing culprit, and drew him to her side.

"He didn't know it was wrong," she said defiantly to Judith.

"He's got to be taught, then," was Judith's retort. "No, you needn't try to beg him off, Salome. He shall go right to bed without supper, and stay there till to-morrow morning."

"Oh! not without his supper," entreated Salome. "You -- you won't improve the child's morals by injuring his stomach, Judith."

"Without his supper, I say," repeated Judith inexorably. "Lionel Hezekiah, go up-stairs to the south room, and go to bed at once."

Lionel Hezekiah went up-stairs, and went to bed at once. He was never sulky or disobedient. Salome listened to him as he stumped patiently up-stairs with a sob at every step, and her own eyes filled with tears.

"Now don't for pity's sake go crying, Salome," said Judith irritably. "I think I've let him off very easily. He is enough to try the patience of a saint, and I never was that," she added with entire truth.

"But he isn't bad," pleaded Salome. "You know he never does anything the second time after he has been told it was wrong, never."

"What good does that do when he is certain to do something new and twice as bad? I never saw anything like him for originating ideas of mischief. Just look at what he has done in the past fortnight -- in one fortnight, Salome. He brought in a live snake, and nearly frightened you into fits; he drank up a bottle of liniment, and almost poisoned himself; he took three toads to bed with him; he climbed into the henhouse loft, and fell through on a hen and killed her; he painted his face all over with your water-colours; and now comes THIS exploit. And eggs at twenty-eight cents a dozen! I tell you, Salome, Lionel Hezekiah is an expensive luxury."

"But we couldn't do without him," protested Salome.

"I could. But as you can't, or think you can't, we'll have to keep him, I suppose. But the only way to secure any peace of mind for ourselves, as far as I can see, is to tether him in the yard, and hire somebody to watch him."

"There must be some way of managing him," said Salome desperately. She thought Judith was in earnest about the tethering. Judith was generally so terribly in earnest in all she said. "Perhaps it is because he has no other employment that he invents so many unheard-of things. If he had anything to occupy himself with -- perhaps if we sent him to school -- "

"He's too young to go to school. Father always said that no child should go to school until it was seven, and I don't mean Lionel Hezekiah shall. Well, I'm going to take a pail of hot water and a brush, and see what I can do to that henhouse door. I've got my afternoon's work cut out for me."

Judith stood Salome's crutch up beside her, and departed to purify the henhouse door. As soon as she was safely out of the way, Salome took her crutch, and limped slowly and painfully to the foot of the stairs. She could not go up and comfort Lionel Hezekiah as she yearned to do, which was the reason Judith had sent him up-stairs. Salome had not been up-stairs for fifteen years. Neither did she dare to call him out on the landing, lest Judith return. Besides, of course he must be punished; he had been very naughty.

"But I wish I could smuggle a bit of supper up to him," she mused, sitting down on the lowest step and listening. "I don't hear a sound. I suppose he has cried himself to sleep, poor, dear baby. He certainly is dreadfully mischievous; but it seems to me that it shows an investigating turn of mind, and if it could only be directed into the proper channels -- I wish Judith would let me have a talk with Mr. Leonard about Lionel Hezekiah. I wish Judith didn't hate ministers so. I don't mind so much her not letting me go to church, because I'm so lame that it would be painful anyhow; but I'd like to talk with Mr. Leonard now and then about some things. I can never believe that Judith and father were right; I am sure they were not. There is a God, and I'm afraid it's terribly wicked not to go to church. But there, nothing short of a miracle would convince Judith; so there is no use in thinking about it. Yes, Lionel Hezekiah must have gone to sleep."

Salome pictured him so, with his long, curling lashes brushing his rosy, tear-stained cheek and his chubby fists clasped tightly over his breast as was his habit; her heart grew warm and thrilling with the maternity the picture provoked.

A year previously Lionel Hezekiah's parents, Abner and Martha Smith, had died, leaving a houseful of children and very little else. The children were adopted into various Carmody families, and Salome Marsh had amazed Judith by asking to be allowed to take the five-year-old "baby." At first Judith had laughed at the idea; but, when she found that Salome was in earnest, she yielded. Judith always gave Salome her own way except on one point.

"If you want the child, I suppose you must have him," she said finally. "I wish he had a civilized name, though. Hezekiah is bad, and Lionel is worse; but the two in combination, and tacked on to Smith at that, is something that only Martha Smith could have invented. Her judgment was the same clear through, from selecting husbands to names."

So Lionel Hezekiah came into Judith's home and Salome's heart. The latter was permitted to love him all she pleased, but Judith overlooked his training with a critical eye. Possibly it was just as well, for Salome might otherwise have ruined him with indulgence. Salome, who always adopted Judith's opinions, no matter how ill they fitted her, deferred to the former's decrees meekly, and suffered far more than Lionel Hezekiah when he was punished.

She sat on the stairs until she fell asleep herself, her head pillowed on her arm. Judith found her there when she came in, severe and triumphant, from her bout with the henhouse door. Her face softened into marvelous tenderness as she looked at Salome.

"She's nothing but a child herself in spite of her age," she thought pityingly. "A child that's had her whole life thwarted and spoiled through no fault of her own. And yet folks say there is a God who is kind and good! If there is a God, he is a cruel, jealous tyrant, and I hate Him!"

Judith's eyes were bitter and vindictive. She thought she had many grievances against the great Power that rules the universe, but the most intense was Salome's helplessness -- Salome, who fifteen years before had been the brightest, happiest of maidens, light of heart and foot, bubbling over with harmless, sparkling mirth and life. If Salome could only walk like other women, Judith told herself that she would not hate the great tyrannical Power.

Lionel Hezekiah was subdued and angelic for four days after that affair of the henhouse door. Then he broke out in a new place. One afternoon he came in sobbing, with his golden curls full of burrs. Judith was not in, but Salome dropped her crochet-work and gazed at him in dismay.

"Oh, Lionel Hezekiah, what have you gone and done now?"

"I -- I just stuck the burrs in 'cause I was playing I was a heathen chief," sobbed Lionel Hezekiah. "It was great fun while it lasted; but, when I tried to take them out, it hurt awful."

Neither Salome nor Lionel Hezekiah ever forgot the harrowing hour that followed. With the aid of comb and scissors, Salome eventually got the burrs out of Lionel Hezekiah's crop of curls. It would be impossible to decide which of them suffered more in the process. Salome cried as hard as Lionel Hezekiah did, and every snip of the scissors or tug at the silken floss cut into her heart. She was almost exhausted when the performance was over; but she took the tired Lionel Hezekiah on her knee, and laid her wet cheek against his shining head.

"Oh, Lionel Hezekiah, what does make you get into mischief so constantly?" she sighed.

Lionel Hezekiah frowned reflectively.

"I don't know," he finally announced, "unless it's because you don't send me to Sunday school."

Salome started as if an electric shock had passed through her frail body.

"Why, Lionel Hezekiah," she stammered, "what put such and idea into your head?"

"Well, all the other boys go," said Lionel Hezekiah defiantly; "and they're all better'n me; so I guess that must be the reason. Teddy Markham says that all little boys should go to Sunday school, and that if they don't they're sure to go to the bad place. I don't see how you can 'spect me to behave well when you won't send me to Sunday school.

"Would you like to go?" asked Salome, almost in a whisper.

"I'd like it bully," said Lionel Hezekiah frankly and succinctly.

"Oh, don't use such dreadful words," sighed Salome helplessly. "I'll see what can be done. Perhaps you can go. I'll ask your Aunt Judith."

"Oh, Aunt Judith won't let me go," said Lionel Hezekiah despondingly. "Aunt Judith doesn't believe there is any God or any bad place. Teddy Markham says she doesn't. He says she's an awful wicked woman 'cause she never goes to church. So you must be wicked too, Aunt Salome, 'cause you never go. Why don't you?"

"Your -- your Aunt Judith won't let me go," faltered Salome, more perplexed than she had ever been before in her life.

"Well, it doesn't seem to me that you have much fun on Sundays," remarked Lionel Hezekiah ponderingly. "I'd have more if I was you. But I s'pose you can't 'cause you're ladies. I'm glad I'm a man. Look at Abel Blair, what splendid times he has on Sundays. He never goes to church, but he goes fishing, and has cock-fights, and gets drunk. When I grow up, I'm going to do that on Sundays too, since I won't be going to church. I don't want to go to church, but I'd like to go to Sunday school."

Salome listened in agony. Every word of Lionel Hezekiah's stung her conscience unbearably. So this was the result of her weak yielding to Judith; this innocent child looked upon her as a wicked woman, and, worse still, regarded old, depraved Abel Blair as a model to be imitated. Oh! was it too late to undo the evil? When Judith returned, Salome blurted out the whole story. "Lionel Hezekiah must go to Sunday school," she concluded appealingly.

Judith's face hardened until it was as if cut in stone.

"No, he shall not," she said stubbornly. "No one living in my household shall ever go to church or Sunday school. I gave in to you when you wanted to teach him to say his prayers, though I knew it was only foolish superstition, but I sha'n't yield another inch. You know exactly how I feel on this subject, Salome; I believe just as father did. You know he hated churches and churchgoing. And was there ever a better, kinder, more lovable man?"

"Mother believed in God; mother always went to church," pleaded Salome.

"Mother was weak and superstitious, just as you are," retorted Judith inflexibly. "I tell you, Salome, I don't believe there is a God. But, if there is, He is cruel and unjust, and I hate Him."

"Judith!" gasped Salome, aghast at the impiety. She half expected to see her sister struck dead at her feet.

"Don't 'Judith' me!" said Judith passionately, in the strange anger that any discussion of the subject always roused in her. "I mean every word I say. Before you got lame I didn't feel much about it one way or another; I'd just as soon have gone with mother as with father. But, when you were struck down like that, I knew father was right."

For a moment Salome quailed. She felt that she could not, dare not, stand out against Judith. For her own sake she could not have done so, but the thought of Lionel Hezekiah nerved her to desperation. She struck her thin, bleached little hands wildly together.

"Judith, I'm going to church to-morrow," she cried. "I tell you I am, I won't set Lionel Hezekiah a bad example one day longer. I'll not take him; I won't go against you in that, for it is your bounty feeds and clothes him; but I'm going myself."

"If you do, Salome Marsh, I'll never forgive you," said Judith, her harsh face dark with anger; and then, not trusting herself to discuss the subject any longer, she went out.

Salome dissolved into her ready tears, and cried most of the night. But her resolution did not fail. Go to church she would, for that dear baby's sake.

Judith would not speak to her at breakfast, and this almost broke Salome's heart; but she dared not yield. After breakfast, she limped painfully into her room, and still more painfully dressed herself. When she was ready, she took a little old worn Bible out of her box. It had been her mother's, and Salome read a chapter in it every night, although she never dared to let Judith see her doing it.

When she limped out into the kitchen, Judith looked up with a hard face. A flame of sullen anger glowed in her dark eyes, and she went into the sitting-room and shut the door, as if by that act she were shutting her sister for evermore out of her heart and life. Salome, strung up to the last pitch of nervous tension, felt intuitively the significance of that closed door. For a moment she wavered -- oh, she could not go against Judith! She was all but turning back to her room when Lionel Hezekiah came running in, and paused to look at her admiringly.

"You look just bully, Aunt Salome," he said. "Where are you going?"

"Don't use that word, Lionel Hezekiah," pleaded Salome. "I'm going to church."

"Take me with you," said Lionel Hezekiah promptly. Salome shook her head.

"I can't, dear. Your Aunt Judith wouldn't like it. Perhaps she will let you go after a while. Now do be a good boy while I am away, won't you? Don't do any naughty things." "I won't do them if I know they're naughty," conceded Lionel Hezekiah. "But that's just the trouble; I don't know what's naughty and what ain't. Prob'ly if I went to Sunday school I'd find out."

Salome limped out of the yard and down the lane bordered by its asters and goldenrod. Fortunately the church was just outside the lane, across the main road; but Salome found it hard to cover even that short distance. She felt almost exhausted when she reached the church and toiled painfully up the aisle to her mother's old pew. She laid her crutch on the seat, and sank into the corner by the window with a sigh of relief.

She had elected to come early so that she might get there before the rest of the people. The church was as yet empty, save for a class of Sunday school children and their teacher in a remote corner, who paused midway in their lesson to stare with amazement at the astonishing sight of Salome Marsh limping into church.

The big building, shadowy from the great elms around it, was very still. A faint murmur came from the closed room behind the pulpit where the rest of the Sunday school was assembled. In front of the pulpit was a stand bearing tall white geraniums in luxuriant blossom. The light fell through the stained-glass window in a soft tangle of hues upon the floor. Salome felt a sense of peace and happiness fill her heart. Even Judith's anger lost its importance. She leaned her head against the window-sill, and gave herself up to the flood of tender old recollections that swept over her.

Memory went back to the years of her childhood when she had sat in this pew every Sunday with her mother. Judith had come then, too, always seeming grown up to Salome by reason of her ten years' seniority. Her tall, dark, reserved father never came. Salome knew that the Carmody people called him an infidel, and looked upon him as a very wicked man. But he had not been wicked; he had been good and kind in his own odd way.

The gentle little mother had died when Salome was ten years old, but so loving and tender was Judith's care that the child did not miss anything out of her life. Judith Marsh loved her little sister with an intensity that was maternal. She herself was a plain, repellent girl, liked by few, sought after by no man; but she was determined that Salome should have everything that she had missed -- admiration, friendship, love. She would have a vicarious youth in Salome's.

All went according to Judith's planning until Salome was eighteen, and then trouble after trouble came. Their father, whom Judith had understood and passionately loved, died; Salome's young lover was killed in a railroad accident; and finally Salome herself developed symptoms of the hip-disease which, springing from a trifling injury, eventually left her a cripple. Everything possible was done for her. Judith, falling heir to a snug little fortune by the death of the old aunt for whom she was named, spared nothing to obtain the best medical skill, and in vain. One and all, the great doctors failed.

Judith had borne her father's death bravely enough in spite of her agony of grief; she had watched her sister pining and fading with the pain of her broken heart without growing bitter; but when she knew at last that Salome would never walk again save as she hobbled painfully about on her crutch, the smouldering revolt in her soul broke its bounds, and overflowed her nature in a passionate rebellion against the Being who had sent, or had failed to prevent, these calamities. She did not rave or denounce wildly; that was not Judith's way; but she never went to church again, and it soon became an accepted fact in Carmody that Judith Marsh was as rank an infidel as her father had been before her; nay, worse, since she would not even allow Salome to go to church, and shut the door in the minister's face when he went to see her.

"I should have stood out against her for conscience' sake," reflected Salome in her pew self-reproachfully. "But, O dear, I'm afraid she'll never forgive me, and how can I live if she doesn't? But I must endure it for Lionel Hezekiah's sake; my weakness has perhaps done him great harm already. They say that what a child learns in the first seven years never leaves him; so Lionel Hezekiah has only another year to get set right about these things. Oh, if I've left it till too late!"

When the people began to come in, Salome felt painfully the curious glances directed at her. Look where she would, she met them, unless she looked out of the window; so out of the window she did look unswervingly, her delicate little face burning crimson with self-consciousness. She could see her home and its back yard plainly, with Lionel Hezekiah making mud-pies joyfully in the corner. Presently she saw Judith come out of the house and stride away to the pine wood behind it. Judith always betook herself to the pines in time of mental stress and strain.

Salome could see the sunlight shining on Lionel Hezekiah's bare head as he mixed his pies. In the pleasure of watching him she forgot where she was and the curious eyes turned on her.

Suddenly Lionel Hezekiah ceased concocting pies, and betook himself to the corner of the summer kitchen, where he proceeded to climb up to the top of the storm-fence and from there to mount the sloping kitchen roof. Salome clasped her hands in agony. What if the child should fall? Oh! why had Judith gone away and left him alone? What if -- what if -- and then, while her brain with lightning-like rapidity pictured forth a dozen possible catastrophes, something really did happen. Lionel Hezekiah slipped, sprawled wildly, slid down, and fell off the roof, in a bewildering whirl of arms and legs, plump into the big rain-water hogshead under the spout, which was generally full to the brim with rain-water, a hogshead big and deep enough to swallow up half a dozen small boys who went climbing kitchen roofs on a Sunday.

Then something took place that is talked of in Carmody to this day, and even fiercely wrangled over, so many and conflicting are the opinions on the subject. Salome Marsh, who had not walked a step without assistance for fifteen years, suddenly sprang to her feet with a shriek, ran down the aisle, and out of the door!

Every man, woman, and child in the Carmody church followed her, even to the minister, who had just announced his text. When they got out, Salome was already half-way up her lane, running wildly. In her heart was room for but one agonized thought. Would Lionel Hezekiah be drowned before she reached him?

She opened the gate of the yard, and panted across it just as a tall, grim-faced woman came around the corner of the house and stood rooted to the ground in astonishment at the sight that met her eyes.

But Salome saw nobody. She flung herself against the hogshead and looked in, sick with terror at what she might see. What she did see was Lionel Hezekiah sitting on the bottom of the hogshead in water that came only to his waist. He was looking rather dazed and bewildered, but was apparently quite uninjured.

The yard was full of people, but nobody had as yet said a word; awe and wonder held everybody in spellbound silence. Judith was the first to speak. She pushed through the crowd to Salome. Her face was blanched to a deadly whiteness; and her eyes, as Mrs. William Blair afterwards declared, were enough to give a body the creeps.

"Salome," she said in a high, shrill, unnatural voice, "where is your crutch?"

Salome came to herself at the question. For the first time, she realized that she had walked, nay, run, all that distance from the church alone and unaided. She turned pale, swayed, and would have fallen if Judith had not caught her.

Old Dr. Blair came forward briskly.

"Carry her in," he said, "and don't all of you come crowding in, either. She wants quiet and rest for a spell."

Most of the people obediently returned to the church, their sudden loosened tongues clattering in voluble excitement. A few women assisted Judith to carry Salome in and lay her on the kitchen lounge, followed by the doctor and the dripping Lionel Hezekiah, whom the minister had lifted out of the hogshead and to whom nobody now paid the slightest attention.

Salome faltered out her story, and her hearers listened with varying emotions.

"It's a miracle," said Sam Lawson in an awed voice.

Dr. Blair shrugged his shoulders. "There is no miracle about it," he said bluntly. "It's all perfectly natural. The disease in the hip has evidently been quite well for a long time; Nature does sometimes work cures like that when she is let alone. The trouble was that the muscles were paralyzed by long disuse. That paralysis was overcome by the force of a strong and instinctive effort. Salome, get up and walk across the kitchen."

Salome obeyed. She walked across the kitchen and back, slowly, stiffly, falteringly, now that the stimulus of frantic fear was spent; but still she walked. The doctor nodded his satisfaction.

"Keep that up every day. Walk as much as you can without tiring yourself, and you'll soon be as spry as ever. No more need of crutches for you, but there's no miracle in the case."

Judith Marsh turned to him. She had not spoken a word since her question concerning Salome's crutch. Now she said passionately:

"It WAS a miracle. God has worked it to prove His existence for me, and I accept the proof."

The old doctor shrugged his shoulders again. Being a wise man, he knew when to hold his tongue.

"Well, put Salome to bed, and let her sleep the rest of the day. She's worn out. And for pity's sake let some one take that poor child and put some dry clothes on him before he catches his death of cold."

That evening, as Salome Marsh lay in her bed in a glory of sunset light, her heart filled with unutterable gratitude and happiness, Judith came into the room. She wore her best hat and dress, and she held Lionel Hezekiah by the hand. Lionel Hezekiah's beaming face was scrubbed clean, and his curls fell in beautiful sleekness over the lace collar of his velvet suit.

"How do you feel now, Salome?" asked Judith gently.

"Better. I've had a lovely sleep. But where are you going, Judith?"

"I am going to church," said Judith firmly, "and I am going to take Lionel Hezekiah with me."



XII. The End of a Quarrel


Nancy Rogerson sat down on Louisa Shaw's front doorstep and looked about her, drawing a long breath of delight that seemed tinged with pain. Everything was very much the same; the square garden was a charming hodge-podge of fruit and flowers, and goose-berry bushes and tiger lilies, a gnarled old apple tree sticking up here and there, and a thick cherry copse at the foot. Behind was a row of pointed firs, coming out darkly against the swimming pink sunset sky, not looking a day older than they had looked twenty years ago, when Nancy had been a young girl walking and dreaming in their shadows. The old willow to the left was as big and sweeping and, Nancy thought with a little shudder, probably as caterpillary, as ever. Nancy had learned many things in her twenty years of exile from Avonlea, but she had never learned to conquer her dread of caterpillars.

"Nothing is much changed, Louisa," she said, propping her chin on her plump white hands, and sniffing at the delectable odour of the bruised mint upon which Louisa was trampling. "I'm glad; I was afraid to come back for fear you would have improved the old garden out of existence, or else into some prim, orderly lawn, which would have been worse. It's as magnificently untidy as ever, and the fence still wobbles. It CAN'T be the same fence, but it looks exactly like it. No, nothing is much changed. Thank you, Louisa."

Louisa had not the faintest idea what Nancy was thanking her for, but then she had never been able to fathom Nancy, much as she had always liked her in the old girlhood days that now seemed much further away to Louisa than they did to Nancy. Louisa was separated from them by the fulness of wifehood and motherhood, while Nancy looked back only over the narrow gap that empty years make.

"You haven't changed much yourself, Nancy," she said, looking admiringly at Nancy's trim figure, in the nurse's uniform she had donned to show Louisa what it was like, her firm, pink-and-white face and the the glossy waves of her golden brown hair. "You've held your own wonderfully well."

"Haven't I?" said Nancy complacently. "Modern methods of massage and cold cream have kept away the crowsfeet, and fortunately I had the Rogerson complexion to start with. You wouldn't think I was really thirty-eight, would you? Thirty-eight! Twenty years ago I thought anybody who was thirty-eight was a perfect female Methuselah. And now I feel so horribly, ridiculously young, Louisa. Every morning when I get up I have to say solemnly to myself three times, 'You're an old maid, Nancy Rogerson,' to tone myself down to anything like a becoming attitude for the day."

"I guess you don't mind being an old maid much," said Louisa, shrugging her shoulders. She would not have been an old maid herself for anything; yet she inconsistently envied Nancy her freedom, her wide life in the world, her unlined brow, and care-free lightness of spirit.

"Oh, but I do mind," said Nancy frankly. "I hate being an old maid."

"Why don't you get married, then?" asked Louisa, paying an unconscious tribute to Nancy's perennial chance by her use of the present tense.

Nancy shook her head.

"No, that wouldn't suit me either. I don't want to be married. Do you remember that story Anne Shirley used to tell long ago of the pupil who wanted to be a widow because 'if you were married your husband bossed you and if you weren't married people called you an old maid?' Well, that is precisely my opinion. I'd like to be a widow. Then I'd have the freedom of the unmarried, with the kudos of the married. I could eat my cake and have it, too. Oh, to be a widow!"

"Nancy!" said Louisa in a shocked tone.

Nancy laughed, a mellow gurgle that rippled through the garden like a brook.

"Oh, Louisa, I can shock you yet. That was just how you used to say 'Nancy' long ago, as if I'd broken all the commandments at once."

"You do say such queer things," protested Louisa, "and half the time I don't know what you mean."

"Bless you, dear coz, half the time I don't myself. Perhaps the joy of coming back to the old spot has slightly turned my brain, I've found my lost girlhood here. I'm NOT thirty-eight in this garden -- it is a flat impossibility. I'm sweet eighteen, with a waist line two inches smaller. Look, the sun is just setting. I see he has still his old trick of throwing his last beams over the Wright farmhouse. By the way, Louisa, is Peter Wright still living there?"

"Yes." Louisa threw a sudden interested glance at the apparently placid Nancy.

"Married, I suppose, with half a dozen children?" said Nancy indifferently, pulling up some more sprigs of mint and pinning them on her breast. Perhaps the exertion of leaning over to do it flushed her face. There was more than the Rogerson colour in it, anyhow, and Louisa, slow though her mental processes might be in some respects, thought she understood the meaning of a blush as well as the next one. All the instinct of the matchmaker flamed up in her.

"Indeed he isn't," she said promptly. "Peter Wright has never married. He has been faithful to your memory, Nancy."

"Ugh! You make me feel as if I were buried up there in the Avonlea cemetery and had a monument over me with a weeping willow carved on it," shivered Nancy. "When it is said that a man has been faithful to a woman's memory it generally means that he couldn't get anyone else to take him."

"That isn't the case with Peter," protested Louisa. "He is a good match, and many a woman would have been glad to take him, and would yet. He's only forty-three. But he's never taken the slightest interest in anyone since you threw him over, Nancy."

"But I didn't. He threw me over," said Nancy, plaintively, looking afar over the low-lying fields and a feathery young spruce valley to the white buildings of the Wright farm, glowing rosily in the sunset light when all the rest of Avonlea was scarfing itself in shadows. There was laughter in her eyes. Louisa could not pierce beneath that laughter to find if there were anything under it.

"Fudge!" said Louisa. "What on earth did you and Peter quarrel about?" she added, curiously.

"I've often wondered," parried Nancy.

"And you've never seen him since?" reflected Louisa.

"No. Has he changed much?"

"Well, some. He is gray and kind of tired-looking. But it isn't to be wondered at -- living the life he does. He hasn't had a housekeeper for two years -- not since his old aunt died. He just lives there alone and cooks his own meals. I've never been in the house, but folks say the disorder is something awful."

"Yes, I shouldn't think Peter was cut out for a tidy housekeeper," said Nancy lightly, dragging up more mint. "Just think, Louisa, if it hadn't been for that old quarrel I might be Mrs. Peter Wright at this very moment, mother to the aforesaid supposed half dozen, and vexing my soul over Peter's meals and socks and cows."

"I guess you are better off as you are," said Louisa.

"Oh, I don't know." Nancy looked up at the white house on the hill again. "I have an awfully good time out of life, but it doesn't seem to satisfy, somehow. To be candid -- and oh, Louisa, candour is a rare thing among women when it comes to talking of the men -- I believe I'd rather be cooking Peter's meals and dusting his house. I wouldn't mind his bad grammar now. I've learned one or two valuable little things out yonder, and one is that it doesn't matter if a man's grammar is askew, so long as he doesn't swear at you. By the way, is Peter as ungrammatical as ever?"

"I -- I don't know," said Louisa helplessly. "I never knew he WAS ungrammatical."

"Does he still say, 'I seen,' and 'them things'?" demanded Nancy.

"I never noticed," confessed Louisa.

"Enviable Louisa! Would that I had been born with that blessed faculty of never noticing! It stands a woman in better stead than beauty or brains. I used to notice Peter's mistakes. When he said 'I seen,' it jarred on me in my salad days. I tried, oh, so tactfully, to reform him in that respect. Peter didn't like being reformed -- the Wrights always had a fairly good opinion of themselves, you know. It was really over a question of syntax we quarrelled. Peter told me I'd have to take him as he was, grammar and all, or go without him. I went without him -- and ever since I've been wondering if I were really sorry, or if it were merely a pleasantly sentimental regret I was hugging to my heart. I daresay it's the latter. Now, Louisa, I see the beginning of the plot far down in those placid eyes of yours. Strangle it at birth, dear Louisa. There is no use in your trying to make up a match between Peter and me now -- no, nor in slyly inviting him up here to tea some evening, as you are even this moment thinking of doing."

"Well, I must go and milk the cows," gasped Louisa, rather glad to make her escape. Nancy's power of thought-reading struck her as uncanny. She felt afraid to remain with her cousin any longer, lest Nancy should drag to light all the secrets of her being.

Nancy sat long on the steps after Louisa had gone -- sat until the night came down, darkly and sweetly, over the garden, and the stars twinkled out above the firs. This had been her home in girlhood. Here she had lived and kept house for her father. When he died, Curtis Shaw, newly married to her cousin Louisa, bought the farm from her and moved in. Nancy stayed on with them, expecting soon to go to a home of her own. She and Peter Wright were engaged.

Then came their mysterious quarrel, concerning the cause of which kith and kin on both sides were left in annoying ignorance. Of the results they were not ignorant. Nancy promptly packed up and left Avonlea seven hundred miles behind her. She went to a hospital in Montreal and studied nursing. In the twenty years that followed she had never even revisited Avonlea. Her sudden descent on it this summer was a whim born of a moment's homesick longing for this same old garden. She had not thought about Peter. In very truth, she had thought little about Peter for the last fifteen years. She supposed that she had forgotten him. But now, sitting on the old doorstep, where she had often sat in her courting days, with Peter lounging on a broad stone at her feet, something tugged at her heartstrings. She looked over the valley to the light in the kitchen of the Wright farmhouse, and pictured Peter sitting there, lonely and uncared for, with naught but the cold comfort of his own providing.

"Well, he should have got married," she said snappishly. "I am not going to worry because he is a lonely old bachelor when all these years I have supposed him a comfy Benedict. Why doesn't he hire him a housekeeper, at least? He can afford it; the place looks prosperous. Ugh! I've a fat bank account, and I've seen almost everything in the world worth seeing; but I've got several carefully hidden gray hairs and a horrible conviction that grammar isn't one of the essential things in life after all. Well, I'm not going to moon out here in the dew any longer. I'm going in to read the smartest, frilliest, frothiest society novel in my trunk."

In the week that followed Nancy enjoyed herself after her own fashion. She read and swung in the garden, having a hammock hung under the firs. She went far afield, in rambles to woods and lonely uplands.

"I like it much better than meeting people," she said, when Louisa suggested going to see this one and that one, "especially the Avonlea people. All my old chums are gone, or hopelessly married and changed, and the young set who have come up know not Joseph, and make me feel uncomfortably middle-aged. It's far worse to feel middle-aged than old, you know. Away there in the woods I feel as eternally young as Nature herself. And oh, it's so nice not having to fuss with thermometers and temperatures and other people's whims. Let me indulge my own whims, Louisa dear, and punish me with a cold bite when I come in late for meals. I'm not even going to church again. It was horrible there yesterday. The church is so offensively spick-and-span brand new and modern."

"It's thought to be the prettiest church in these parts," protested Louisa, a little sorely.

"Churches shouldn't be pretty -- they should at least be fifty years old and mellowed into beauty. New churches are an abomination."

"Did you see Peter Wright in church?" asked Louisa. She had been bursting to ask it.

Nancy nodded.

"Verily, yes. He sat right across from me in the corner pew. I didn't think him painfully changed. Iron-gray hair becomes him. But I was horribly disappointed in myself. I had expected to feel at least a romantic thrill, but all I felt was a comfortable interest, such as I might have taken in any old friend. Do my utmost, Louisa, I couldn't compass a thrill."

"Did he come to speak to you?" asked Louisa, who hadn't any idea what Nancy meant by her thrills.

"Alas, no. It wasn't my fault. I stood at the door outside with the most amiable expression I could assume, but Peter merely sauntered away without a glance in my direction. It would be some comfort to my vanity if I could believe it was on account of rankling spite or pride. But the honest truth, dear Weezy, is that it looked to me exactly as if he never thought of it. He was more interested in talking about the hay crop with Oliver Sloane -- who, by the way, is more Oliver Sloaneish than ever."

"If you feel as you said you did the other night, why didn't you go and speak to him?" Louisa wanted to know.

"But I don't feel that way now. That was just a mood. You don't know anything about moods, dearie. You don't know what it is to yearn desperately one hour for something you wouldn't take if it were offered you the next."

"But that is foolishness," protested Louisa.

"To be sure it is -- rank foolishness. But oh, it is so delightful to be foolish after being compelled to be unbrokenly sensible for twenty years. Well, I'm going picking strawberries this afternoon, Lou. Don't wait tea for me. I probably won't be back till dark. I've only four more days to stay and I want to make the most of them."

Nancy wandered far and wide in her rambles that afternoon. When she had filled her jug she still roamed about with delicious aimlessness. Once she found herself in a wood lane skirting a field wherein a man was mowing hay. The man was Peter Wright. Nancy walked faster when she discovered this, with never a roving glance, and presently the green, ferny depths of the maple woods swallowed her up.

From old recollections, she knew that she was on Peter Morrison's land, and calculated that if she kept straight on she would come out where the old Morrison house used to be. Her calculations proved correct, with a trifling variation. She came out fifty yards south of the old deserted Morrison house, and found herself in the yard of the Wright farm!

Passing the house -- the house where she had once dreamed of reigning as mistress -- Nancy's curiosity overcame her. The place was not in view of any other near house. She deliberately went up to it intending -- low be it spoken -- to peep in at the kitchen window. But, seeing the door wide open, she went to it instead and halted on the step, looking about her keenly.

The kitchen was certainly pitiful in its disorder. The floor had apparently not been swept for a fortnight. On the bare deal table were the remnants of Peter's dinner, a meal that could not have been very tempting at its best.

"What a miserable place for a human being to live in!" groaned Nancy. "Look at the ashes on that stove! And that table! Is it any wonder that Peter has got gray? He'll work hard haymaking all the afternoon -- and then come home to THIS!"

An idea suddenly darted into Nancy's brain. At first she looked aghast. Then she laughed and glanced at her watch.

"I'll do it -- just for fun and a little pity. It's half-past two, and Peter won't be home till four at the earliest. I'll have a good hour to do it in, and still make my escape in good time. Nobody will ever know; nobody can see me here."

Nancy went in, threw off her hat, and seized a broom. The first thing she did was to give the kitchen a thorough sweeping. Then she kindled a fire, put a kettle full of water on to heat, and attacked the dishes. From the number of them she rightly concluded that Peter hadn't washed any for at least a week.

"I suppose he just uses the clean ones as long as they hold out, and then has a grand wash-up," she laughed. "I wonder where he keeps his dish-towels, if he has any."

Evidently Peter hadn't any. At least, Nancy couldn't find any. She marched boldly into the dusty sitting-room and explored the drawers of an old-fashioned sideboard, confiscating a towel she found there. As she worked, she hummed a song; her steps were light and her eyes bright with excitement. Nancy was enjoying herself thoroughly, there was no doubt of that. The spice of mischief in the adventure pleased her mightily.

The dishes washed, she hunted up a clean, but yellow and evidently long unused tablecloth out of the sideboard, and proceeded to set the table and get Peter's tea. She found bread and butter in the pantry, a trip to the cellar furnished a pitcher of cream, and Nancy recklessly heaped the contents of her strawberry jug on Peter's plate. The tea was made and set back to keep warm. And, as a finishing touch, Nancy ravaged the old neglected garden and set a huge bowl of crimson roses in the centre of the table.

"Now I must go," she said aloud. "Wouldn't it be fun to see Peter's face when he comes in, though? Ha-hum! I've enjoyed doing this -- but why? Nancy Rogerson, don't be asking yourself conundrums. Put on your hat and proceed homeward, constructing on your way some reliable fib to account to Louisa for the absence of your strawberries."

Nancy paused a moment and looked around wistfully. She had made the place look cheery and neat and homelike. She felt that queer tugging at her heart-strings again. Suppose she belonged here, and was waiting for Peter to come home to tea. Suppose -- Nancy whirled around with a sudden horrible prescience of what she was going to see! Peter Wright was standing in the doorway.

Nancy's face went crimson. For the first time in her life she had not a word to say for herself. Peter looked at her and then at the table, with its fruit and flowers.

"Thank you," he said politely.

Nancy recovered herself. With a shame-faced laugh, she held out her hand.

"Don't have me arrested for trespass, Peter. I came and looked in at your kitchen out of impertinent curiosity, and just for fun I thought I'd come in and get your tea. I thought you'd be so surprised -- and I meant to go before you came home, of course."

"I wouldn't have been surprised," said Peter, shaking hands. "I saw you go past the field and I tied the horses and followed you down through the woods. I've been sitting on the fence back yonder, watching your comings and goings." "Why didn't you come and speak to me at church yesterday, Peter?" demanded Nancy boldly.

"I was afraid I would say something ungrammatical," answered Peter drily.

The crimson flamed over Nancy's face again. She pulled her hand away.

"That's cruel of you, Peter."

Peter suddenly laughed. There was a note of boyishness in the laughter.

"So it is," he said, "but I had to get rid of the accumulated malice and spite of twenty years somehow. It's all gone now, and I'll be as amiable as I know how. But since you have gone to the trouble of getting my supper for me, Nancy, you must stay and help me eat it. Them strawberries look good. I haven't had any this summer -- been too busy to pick them."

Nancy stayed. She sat at the head of Peter's table and poured his tea for him. She talked to him wittily of the Avonlea people and the changes in their old set. Peter followed her lead with an apparent absence of self-consciousness, eating his supper like a man whose heart and mind were alike on good terms with him. Nancy felt wretched -- and, at the same time, ridiculously happy. It seemed the most grotesque thing in the world that she should be presiding there at Peter's table, and yet the most natural. There were moments when she felt like crying -- other moments when her laughter was as ready and spontaneous as a girl's. Sentiment and humour had always waged an equal contest in Nancy's nature.

When Peter had finished his strawberries he folded his arms on the table and looked admiringly at Nancy.

"You look well at the head of a table, Nancy," he said critically. "How is it that you haven't been presiding at one of your own long before this? I thought you'd meet a lots of men out in the world that you'd like -- men who talked good grammar."

"Peter, don't!" said Nancy, wincing. "I was a goose."

"No, you were quite right. I was a tetchy fool. If I'd had any sense, I'd have felt thankful you thought enough of me to want to improve me, and I'd have tried to kerrect my mistakes instead of getting mad. It's too late now, I suppose."

"Too late for what?" said Nancy, plucking up heart of grace at something in Peter's tone and look.

"For -- kerrecting mistakes."

"Grammatical ones?"

"Not exactly. I guess them mistakes are past kerrecting in an old fellow like me. Worse mistakes, Nancy. I wonder what you would say if I asked you to forgive me, and have me after all."

"I'd snap you up before you'd have time to change your mind," said Nancy brazenly. She tried to look Peter in the face, but her blue eyes, where tears and mirth were blending, faltered down before his gray ones.

Peter stood up, knocking over his chair, and strode around the table to her.

"Nancy, my girl!" he said.

<eob>

Young Captain Jack

Or

The Son Of A Soldier

By

Horatio Alger, Jr.



Chapter I.

The Encounter On The Bridge.


"Get out of the way, boy, or I'll ride over you!"

"Wait a second, please, until I haul in this fish. He's such a beauty I don't wish to lose him."

"Do you suppose I'm going to bother with your fish? Get out of the way, I say!" And the man, who sat astride of a coal-black horse, shook his hand threateningly. He was dressed in the uniform of a surgeon in the Confederate Army, and his face was dark and crafty.

The boy, who was but fourteen and rather slenderly built, looked up in surprise. He was seated on the side of a narrow bridge spanning a mountain stream flowing into the ocean, and near him rested a basket half-filled with fish. He had been on the point of hauling in another fish -- of extra size -- but now his prize gave a sudden flip and disappeared from view.

"Gone! and you made me miss him!" he cried, much vexed.

"Shut up about your fish and get out of the way!" stormed the man on the horse. "Am I to be held up here all day by a mere boy?"

"Excuse me, but I have as much right on this bridge as you," answered the boy, looking the man straight in the eyes.

"Have you indeed?"

"I have."

"Perhaps you think yourself of just as much importance as a surgeon in the army, on an important mission."

"I didn't say that. I said I had just as much right on this bridge as you. It's a public bridge."

"Bah! get out of the way and let me pass. I've wasted time enough on you." The man tugged nervously at his heavy mustache. "Which is the way to Tanner's Mill?"

To this the youth made no reply. Gathering up his fishing rod and his basket, he stepped to the river bank and prepared to make another cast into the water.

"I say, tell me the way to Tanner's Mill," repeated the man.

"I reckon you had better go elsewhere for your information," returned the boy quietly, but with a faint smile playing over his handsome, sunburned face.

"What, you young rascal, you won't tell me?" stormed the man.

"No, I won't. And I beg to let you know I am no rascal."

"You are a rascal," was the snappy reply. "Answer my question, or it will be the worse for you," and now the man leaped to the ground and advanced with clenched fists. Possibly he thought the youth would retreat; if so, he was mistaken.

"Don't you dare to touch me, sir. I am not your slave."

"You'll answer my question."

"I will not."

"Why not?"

"Because you haven't treated me decently; that's why."

"You hold a mighty big opinion of yourself."

"If I do, that's my own business."

"Perhaps you are a Northern mudsill."

"No, I am just as loyal to the South as you or anybody."

"I wouldn't care to take your word on that point, youngster. I am on an important mission, and if you sympathize with our South in this great war you'll direct me to the short way to Tanner's Mill."

"Do they expect a fight at Tanner's Mill?"

"Don't bother me with questions. Show me the road, and I'll be off."

"Keep to the right and you'll be right," answered the youth, after a pause, and then he resumed his fishing.

The man scowled darkly as he leaped again into the saddle. "How I would love to warm you -- if I had time," he muttered, then put spurs to his steed and galloped off.

"So he is going to Tanner's Mill," mused the boy, when left alone. "If they have a fight there it will be getting pretty close to home. I don't believe mother will like that."

As will be surmised from the scene just described, Jack Ruthven was a manly, self-reliant boy, not easily intimidated by those who would browbeat him.

He lived in a large mansion, set back some distance from the river, upon what was considered at that time one of the richest plantations in South Carolina.

Mrs. Ruthven was a widow, having lost her husband, Colonel Martin Ruthven, at the bloody battle of Gettysburg. She had one daughter, Marion, a beautiful young lady of seventeen. Marion and Jack thought the world of each other and were all but inseparable.

The sudden taking-off of the colonel had proved a great shock both to the children and to Mrs. Ruthven, and for a long time the lady of the house had lain on a bed of sickness, in consequence.

She was now around, but still weak and pale. Her one consolation was the children, and she clung to them closer than ever.

On several occasions Jack had spoken of enlisting as a drummer boy, but Mrs. Ruthven would not listen to it.

"No, no, Jack! I cannot spare you!" had been her words. "One gone out of the family is enough."

And Marion, too, had clung to him, so that going away became almost an impossibility, although he longed for the glories of a soldier's life, with never a thought of all the hardships and sufferings such a life entails.

The meeting with the Confederate surgeon had filled Jack's head once more with visions of army life, and as he continued to fish he forgot all about the unpleasant encounter, although he remembered that repulsive face well. He was destined to meet the surgeon again, and under most disagreeable circumstances.

"I wish mother would let me join the army," he thought, after hauling in another fish. "I am sure our regiments need all the men they can get. Somehow, we seem to be getting the worst of the fighting lately. I wonder what would happen if the South should be beaten in this struggle?"

Ten minutes passed, when a merry whistle was heard on the road and another boy appeared, of about Jack's age.

"Hullo, Darcy!" cried Jack. "Come to help me fish?"

"I didn't know you were fishing," answered Darcy Gilbert, a youth who lived on the plantation next to Jack. "Are you having good luck?"

"First-rate. I was getting ready to go home, but now you have come I'll stay a while longer."

"Do, Jack; I hate to fish alone. But I say, Jack --  -- " And then Darcy broke off short.

"What were you going to say?"

"Oh, nothing!"

There was a minute of silence, during which Darcy baited his hook and threw it in.

"You look as if you had something on your mind. Darcy," went on Jack, after his friend had brought in a fine haul apparently without appreciating the sport. "Did you meet a Confederate surgeon on the road?"

"No, I came across the plantation. What of him?"

"He came this way, and we got into a regular row because I wouldn't clear right out and give him the whole of the bridge."

"He didn't hit you, did he?"

"Not much! If he had I would have pitched into him, I can tell you, big as he was!" And Jack's eyes flashed in a way that proved he meant what he said.

"No, I didn't meet him, but I met St. John Ruthven, your cousin. Jack, do you know that that young man is a regular bully, even if he is a dandy?"

"Yes, I know it, Darcy."

"And he is down on you."

"I know that too. But why he dislikes me I don't know, excepting that I don't like to see him paying his addresses to my sister Marion. Marion is too good for such a man."

"Is he paying his addresses to her?"

"Well, he is with her every chance he can get."

"Does Marion like him?"

"Oh! I reckon she does in a way. He is always so nice to her -- much nicer than he has ever been to me."

"Has he ever spoken to you about yourself?" went on Darcy Gilbert, with a peculiar look at Jack.

"Oh, yes! often."

"I mean about -- well, about your past?" went on Darcy, with some confusion.

"My past, Darcy? What is wrong about my past?"

"Nothing, I hope. But I didn't like what St. John Ruthven said about you."

"But what did he say?"

"I don't know as I ought to tell you. I didn't believe him."

"But I want to know what he did say?" demanded Jack, throwing down his fishing pole and coming up close to his friend.

"Well, if you must know, Jack, he said you were a nobody, that you didn't belong to the Ruthven family at all, and that you would have to go away some day," was the answer, which filled Jack with consternation.



Chapter II.

Darcy Gilbert's Story.


"He said I didn't belong to the Ruthven family?" said Jack slowly, when he felt able to speak.

"He did, and I told him I didn't believe him."

"But -- but -- I don't understand you, Darcy. Am I not Jack Ruthven, the son of the late Colonel Martin Ruthven?"

"He says not."

"What! Does he mean to say that my mother isn't my mother at all?" ejaculated Jack, with wide-open eyes.

"That's it exactly, and he added that Marion wasn't your sister."

"I'll -- I'll punch his head for that!" was the quick return.

"I felt like doing that, too, Jack, even though he is so much older than either of us. I told him he was a mean fellow and that I wouldn't believe him under oath."

"But how did it all come about?"

"Oh, it started at the boathouse back of Old Ben's place. He wanted to bully me, and I told him I wouldn't let him lord it over me any more than you let him bully you. That got him started, for it seems he was sore over the fact that you took Marion out for a boatride one afternoon when he wanted her to go along with him on horseback. One word brought on another, and at last he said he reckoned you would have to clear out some day -- that you were only a low upstart anyway, with no real claim on the Ruthvens."

"He said that, did he?" Jack drew a long breath and set his teeth hard. "Did he try to prove his words?"

"I didn't give him a chance. I was so upset I merely told him I didn't believe him, and came away."

"And where did he go?"

"He started off toward town."

"When he comes back I'm going to find out the truth of this matter."

"I don't believe his story, Jack, and I wouldn't worry myself about it."

"But supposing it were true, Darcy -- that I was a -- a -- nobody, as he says?"

"I should think just as much of you," answered the other lad quickly.

"Thank you for that."

"St. John always talks too much -- don't mind him."

"But I shall. If he tells the truth I want to know it -- and, if not, I shall take steps to make him take back the stories he is circulating."

"It's a wonder he hasn't gone to the war. Why doesn't he enlist, like the rest of the young men in this neighborhood?"

"He says he must stay with his mother. But the real reason is, I think, that he is a coward."

"Perhaps you are right. I remember once, when there was a cry of mad dog in the town, he hid in a warehouse and was almost scared to death."

"Yes, I remember that, and I remember, too, when Big Bill, the slave, ran away and threatened to kill the first white man he met, St. John hid in the mansion and didn't come outside the door for a week."

"Such a coward wouldn't be above circulating falsehoods."

"I wish I knew just where to find him. I would have it out with him in short order," concluded Jack.

The youth was in no humor for further fishing and soon wound up his line and started for home.

As he passed along over the plantation road his thoughts were busy. Could there be any truth in what St. John Ruthven had said? Was he really a nobody, with no claim upon the lady he called mother and the girl he looked upon as his sister? A chill passed down his backbone, and, as he came in sight of the stately old mansion that he called home, he paused to wipe the cold perspiration from his forehead.

"I will go to mother and ask her the truth," he told himself. "I can't wait to find out in any other way." Yet the thought of facing that kind-hearted lady was not a pleasant one. How should he begin to tell her of what was in his mind?

"Is my mother in?" he asked of the maid whom he met in the hallway.

"No, Massah Jack, she dun went to town," was the answer of the colored girl.

"Did she say when she would be back?"

"No, sah."

"Do you know if my sister is around?"

"She dun gone off not five minutes ago, Massah Jack."

"Where to?"

"I heard her say she was gwine down to Ole Ben's boathouse. I 'spect she dun t'ought yo' was dar."

Jack said no more, but giving the colored girl the fish, to take around to the cook, he ran upstairs, washed and brushed up, and sallied forth to find Marion.

The boathouse which had been mentioned was an old affair, standing upon the shore of a wide bay overlooking the Atlantic ocean. It belonged to a colored man called "Old Ben," a fellow who had once been a slave on the Ruthven plantation.

As Jack approached it he saw Marion sitting on a bench in the shade, with a book in her lap. Instead of reading, however, the girl was gazing out to sea in a meditative way.

"Marion, I was looking for you."

"Oh, Jack! is that you? I thought you had gone fishing for the day."

"I just got home, after catching a pretty good mess. Want to go rowing with me?"

"Yes, I'd like that very much. I was wishing you or Old Ben would come."

"Or, perhaps, St. John?" said Jack inquiringly.

"No; I didn't wish for him, you tease."

"I am glad of it, Marion. I don't want you to give me up for St. John."

"I do not intend to, Jack. But why are you looking so serious. Have you anything on your mind? I never saw you look so thoughtful before."

"Yes, I have a lot on my mind, Marion. Come, I'll tell you when we are out on the bay."

A rowboat was handy and oars were in the rack in the boathouse, and soon the pair were out on the water. Although but a boy, Jack took to the water naturally and handled the oars as skillfully as the average sailor.

When they were about halfway across the bay he ceased rowing and looked earnestly at the girl before him.

"Marion, I want to find out -- that is, I've got some questions to ask," he blurted out. "I don't know how to go at it."

"Why, what in the world is the matter, Jack? You were red a moment ago. Now you are as pale as a sheet."

"I want to know about something awfully important."

"I'm sure I cannot imagine what it is."

"Marion, aren't we real sister and brother?"

The question was out at last, and as he asked it his eyes dropped, for he had not the courage to look into her face. He felt her start and give a shiver.

"Oh, Jack! what put that in your head," she said slowly.

"Never mind that. Tell me, are we real sister and brother or not?"

"Jack, we are not."

"Oh, Marion!" The words almost choked him, and for the moment he could say no more.

"We are not real sister and brother, Jack, but to me you will always be as a real brother," and Marion caught his hand and held it tightly.

"And -- and mother isn't my -- my real mother?" he faltered.

"No, Jack; she is only your foster mother. But she thinks just as much of you as if you were her real son. She has told me that over and over again."

"You are sure of this?"

"Yes, Jack."

"Sure I am a -- a nobody." His voice sunk to a mere whisper.

"Yon are not a nobody, Jack. When you were a mere boy of three or four my father and mother adopted you, and you are now John Ruthven, my own brother," and she gave his brown hand another tight squeeze.

He was too confused and bewildered to answer at once. The dreadful news was true, he was not really a Ruthven. He was a nobody -- no, he must be somebody. But who was he?



Chapter III.

A Mystery Of The Past.


"I do not know that I have done just right by telling you this," went on Marion. "Mother may not approve of it."

"I am glad you told me. I was bound to find out about it, sooner or later."

"That is true, Jack. But both mother and I dreaded that time. We were afraid you might turn from us. And we both love you so much!"

"It is kind of you to say that, Marion." Jack's face flushed. "You couldn't be nicer if you were my real sister."

"And mother loves you so much."

"I know that, too -- otherwise she wouldn't have taken me in as she did."

"What put it in your head to ask me this to-day?"

"Something St. John Ruthven said to Darcy Gilbert. St. John said I was an upstart, a nobody."

"St. John had better mind his own business! It was not cousinly for him to interfere!" And Marion's face flushed.

"I suppose he doesn't look at me in the light of a cousin. He considers me an intruder."

"Well, if he won't count you a cousin he need not count me one either -- so there!"

"But you must not hurt yourself by standing up for me," cried Jack hastily.

"I will not hurt myself -- in the eyes of those whose respect is worth considering. In the eyes of the law you are my real brother, for my parents adopted you. St. John must not forget that."

"But tell me of the past, Marion. Where did I come from, and how did I get here?"

"It's a long story, Jack. Do you see yonder wreck, on Hemlock Bluff rocks?"

"To be sure I do."

"Well, when that wreck came ashore, between ten and eleven years ago, you had been one of the passengers on the boat."

"Me!"

"Yes. I have heard mother tell of it several times. It was a fearful night and Old Ben, he was our slave then, was out on the bluff watching. Presently there was the booming of a signal gun -- showing the ship was in distress -- and soon the ship came in sight, rocking to and fro, with the wild waves running over her deck. Not a soul was left on board, captain and crew having all gone down in the ocean beyond."

"But where did they find me?"

"On the beach. Old Ben heard a cry of pain and ran in the direction of the sound. Soon he made out the form of a woman, your mother. She had been hurt by being hit with some wreckage. You were in her arms, and as Old Ben came up you cried out: 'Jack is hungry. Give Jack some bread and butter, please.'"

"Yes, yes! I remember something of a storm and of the awful waves. But it's all dreamy-like."

"You were only three or four years old, and the exposure nearly cost you your life. Old Ben took you and your mother to the boathouse and then ran up to the plantation for help. Father went back with him, along with half a dozen men, and they brought you and your mother to the house. I remember that time well, for I was nearly seven years old."

"But my mother, what of her?" asked Jack impatiently.

"Poor dear! she died two days later. The physicians did all they could for her, but the shock had been too great, and she passed away without recovering consciousness."

"Then she told nothing about me -- who I was?"

"No. All she did say while she lived was 'Save my husband! Save my darling little Jack.'"

"Then my father must have been on the boat with her?"

"Yes."

"And they did not find his body?"

"No, the only bodies recovered were those of sailors."

"Didn't they try to find out who I was?"

"To be sure, but, although father did his best, he could learn nothing. Your father and mother had taken passage on the ship at the last moment and their names did not appear on the list at the shipping offices, and none of the books belonging to the ship itself were ever recovered."

"Perhaps they are on the wreck!" cried Jack, struck by a sudden idea.

"No, the wreck was searched from end to end, and all of value taken away."

"I'd like to row over and look around."

"You may do so, Jack. I presume the wreck will have more of an interest than ever for you now."

The distance to Hemlock Bluff rocks was a good mile, but Jack soon covered it and, bringing the boat to a safe corner, he assisted Marion out and then leaped out himself.

"This news is enough to make a fellow's head whirl," he observed, as they walked in the direction of the wreck, which lay high up on the beach.

"I suppose that is true, Jack. But do not let it worry you. You are as dear to mother and me as if you were one of the family."

"But I would like to know who I really am."

"Perhaps time will solve the mystery."

Soon the pair were at the wreck, which lay with its bow well up on the rocks and its stern projecting over the sea.

It was no mean task to reach the deck of the wreck, but Jack was a good climber and soon he was aboard. Then he gave Marion a hand up.

The deck of the wreck was much decayed, and they had to be careful how they moved around.

"I am going below," said the youth, after a general look around.

"Be careful. Jack, or you may break a limb," cautioned Marion.

"I don't suppose you care to go down with me?"

"I think not -- at least, I will wait until you have been down."

Soon Jack was crawling down the rotted companion way. At the bottom all was dirty and dark. He pushed open the door, which hung upon one rusty hinge, and peered into the cabin.

"I wish I had brought a lantern along," he murmured, as he stepped into the compartment.

As Marion had said, the wreck had been cleared of everything of value. All the furniture was gone and the pantries and staterooms were bare. From the cabin he passed into several of the staterooms.

"What have you found?" called Marion.

"Nothing much."

"Any mice down there, or spiders?"

"None, so far as I can see."

"Then I'll come down."

Soon Marion was beside Jack, and the pair made a tour of the wreck from bow to stern. Their investigations proved to be highly interesting, and they spent more time below than they had anticipated doing.

"We must get back, Jack," said the girl at last.

"Oh, there is no hurry! Mother is not at home," answered Jack. It seemed a bit odd to call Mrs. Ruthven mother now that he knew she was not his relative.

So fully another hour was spent below, moving from one part of the big wreck to another. Presently Jack came to a sudden stop and listened.

"What a queer noise, Marion!"

"It is the wind rising. We had better be getting back, before the bay grows too rough for rowing."

"You are right."

Jack ran up the companion way and Marion after him. To their surprise the sky was overcast, and the wind was whipping the surface of the bay into numerous whitecaps.

"We must lose no time in getting back!" cried Jack. "As it is, the wind will be dead against us!"

As quickly as possible he assisted Marion over the side, and then both set off on a run for the little cove where the rowboat had been left tied up.

As they gained the boat Jack gave an exclamation of dismay.

"The oars -- they are gone!"

He was right. Marion had shifted their position before leaving the craft, and bumping against the rocks had sent them adrift.



Chapter IV.

On Board The Wreck.


"Jack, what shall we do now?" asked Marion, as with a blanched face she gazed into the empty boat.

"Wait -- the oars may be close at hand," he replied. "I will make a search."

"And so will I. Oh, we must find them!"

They ran up and down the rocky shore, looking far and near for the oars, but without success. Presently they came to a halt, out of breath with running.

"Gone, sure enough!" groaned the boy. "What a pickle we are in now!"

"We can't stay here, Jack."

"We'll have to stay here, Marion, unless I can find the oars or make substitutes."

"How are you going to make substitutes?"

"I might take some planks from the wreck."

"But you have no tools."

"I have a stout jack-knife."

"It will take a long time, and see, it is already beginning to rain."

Marion was right, the rain had started, and as it grew heavier they withdrew to the shelter of the wreck.

"I wouldn't mind staying here until the shower was over, only I wouldn't want mother to worry about us," went on Marion, when they were safe under cover.

"That's just it. But we do not know if she is home yet."

The rain soon increased, while the thunder rolled in the distance. But they felt fairly safe in the cabin of the wreck, and sat down on a bench running along one of the walls.

"This looks as if it was going to keep up all night," observed Jack, an hour later, after another look at the sky from the top of the companion way.

"Oh, you don't mean we'll have to remain here all night!" exclaimed Marion.

"Perhaps, Marion."

"But I do not wish to remain in such a place all night."

"Are you afraid of ghosts?" and Jack gave a short laugh.

"No, Jack; but you'll admit it isn't a very nice place."

"I know that. But that isn't the worst of it."

"Not the worst of it?"

"No. You must remember that we have nothing to eat or to drink here."

"That is true, but I do not feel much like eating or drinking just now."

"Yes, but you'll be hungry and thirsty before morning, Marion."

"Perhaps. We can drink rain water, if we wish."

Another hour passed and the storm grew more violent. The lightning flashed across the sky and lit up the wreck from end to end. Then a blackness as of night followed.

"We could not row ashore now, even if we had oars," observed Marion, as she listened to the howling of the wind.

"You are right, Marion. My, how it does blow!"

Suddenly, the sounds of footsteps on the deck of the wreck reached their ears.

"Somebody is coming!" said Jack, and looked up the companion way. "Why, it's Old Ben!"

He was right; it was Ben the fisherman who had put in an appearance, market basket in hand.

"Marion! Jack! Am dat yo'?" came in an anxious voice.

"Yes, Ben!" cried both.

"What brought you?" continued the boy.

"I dun thought yo' was a-wantin' ob Ole Ben," grinned the colored man. "I seed yo' rowin' off an' I didn't see yo' cum back, so I says to myself, 'Da is stuck fast on de wreck.' An' den I says, 'Da aint got nuffin to eat.' So ober I comes, an' wid a basketful of good t'ings from de plantation." And he held up the market basket. He was soaked from the rain, and the water ran from his clothing in a stream.

"Ben, you are a jewel!" burst out Marion and patted his wet coat-sleeve affectionately.

At this the old negro grinned broadly. He had always been a privileged character on the Ruthven plantation, and being set free had not ended his affection for his former mistress and her children.

"It was very kind to come over," said Jack. "Does mother know we are here?"

"I dun left word dat I was comin' ober an' dat I thought yo' was yeah, sah," answered Ben.

He had brought all the good things necessary, along with plates, cups, knives and forks, and soon had the spread ready for them. Then he went off to another part of the wreck to wring out his wet garments.

"It was very nice of Old Ben to come to us," said Marion, while eating. "It must have been no easy matter to row from the shore to the rocks."

"Ben is as good a boatman as there is in these parts, Marion. It was kind, and he ought to be rewarded for it."

"Mamma will reward him, beyond a doubt."

The storm kept increasing in violence, and before the strange meal was disposed of the thunder and lightning were almost incessant. Ben had brought a candle along -- knowing the darkness inside of the wreck -- and this was all the light they possessed, outside of what Nature afforded.

Ben was just putting the dishes back into the basket when there came an extra heavy flash of lightning, followed immediately by a rending clap of thunder which almost paralyzed Marion and Jack. There was a strange smell in the air, and both found their blood tingling in a manner that was new to them.

"The wreck -- it's been struck by lightning!" gasped Jack, when he could speak.

"Dat's a fac'!" came from Old Ben. "It was jess like de crack ob doom, wasn't it?"

He ran on deck, and Jack followed him, with Marion on the bottom of the companion way, not knowing whether to go up or remain below.

The bolt had struck the wreck near the stern, ripping off a large part of the woodwork, and had passed along to one side. Just below the deck line a lively fire was starting up.

"De wrack am gwine to be burnt up at las'!" ejaculated Old Ben. "We has got to git out, Massah Jack!"

"Come, Marion!" called back the boy. "It's too bad we've got to go out in the rain, but I reckon we can be thankful that our lives have been spared."

"Yes, we can be thankful," answered the girl. "Oh, what a dreadful crack that was! I do not believe I shall ever forget it."

She came on deck all in a tremble, and with the others hurried to the bow of the wreck. It was much easier to climb down than to climb up, and soon all three stood upon the rocks below, where the driving rain pelted them mercilessly.

"I t'ink I can find yo' a bettah place dan dis to stay," said Old Ben. "Come down to de shoah," and he led the way to where he had left his boat. With Jack's assistance the craft was hauled out of the water and turned upside down between two large rocks, and then the three crawled under the temporary shelter.

Thus the night passed, and by morning the storm cleared away. Looking toward the wreck they saw that only a small portion of the upper deck had been burned away, the rain having put the fire out before it gained great headway.

It did not take Old Ben and Jack long to launch the former's craft again, and this done, they all entered and the fisherman started to row them to the mainland. Jack's boat was taken in tow.

"That was certainly quite an adventure," observed Jack, as they landed. "Marion, I reckon you don't want another such."

"No, indeed!" replied the girl, with a shiver. "I don't believe I'll ever go over to the old wreck again."

"It's a wondah dat wreck aint busted up long ago," put in Old Ben.

"It's a wonder the poor people around here haven't carried off the wreckage for firewood, Ben," said Jack.

"Da is afraid to do dat, Massah Jack -- afraid some ob de sailors wot was drowned might haunt 'em."

"I see. Well, I don't think the wreck will last much longer," and with these words Jack turned away to follow Marion to the plantation mansion, to interview his foster mother concerning the particulars of the past. Little did the lad dream of what an important part that old wreck was to play in his future life.



Chapter V.

Old Ben Has A Visitor.


St. John Ruthven was a young man of twenty-five, tall, thin, and with a face that was a mixture of craftiness and cowardice. He was the son of a half-brother to the late Colonel Ruthven and could boast of but few of the good traits of Marion's family. He lived on a plantation half a mile from the bay and spent most of his time in attention to his personal appearance and in horseback riding, of which, like many other Southerners, he was passionately fond.

It was commonly supposed that St. John Ruthven was rich, but this was not true. His father had left him a good plantation and some money in the bank, but the young planter was a spendthrift and his mother, who doted on her son, was little better, and soon nearly every dollar which had been left by the husband and father had slipped through their fingers. More than this, St. John took but little interest in the plantation, which gradually ran down until it became almost worthless.

"St. John, my dear, we must do something," the mother would say, in her helpless way. "We cannot live like this forever."

"What shall I do?" would be the son's reply. "The plantation isn't worth working and I have no money with which to buy another place. The niggers are getting so they are not worth their keep."

"But you told me yesterday that we had less than a thousand dollars left in the bank."

"It's true, too."

"What do you propose doing when that is gone?"

"Oh! our credit is still good," was the lofty answer.

"But that won't last forever, St. John."

"Something may turn up."

"Everything seems to prosper at Alice's place," went on Mrs. Mary Ruthven, referring to the home of Marion and Jack.

"I know that."

"And we are continually running behind. St. John, you ought to get after the niggers and other help."

"I wasn't cut out for work, mother," was the sour answer.

"But we really must do something," was the half-desperate response.

"I've got an idea in my head, mother. If it works, we'll be all right."

"What is the idea?"

"I think a good deal of Marion. Why shouldn't we marry and join the two plantations? That would give us both a good living."

"I have thought of such a plan myself, St. John. But there may be an objection."

"Do you think Marion would refuse me?"

"She might. In some respects Alice's daughter is rather peculiar."

"But I don't see why she should refuse me. Am I not her equal in social position?"

"What a question! Of course you are. Still she may have her eyes set upon somebody else."

"I know of nobody. Marion is still young."

"Have you sounded her on the subject?"

"Not yet, but I will soon. She has Jack around so much I never get half a chance to talk to her."

"Always that boy! When I visited Alice last I declare she talked of that nobody the whole time, -- what a wonderful man she hoped he would make, -- and all that. Just as if he was her own flesh and blood!" and Mrs. Mary Ruthven tossed her head disdainfully.

"She was foolish to allow that nobody to think himself a Ruthven. But I have put a spoke into his wheel, I reckon."

"What do you mean? Did you tell Jack the truth?"

"Not exactly. But I gave a pretty broad hint to his intimate friend Darcy Gilbert, and Darcy, of course, will carry the news straight to Jack."

"Oh, St. John! that may cause trouble. Your aunt wished to keep the truth from the boy as long as possible. She told me she did not wish to hurt his feelings."

"He had to learn the truth sooner or later. Besides, I didn't want him to think himself a Ruthven and the equal of Marion and myself," went on St. John loftily.

There was a moment of silence and Mrs. Mary Ruthven gave a long sigh.

"Well, I would not delay speaking to Marion too long," she observed. "Something must be done, that's sure, and if you wait, Marion and her mother may find out how hard up we really are, and then Marion may refuse you on that account."

"I shall see her before long," answered the son.

He had his mind bent on a horseback ride, and was soon in the saddle and off on a road leading along the shore of the bay. He hoped to find Marion in the vicinity of the old boathouse, but when he arrived there nobody was in sight but Old Ben, who was mending one of his fishing nets.

"Ha, Ben! are you alone?" he said, as he dismounted and came into the boathouse.

"Yes, Massah St. John, I'm alone unless there's some ghostes hidin' around yeah!" and the old negro smiled broadly. He understood St. John's character pretty thoroughly and despised him accordingly.

"I thought Marion might be around here."

"She aint been yeah to-day, sah. She an' Jack was out on de bay in dat awful storm yesterday and I reckon it was most too much fo' dem."

"Out in that awful storm! It's a wonder the boat didn't upset."

"Da was ober to de wrack when de big blow came."

"Did they stay there?"

"I went ober after 'em an' da come in dis mornin', Massah St. John."

"Humph! I am surprised that my aunt should trust Marion with that boy."

"Why not, Massah St. John? Jack can manage a boat as well as I can."

St. John tossed his head and flung himself down upon a seat. "I think my aunt makes a fool of herself about that boy. Who is he, anyway? He's only an ocean waif; of low birth, very probably."

"Dat he isn't!" said Old Ben indignantly. "He's a young gen'man, Jack is, an' so was his father."

"Bah! what do you know about his father?"

"He couldn't be Jack's father without bein' a gen'man -- dat's wot I know," went on Ben stoutly. "Why, look at de deah chile! How noble an' -- an' -- handsome he is!"

"Oh, pshaw, Ben! you had better stick to your nets. What do you know about a gentleman?"

"I knows one when I sees one, Massah St. John," was the somewhat suggestive response.

"Oh, do you? And I know an impudent nigger when I see one!" cried St. John angrily.

"No offense, Massah St. John."

"Then be a little more careful of what you say." St. John tugged at the ends of his stubby mustache. "I wish I had that boy under my care," he went on.

"S'posin' you had, sah?"

"I'd teach him his place. Why should he be reared as a gentleman -- he, a poor waif of the sea? Probably he is the son of some low mechanic, perhaps of a Northern mudsill, and my aunt -- think of it, my aunt -- must bring him up as a Southern gentleman!" The young man leaped up and began to pace the boathouse floor nervously. "I suppose she'll leave him a large legacy in her will."

"I 'spect you is right, Massah St. John; dat boy will be pervided for, suah as my name's Ben."

"You talk as if you already knew something of this?" said St. John quickly.

"I does know somet'ing, sah."

"Has my aunt ever spoken to you on the subject, Ben?"

"I don't know as I ought to answer dat dar question, Massah St. John."

"Then she has spoken. What did she say?"

The colored man hesitated.

"As I said befo', sah, I don't rackon I ought to answer dat dar question."

"But you must answer me, Ben -- to keep silent is foolish. Rest assured I have the best interests of my aunt and Marion at heart. Now what did she say?"

"Well, sah, if yo' must know, she said as how she was gwine to leave Massah Jack half de prop'ty."

St. John leaped back in amazement.

"You don't mean that, Ben!" he gasped.

"Yes, sah, I does mean it."

"Half the property?"

"Yes, sah."

"He doesn't deserve it!"

At this the old negro shrugged his huge shoulders.

"Rackon de missus knows what she wants to do."

"But it is not right -- to give the boy half the estate. I suppose the other half will go to Marion."

"Yes, sah."

The young man's face grew pale, and he began to pace the floor again.

"She never mentioned me in connection with this, did she?"

"No, sah."

"And yet I am her nephew."

"Rackon she dun thought yo' was rich enough, Massah St. John."

"Perhaps I am, Ben. But it is strange that my own flesh and blood should forget me, to take up with a nobody. Did my aunt ever speak of the particulars of what she intended to do?"

"No, sah."

"Humph! It's strange. I must look into this." And a few minutes later St. John Ruthven was off on horseback, in a frame of mind far from pleasant.



Chapter VI.

Mrs. Ruthven's Story.


"I am so glad to see you both back, safe and sound!"

It was Mrs. Alice Ruthven who spoke, as she embraced first her daughter and then Jack.

"And we are glad enough to get back, mother," answered Marion.

"I was so frightened, even after Old Ben went after you. We watched the lightning, and when it struck the wreck --  -- " Mrs. Ruthven stopped speaking and gave a shiver.

"We weren't in such very great danger," answered Jack. Then he looked at the lady curiously.

"What is it, Jack? You have something on your mind," she said quickly.

The youth looked at Marian, who turned red.

"I -- I -- that is, mother, Jack knows the truth," faltered the girl.

"The truth?" repeated Mrs. Ruthven slowly.

"Yes, Marion has told me the truth," said Jack, in as steady a voice as he could command. "And so I -- I -- am not your son." He could scarcely speak the words.

"Oh, Jack!" The lady caught him in her arms. "So you know the truth at last?" She kissed him. "But you are my son, just as if you were my own flesh and blood. You are not angry at me for keeping this a secret so long? I did it because I did not wish to hurt your feelings."

"No, I am not angry at you, Mrs. Ruth --  -- "

"Call me mother, Jack."

"I am not angry, mother. You have been very kind to me. But it is so strange! I can't understand it all," and he heaved a deep sigh.

"You have been a son to me in the past, Jack; I wish you to continue to be one."

"But I have no real claim upon you."

"Yes, you have, for my late husband and myself adopted you."

"Marion told me that you never heard one word regarding my past."

"She told the truth. We tried our best, but every effort ended in failure. Your mother called you Jack ere she died, and that was all."

"What of our clothing? Was none of it marked, or had she nothing in her pocket?"

"No, the clothing was not marked, and she had nothing in her pocket but a lace handkerchief, also unmarked. That handkerchief I have kept, with the clothing. And I have also kept a ring she wore upon one of her fingers."

"Was that marked?"

"It had been, but it was so worn that we could not make out the marking, nor could the two jewelers by whom we had the ring inspected."

"I would like to see the ring."

"I will get it," returned Mrs. Ruthven, and left the room. Soon she came back with a small jewel casket, from which she took a ring and a very dainty lace handkerchief.

"Here is the ring," she said, as she passed it over to Jack.

"It looks like a wedding ring," said the youth, as he gazed at the circlet of gold.

"I believe it is a wedding ring."

Jack looked inside and saw some markings, but all were so faint that it was impossible to make out more than the figures 1 and 8.

"Those figures stand for eighteen hundred and something, I imagine," said Mrs. Ruthven. "They must give the year when your mother was married."

"I suppose you are right."

"The ring belongs to you, Jack. I would advise you to be careful of it."

"If you please, I would like to have you keep it for the present."

"I will do that willingly."

The handkerchief was next examined. But it seemed to be without markings of any kind, and was soon returned to the jewel case along with the ring.

"Now tell me how Marion came to tell you of the past," said Mrs. Ruthven, after putting the jewel case away.

"I made her tell me the truth," said Jack.

"But how did you suspect this at first?"

"Because of something St. John said to Darcy Gilbert."

"What did he say?"

"Oh, it doesn't matter much -- now, mother. He told Darcy I wasn't your son."

"What else did he say?"

"Oh, I think I had better not say."

"But you must tell me, Jack; I insist upon knowing."

"He told Darcy that I was a nobody, and that I would have to go away some day."

At these words Mrs. Ruthven's face flushed angrily.

"St. John is taking too much upon his shoulders," she cried. "This is no business of his."

"I may be a nobody, but, but" -- Jack stammered -- "if he says anything to me, I am afraid there will be a row."

"He shall not say anything to you. I will speak to him about this. Leave it all to me."

"But he shall not insult me," said Jack sturdily.

Marion had left the apartment, to change her clothing, so she did not hear what was said about St. John. A few words more on the subject passed between the lady of the plantation and the youth, and then the talk shifted back to Jack's past.

"Some day I am going to find out who I am." said the boy. "There must be some way to do this."

"Are you then so anxious to leave me, Jack?" asked Mrs. Ruthven, and the tears sprang into her eyes.

"No, no, mother; I will not leave you so long as you wish me to stay!" he exclaimed. "It isn't that. But this mystery of the past must be solved."

"Well, I will help you all I can. But do not hope for too much, my boy, or you may be disappointed," and then she embraced him again.

Running up to his bedroom, Jack quickly changed the suit which had been soaked the night before for a better one, and then came below again. He hardly knew what to do with himself. The news had set his head in a whirl. At last he decided to go out riding on a pony Mrs. Ruthven had given him a few weeks before.

The pony was soon saddled by one of the stable hands, and Jack set off on a level road running between the two Ruthven plantations. At first he thought to ask Marion to accompany him, but then decided that he was in no humor to have anybody along.

"I must think this out by myself," was the way he reasoned, and set off at a brisk pace under the wide-spreading trees.

He was less than quarter of a mile away from home when he came face to face with St. John, who was returning from his visit to Old Ben's boathouse.

As the two riders approached each other, the young man glared darkly at our hero.

"Hullo, where are you bound?" he demanded sharply.

"I don't think that is any of your business, St. John," replied Jack, who was just then in no humor to be polite.

"Humph! you needn't get on your high horse about it!"

"I am not on a high horse, only on a small pony."

"Don't joke me, Jack -- I don't like it."

"As you please, St. John."

"What's got into you this morning?" demanded the young man curiously.

"Well, if you want to know, I don't like the way you have been talking about me."

"Oho! so that is how the wind blows."

"You have taken the pains to call me a nobody," went on Jack hotly.

"I told the truth, didn't I?"

"I consider myself just as good as you, St. John Ruthven."

"Do you indeed!" sneered the spendthrift.

"I do indeed, and in the future I will thank you to be more careful of what you say about me."

"I have a right to tell the truth to anybody I please."

"I don't deny that. But I consider my blood just as good as yours."

"Do you? I don't."

"Your opinion isn't worth anything to me."

"Humph! still riding a high horse, I see. Let me tell you, you are not half as good as a Ruthven, and never will be. How my aunt could take you in is a mystery to me."

"She is not as hard-hearted as you are."

"She is very foolish."

"She is my foster mother, and I'll thank you to speak respectfully of her," cried Jack, his eyes flashing.

"Of course you'll stick by her -- as long as she'll let you. You have a nice ax to grind."

"I don't understand your last words."

"She owns considerable property, and you will try to get a big share of it for yourself, when she dies."

"I have never given her property a thought. I want only what is rightfully coming to me."

"There is nothing coming to you by right. The property ought to go to Marion and the other Ruthvens."

"By other Ruthvens I suppose you mean yourself."

"I am one of them."

"Are you so anxious to get hold of my aunt's plantation?"

"I don't want to see my aunt waste it on such a low upstart as you!"

Jack's eyes flashed fire, and riding close to St. John he held up his little riding whip.

"You shan't call me an upstart!" he ejaculated. "Take it back, or I'll hit you with this!"

"You won't dare to touch me!" howled St. John in a rage. "You are an upstart, and worse, to my way of thinking."

Scarcely had the words left his lips when Jack brought down the riding whip across the young man's shoulders and neck, leaving a livid red mark behind.

"Oh!" howled the spendthrift, and gave a jerk backward on the reins, which brought his horse up on his hind legs. "How dare you! I'll -- I'll kill you for that!"

"Do you take it back or not?" went on Jack, raising the whip again.

Instead of replying St. John reached over to hit the youth with his own whip. But Jack dodged, and then struck out a second time. The blow landed upon St. John's hand, and he jerked back quickly. The movement scared the horse, and the animal plunged so violently that the rider was thrown from the saddle into some nearby bushes. Then the horse galloped away, leaving St. John to his fate.



Chapter VII.

A Setback For St. John.


"Now see what you have done!" roared St. John, as soon as he could scramble from the bushes.

His face was scratched in several places and his coat was torn at one elbow.

"It was your fault as much as mine," retorted Jack.

"No such thing. You had no right to pitch into me."

"And you had no right to call me names."

"My horse has run away," stormed the young man.

"So I see."

"If he is lost or hurt you'll be responsible."

"He is running toward home. I reckon he'll be all right."

"What am I to do?"

"That's your lookout."

"Get down and let me ride your pony home."

"I will do no such thing!" cried Jack. The little steed was very dear to him.

"Do you expect me to walk?"

"You can suit yourself about that, St. John. Certainly I shan't carry you," and Jack began to move off.

"Stop! don't leave me like this."

"You are not much hurt. Do you want to continue the fight?"

"I don't calculate to fight a mere boy like you. Some day I'll give you a good dressing down for your impudence."

"All right; when that time comes, I'll be ready for you," returned Jack coolly, and without further words he rode away.

Standing in the middle of the road, St. John Ruthven shook his fist after the youth.

"I hate you!" he muttered fiercely. "And I'll not allow you to come between me and my aunt's property, remember that!" But the words did not reach Jack, nor were they intended for his ears.

There was a spring of water not far away, and going to this St. John washed his face and his hands. Then he combed his hair with a pocket-comb he carried, and brushed his clothing as best he could. He was more hurt mentally than physically, and inwardly boiled to get even with our hero.

Left to himself, he hardly knew what to do. He was satisfied that his horse would go home as Jack had said, but he was in no humor to follow the animal.

"I've a good mind to call on Aunt Alice and tell her what a viper he is," he said to himself. "Perhaps I can get her to think less of him than she does -- and that will be something gained."

He walked slowly toward the plantation. When he came within sight of the garden he saw Marion in a summerhouse, arranging a bouquet of flowers which she had just cut.

The sight of his cousin put his heart in a flutter and made him think of the talk he had had with his mother. Why should he not propose to her at once? The sooner the better, to his way of thinking. That Marion might refuse him hardly entered his head. Was he not the best "catch" in that neighborhood?

"How do you do, Marion?" he said, as he strode up to the summerhouse.

"Why, St. John, is that you?" returned the girl. "I did not see you riding up."

"I came on foot," he went on, as he came in and threw himself on a bench. "It's warm, too."

"It is warm. Shall I send for some refreshments?"

"No, don't bother just now, Marion. I came over to see you alone."

"Alone?" she said in some surprise.

"Yes, alone, Marion. I have something very important to say to you."

She did not answer, but turned away to fix the bouquet.

"Can you guess what I wish to say?" he went on awkwardly.

"I haven't the remotest idea, Cousin St. John."

"I want to tell you how much I love you, Cousin Marion."

"Oh!"

"Don't think that I speak from sudden impulse. I have loved you for years, but I wished to wait until you were old enough to listen to me."

"And you think I am old enough now?" she said, with a faint smile. "Mamma thinks me quite a girl still."

"You are old enough to marry, if you wish, Marion."

"Marry?" She laughed outright. "Oh, St. John, don't say that. Why, I don't intend to marry in a long, long time -- if at all."

His face fell, and he bit his lip. Certainly this was not the answer he had expected.

"But I want you!" he burst out, still more awkwardly. "I want to -- to protect you from -- er -- from Jack."

"Protect me from Jack?"

"Yes, Marion. You know what he is, a mere nobody."

"Jack is my brother."

"He is not, and you know it."

"He is the same as if he were my brother, St. John."

"Again I say he is not. He is a mere upstart, and he will prove a snake in the grass unless you watch him. Your mother made a big mistake when she adopted him."

"There may be two opinions upon that point."

"He knows your mother is rich. Mark my word, he will do all he can, sooner or later, to get her property away from her."

"I will not believe evil of Jack."

"You evidently think more of him than you do of me!" sneered the spendthrift, seeing that he was making no headway in his suit.

"I do not deny that I think the world and all of Jack. He is my brother in heart, if not in blood -- and I will thank you to remember that after this," went on Marion in a decided tone.

"You will learn of your mistake some time -- perhaps when it is too late."

"Jack is true to the core, and as brave as he is true. Why, he would go to the war if mamma would give her consent."

At this St. John Ruthven winced.

"Well -- er -- I would go myself if my mother did not need me at home," he stammered. "She must have somebody to look after the plantation. We can't trust the niggers."

"Many men have gone to the front and allowed their plantations to take care of themselves. They place the honor of their glorious country over everything else."

"Well, my mother will not allow me to go -- she has positively forbidden it," insisted St. John, anxious to clear his character.

This statement was untrue; he had never spoken to his mother on the subject, thinking she might urge him to go to the front. His plea that he must look after the plantation was entirely of his own making.

"Supposing we should lose in this struggle -- what will become of your plantation then?"

At this St. John grew pale.

"I -- I hardly think we will lose," he stammered. "We have plenty of soldiers."

"But not as many as the North has. General Lee could use fifty thousand more men, if he could get them."

"Well, I shall go to the front when I am actually needed, Marion; you can take my word on that. But won't you listen to what I have told you about my feeling for you?"

"No, St. John; I am too young to fall in love with anybody. I shall at least wait until this cruel war is over."

"But I can hope?"

She shook her head. Then she picked up her bouquet.

"Will you come up to the house with me?"

"Not now, Marion. Give my respects to my aunt and tell her I will call in a day or two again. And, by the way, Marion, don't let her think hard of me because of Jack. I desire only to see to it that the boy does not do you mischief."

"As I said before, I will listen to nothing against dear Jack, so there!" cried Marion, and stamping her foot, she hurried toward the house.

St. John Ruthven watched her out of sight, then turned and stalked off toward the roadway leading to his home.

"She evidently does not love me as I thought," he muttered to himself. "And I made a mess of it by speaking ill of Jack. Confound the luck! What had I best do now? I wish I could get that boy out of the way altogether, I really do."



Chapter VIII.

The Home Guards Of Oldville.


The week to follow the events recorded in the last chapter was a trying one for the inhabitants of Oldville, as the district around the Ruthvens' plantation was called.

The army of the North had pressed the army of the South back steadily day after day, until the Confederates were encamped less than four miles away from Jack's home. For two days the cannon-firing could be distinctly heard, and the women folks were filled with dread, thinking the invaders from the North were about to swoop down upon their homes and pillage them.

"Oh, Jack! do you think they will come here?" was the question Marion asked at least a dozen times.

"They had better not," was the sturdy reply. "If they do, they will find that even a boy can fight."

"But you could do nothing against an army, Jack."

"Perhaps not. But I'll do what I can to protect you and mother."

"Old Ben told me that you and Darcy Gilbert were organizing a Home Guard."

"Yes; we have organized a company of boys. We have twenty-three members, and I am the captain," answered Jack, with just a bit of pride in his tones.

"Then you are Captain Jack!" exclaimed Marion. "Let me congratulate you, captain. But have you any weapons?"

"Yes. I have an old sword and also a pistol, and all of the others have pistols or guns. I think, if we were put to it, we might do our enemy some damage."

"No doubt, since I know you and Darcy can shoot pretty straight. You ought to ask St. John to join the command."

"Not much, Marion! Don't you know that St. John is a coward at heart, even if he is a man?"

"Yes, I know it. One of the colored help on his plantation told Old Ben that the cannon-firing so close at hand made him so uneasy he couldn't eat or sleep."

"Is it possible! Now the cannon-firing simply makes me crazy to be at the front, to see what is going on, and to take part."

"Then you must be a born soldier, Jack." Marion heaved a sigh. "Oh, I wish this war was over! Why must the men of the South and the North kill each other?"

"The world has always had wars and always will, I reckon. Do you want to come to town and see us drill?"

"Will it be safe?"

"I think so, Marion. I don't believe the enemy are coming here very soon."

Soon after this Jack and Marion were on their way to Oldville, a sleepy town containing two general stores, a tavern, and a blacksmith shop.

In front of the tavern was a large green, and here a number of boys were playing various games.

"Hurrah, here comes Captain Jack!" was the cry, when our hero appeared.

"Are we to drill to-day?" questioned Darcy Gilbert, as he ran up and nodded to Marion.

"If you will," said Jack. His new honors had not made him in the least dictatorial.

"All right," returned Darcy.

He was first lieutenant of the company, which had styled itself the Oldville Home Guard, and he quickly summoned the young soldiers together.

All had uniforms, made of regular home suits with stripes of white sewed down the trouser-legs and around the coat-sleeves. The boys with pistols were placed in the front rank, those with guns in the second rank. One lad had a drum and another a fife.

"Company, attention!" ordered Jack, coming to the front with drawn sword, and the boys drew up in straight rows across the green. The drum rattled, and presently quite a crowd of old men, women, and children collected to see the drill.

"Carry -- arms!" went on Jack, and the guns came to a carry, and likewise the pistols. "Present -- arms! Shoulder -- arms! Forward -- march!"

"Dum! dum! dum, dum, dum!" went the drummer, and off marched the company to the end of the green.

"Right -- wheel!" came the next command, and the boys wheeled with the order of a veteran body, for each was enthusiastic to do his best. "Forward!" and they marched on again, and so the marching kept up until the square had been covered several times.

"Halt!" Thus the commanding went on. "Load! Take aim! Fire!"

And twenty-odd gun and pistol hammers came down with a sharp clicking, for none of the weapons were loaded, the boys saving their powder and ball until such time as they might actually be needed. A short parade around the main streets followed, and then Jack dismissed the company.

"It was splendid!" cried Marion enthusiastically. "I declare, Jack, how did you ever get them drilled so nicely?"

"Oh! the fellows take to it naturally. Besides, Darcy did as much as I did."

"No, Jack is our chief drillmaster," put in Darcy. "He takes to soldiering as a duck takes to a pond."

"It's wonderful. Still, I hope you never have to go to war," concluded Marion.

"If we do, we'll try to give a good account of ourselves," said Darcy, as Marion walked away.

"Indeed we will!" cried our hero.

Now she was in town Marion concluded to do some shopping, and accordingly made her way to one of the general stores, a place kept by Lemuel Blackwood, one of the oldest merchants in that part of the State.

Blackwood's store was usually crowded with goods of every description, but the war had all but wrecked his trade, and his stock was scanty and shop-worn.

"How do you do, Marion?" said he, when the girl entered. He had known her from childhood.

"How do you do, Mr. Blackwood?" she returned.

"Pretty fairly, for an old man, Marion. That is, so far as my health goes. Business is very poor, though."

"The war has taken the people's money."

"Yes, yes! It is awful! Sometimes I think it will never end."

"Do you think we will win, Mr. Blackwood?"

At this the old man shook his head slowly.

"I used to hope so, Marion. But now -- the most of our best soldiers have been shot down. The North can get new recruits, but we don't seem to have many more men to go to the front."

"Have you any more calico like that which I got a few weeks ago?"

"No, I can't get a single piece, no matter how hard I try."

"What have you in plain dress goods?"

"Nothing but what I showed you before. I tried to get something new last week, but the wholesale houses had nothing, and couldn't say when anything new would come in. Their business has been wrecked, just as mine has been. Two of the best houses I used to do business with are bankrupt."

"Then show me what you have again, please. Mamma and I must have something, even if it is out of date. We'll wear it for the honor of the South."

At this old Mr. Blackwood smiled. "You are a loyal girl, Marion. I like to see it in a person, especially in one who is young. It shows the right training."

"But supposing I was a Northerner," said Marion, with a sly twinkle in her eye.

"It would make no difference in my opinion."

"You believe people should be true to their convictions?"

"Yes, no matter what side they stand upon. We think we are right, and are willing to fight for our opinions. They think they are right, and they are willing to fight, too."

"But who is right?"

Mr. Blackwood shrugged his shoulders. "Let us trust that God will bring this difficulty to a satisfactory conclusion. If we lose in this war, my one hope is that the South will not lose everything -- that the North will be generous."

"But they say Grant is a stubborn general. That he will demand everything of General Lee."

"I cannot believe it. I have a cousin who knew Grant, and he said Grant was not so hard-hearted as painted."

"Some say the South, if defeated, will be held in virtual slavery by the North."

"Yes, some hot-heads say everything. I had such a fellow in here yesterday; a surgeon in our army, who gave his name as Dr. Mackey. He was ranting around, declaring that, if we lost, the Northern soldiers would march clear through to New Orleans and loot and burn every village, town, and city, and that neither life nor property would be safe. His talk was enough to scare a timid person most to death."

"A surgeon in our army," said Marion. She had been told by Jack of the meeting on the bridge. "What kind of a looking man was he?"

As well as he could Mr. Blackwood described the individual.

"Did he seem to have a finger on one hand doubled up and stiff?"

"Yes. Do you know him, Marion?"

"I know of him. He met Jack on a bridge some days ago and ordered him off as if Jack were a slave."

"He appeared to be as headstrong as he was unreasonable. I have seen him around here several times, but I cannot make out what he is doing here. He asked me about the wreck on Hemlock Bluff rocks."

"What!" and Marion showed her surprise.

"Yes. He said he had heard of the wreck and was curious to visit it."

"That was strange."

"I asked him why he wished to visit the wreck, but he did not answer the question."

At this point some other customers came in and the conversation was changed. Marion bought what she wanted and went out, and presently joined Jack on the way home.

"It was odd that surgeon should want to visit the wreck," was our hero's comment, after he had heard what the girl had to say. "I wonder if he knows anything of the ship and her passengers? If he does, I would like to interview him, uncivil as he is."



Chapter IX.

Dr. Mackey Investigates.


A few days later Old Ben was just preparing to go out in his boat when a visitor appeared at the boathouse. The man was clad in the faded uniform of a Confederate surgeon, and proved to be Dr. Mackey.

"Good-mornin', sah," said Old Ben politely, as the doctor leaped from the saddle and came forward.

"Good-morning," returned the surgeon shortly. "Can you supply me with a glass of good drinking water? I left my flask at camp, and I am dry."

"We has de best ob watah heah, sah," returned Old Ben, and proceeded to obtain a goblet. "Does yo' belong to de army?"

"Yes, I am a surgeon attached to the Fifth Virginia regiment." The visitor gazed around him curiously. "Is this your boathouse?"

"Kind o', sah. It belongs to de Ruthven plantation. But when my ole massa -- Heaben bless his spirit -- sot me free, he gib me de right to use de boathouse so long as I pleased. I lives in yonder cabin on de bluff."

"Ah! then you were one of Mr. Ruthven's slaves?"

"Colonel Ruthven, sah," said the colored man, with emphasis on the military title.

"He is dead?"

"Yes, sah; killed at de bloody battle ob Gettysburg. He was leadin' a charge when a bullet struck him in de head."

"Too bad, truly. Did he leave much of a family?"

"A widow, sah, an' two chillen, a boy an' a girl."

"I see." The doctor drank the water thoughtfully. "Did -- er -- I mean, I think I have seen the two young people. They don't seem to resemble each other very much."

"Well, you see, da aint persackly brother an' sister."

"No?" and the surgeon raised his heavy eyebrows as if in surprise.

"No, sah. Massah Jack is only de 'dopted son ob de late colonel."

"Ah, is that really so? A -- er -- nephew, perhaps?"

"No, he aint no kin to de Ruthvens. He was washed ashoah from a wrack ten or 'leben years ago. I wouldn't tell dis, only it has become public property durin' de las' two weeks."

Dr. Mackey started back. "Ha! I have found the boy at last!" he muttered to himself, as he began to walk the floor.

"What did you say, sah?"

"It's quite like a romance, my man. I should like to hear more of the boy's story."

"Dere aint much to tell, massah. It blowed great guns durin' dat storm. De passengers an' crew was washed ashoah from de wrack, but de only ones wot came to de beach alive was Massah Jack an' his poor dear mother."

"And the mother --  -- " The doctor paused.

"She only libed fo' two days. She died up to de house, leabin' de boy to Mrs. Ruthven. De missus promised to look after de boy as her own -- an' she has gone dun it, too, sah."

"Then Mrs. Ruthven doesn't know whose son he really is?"

"No, sah. De boy's mammy couldn't tell nuffin, she was so much hurt."

"But what of the boy's father?"

"He was drowned wid de rest ob de passengers."

"Hard luck -- for the boy." The surgeon continued to pace the floor.

"By the way, what is your name?" he asked presently.

"Ben, sah."

"There is a dollar for you."

"T'ank yo', massah; you is a real gen'man," and Ben's face relaxed into a broad smile.

"You were going out in your boat, I believe."

"Yes, massah. But if I kin do anyt'ing fo' yo' --  -- "

"What of this wreck? Is it the same that one can see from the bluff?"

"Yes, massah, de werry same."

"It's remarkable that it should survive so long."

"Well, yo' see, sah, de rocks am werry high, so de most ob de storms don't git no chance at de wrack. Dat storm wot put de boat up dar was de mos' powerful dat I eber seen in all my born days."

"Is it possible to board the wreck now?"

"Oh, yes, sah! I was ober dar only a few days ago. De ship was struck by lightning in dat las' storm, but de rain put out de fiah."

"I would like to visit the wreck. I have some time to spare to-day, and I am curious to see how such a big vessel looks when cast up high and dry on the rocks."

"I can take yo' ober, sah."

"Very well; do so, and I'll give you another dollar."

"I'll be ready in a minute, as soon as I gits my fishing tackle an' bait out of de boat, sah."

Ben hurried to his craft. As he was lifting his things out he saw a man strolling near. The individual proved to be St. John Ruthven, who had come in that direction in hope of seeing Marion alone.

"Hullo, Ben!" cried St. John. "See anything of Marion to-day?"

"She dun went out in a boat, sah."

"With Jack?"

"Yes, sah."

"What, after that experience in the storm?"

"Yes, sah."

"I should think they would be afraid."

"Da aint so afraid as some folks is, Massah St. John."

"Do you mean that as an insult to me, you good-for-nothing nigger?"

"No, sah. I mean Miss Marion an' Massah Jack are wery stout-hearted."

"My aunt is foolish to let Marion go out with that boy. Some day Marion will be drowned."

"Jack knows wot he is doin', I rackon, sah."

"You don't know him. He is thoroughly reckless. I presume as a nobody his life isn't worth much, but --  -- "

"I rackon his life is as sweet to him as yours is to yo', Massah St. John."

"Can you take me out in a boat after them?"

"Sorry, sah, but I'se gwine to take dis gen'man out, sah."

St. John turned and saw Dr. Mackey standing near, the surgeon having come from the boathouse to listen in silence to the conversation which was taking place.

He had met the doctor at the Oldville tavern the evening before, and bowed stiffly.

"I am sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Ruthven," said the doctor; "but I am curious to visit the old wreck on Hemlock Bluff rocks. Perhaps this man has another boat --  -- "

"Oh, it doesn't matter, Dr. Mackey," answered St. John.

"You are evidently a cousin to Miss Marion Ruthven."

"I am."

"And a cousin to the lad named Jack."

"He is no cousin of mine -- even though my aunt has foolishly treated him as her son."

"Why foolishly?"

"He is a waif of the sea -- cast up from that wreck; yet my aunt presents him to the world as a Ruthven -- when he may be of very low birth."

"Evidently you are proud of your name."

"I am proud, sir, for there is no family in South Carolina which bears a better name. We are descended from St. George Ruthven, one of the knights of Queen Elizabeth's reign."

"I congratulate you, sir, and I now understand how this matter grates upon you. But permit me to state, the boy may prove to be of as high birth as yourself."

"What, Jack? Never!"

"Do not say that. Strange things have happened in this world."

"But he looks as if he came of low birth," responded St. John haughtily.

"There I must disagree with you, Mr. Ruthven."

"Dat's de talk!" muttered Old Ben, as he eyed St. John darkly. "Massah Jack's as good as dat coward any day!"

"As you please, doctor; but I shall hold to my opinion."

Dr. Mackey shrugged his shoulders.

"You have that right. Come, Ben, we will be on the way. Mr. Ruthven, allow me to bid you good-day," and the doctor bowed stiffly.

"Good-day," was the curt response.

Soon the surgeon and Old Ben were in the boat, and the negro was rowing swiftly in the direction of the wreck. St. John walked up the shore, but presently turned to view the doctor from a distance.

"He talks as if he knew a thing or two," muttered the spendthrift to himself. "Can it be possible that he knows something of the past, and is going out to the wreck for a purpose?"



Chapter X.

The Papers On The Wreck.


As the waters of the bay were quiet, it did not take Ben long to row Dr. Mackey over to the wreck on the rocks.

"Be careful how you steps out, sah," said the colored man. "De rocks am slippery, an' you kin twist an ankle widout half tryin', sah."

"I will be careful, Ben. So this is the wreck?"

"Yes, sah."

"I presume all that was movable in the ship has been carried off?"

"Long ago, sah."

"But the inside of the ship itself was not torn out?"

"No, sah. De folks around yeah is too afraid ob ghosteses fo' dat."

"Ah, yes! so I heard -- at least, I would suppose so," replied the doctor, in some confusion. "By the way, you need not remain here. I will visit the wreck alone. You can come back in an hour or so."

"Wery well, massah."

"But don't forget to come back. I don't want to be left here all night."

"Don't worry, sah; I'll be back fo' dat dollah, sah," and Ben grinned.

"Oh, yes! I forgot about the dollar. Well, you shall have it when you take me back to shore."

The doctor walked slowly toward the wreck, glancing back several times to see if Old Ben was following him.

The colored man rowed away in a thoughtful mood.

"Somet'ing is on dat man's mind, suah!" he muttered to himself. "He's gwine ter do somet'ing."

With difficulty the surgeon climbed up to the deck of the wreck. A desolate spectacle presented itself. Everything was charred by the fire.

"Truly a nice place to come to," said the man to himself. "Now, supposing this thing turns out a wild-goose chase, after all? Let me see, the stateroom was No. 15. I wonder if I can still locate it?"

With caution he descended the companion way and entered the main cabin of the stranded vessel. Here he drew from his pocket a candle and lit it.

He walked slowly toward the side of the cabin until he reached a stateroom bearing the number 7 upon the door.

"Seven," he murmured. "And the second from this is eleven. That shows the numbers on this side are all odd. The next must be thirteen, and the next fifteen."

He held the candle to the door, but the number plate was gone. Without hesitation he pushed upon the door, which was already partly open. It fell back, exposing the interior of the stateroom, now bare of all things movable, and covered with dust and cobwebs.

"A dirty job this," he murmured, and set the candle down upon a beam running along the side of a wall. He gazed around the stateroom curiously, as if hardly knowing what to do next.

"The little closet was set in the wall at the foot of the bed. Now which was the foot of the bed? I'll try both ends." He did so, tapping on the woodwork with his knuckles. Presently he found a hole where there had once been a small knob.

"The closet, sure enough!" he cried, and his face took on a new interest. "Now where is that door-knob?"

He hunted on the floor, but no knob came to view. But a bent nail was handy, and this he inserted into the hole sideways, and pulled with all his force. There was a slight creak, and a small door came open, revealing a dark closet about a foot square and equally deep.

If the room was dirty the closet was more so, for a crack at the top had let in both dirt and water, and at first he could see nothing but a solid cake of dirt before him. Digging into this, he presently uncovered a heavy tin box, painted black.

"Eureka! the box at last!" he cried, in a tone full of pleasure. "I am the lucky one, after all!"

He brought the tin box forth and brushed it off. There was a little padlock in front, and this was locked. Bringing a bunch of keys from his pocket, he began to try them, one after another. At last he found one to fit, and opened the box.

"The papers at last!" he murmured, and his eyes gleamed with expectation. "Let me see what there is." He turned them over. "The marriage certificate for one, and letters from his father about that property. And other letters from her folks -- all here, and just what I wanted." He shoved the documents back into the box. "The fortune is mine!"

Returning to the closet he cleaned it out thoroughly, to learn if it contained anything more of value. But there was nothing more there, and presently he blew out the candle, hid the tin box under his coat, and returned to the deck.

Ben was rowing not far away and saw the doctor wave his hand.

"Is yo' ready, massah?" he called out.

"Yes, Ben."

The colored man said no more, but rowed inshore, and in the meantime the doctor hurried down to meet him.

"Did you find any gold, massah?" asked the colored man, his white teeth gleaming.

"Gold! Why, you foolish nigger, what chance is there of finding gold on a wreck over ten years old? The best thing you can do is to break the boat to pieces and take the wood ashore for fuel."

"But de ghosteses, massah! Besides, Mrs. Ruthven wouldn't let us touch dat wrack nohow."

"On account of the boy, I suppose."

"Yes, massah."

"To tell the truth, my man, I have now as much interest in that ship as has that boy or Mrs. Ruthven. It brings back an exciting passage in my life. My visit to the wreck was made to satisfy me concerning several important questions. I was one of the passengers on that ill-fated ship!"

"Golly, massah, yo' don't really mean dat?" And Old Ben's eyes opened widely.

"Yes, I do. I suspected it before; now I am dead certain of it."

At this declaration Old Ben grew quite excited.

"And did yo' know Massah Jack's fadder, sah?"

"Yes, my man, I knew him very well," and there was a significant smile on the doctor's face as he spoke.

"And was he a gen'man, sah? St. John Ruthven t'inks he was common white trash."

"He was a gentleman of high family -- the son of an English nobleman, although born in this country."

"An' Jack's mudder, sah?"

"Was an American lady -- a lady belonging to one of the first families of Massachusetts."

"Golly, a Northerner!" and Ben's face became a study.

"Yes."

"Yo' must visit de house, sah, and tell Mrs. Ruthven 'bout dis. She will want to heah de partic'lars wery much, sah."

"Yes, I will visit the Ruthven home," replied the doctor.

"Yo' know de way, sah?"

"I believe I do."

"I can show yo' de way, an' will do it willingly. So you knew Jack's fadder an' mudder! Golly, but aint dat strange -- after all dese yeahs, too! Jack will want to see yo', ob course."

"And I shall want to see Jack," replied the medical man.

"Jack's a fine lad, sah."

"I am glad to hear it." But, as he spoke, the face of Dr. Mackey became a study.

"Yes, sah; aint no bettah boy in all dese parts, sah."

While talking Ben was rowing steadily, and it was not long before the pair reached shore.

Then the boat was made fast, the oars put away, and the doctor and the colored man started for the Ruthven mansion.



Chapter XI.

Mrs. Ruthven Speaks Her Mind.


Leaving the shore of the bay, St. John Ruthven walked slowly toward the home of his aunt.

It irritated him greatly to think that his cousin preferred the society of Jack to his own.

"I must speak to Aunt Alice about this," he said to himself. "It is getting worse and worse."

He found his aunt sitting in the garden reading. She looked up in surprise at his approach.

"Aunt Alice, can you spare me a few minutes?" he said, after the usual greeting.

"Surely, St. John. What is it that you wish?"

"I wish to speak to you about Marion."

"About Marion?" Mrs. Ruthven looked somewhat surprised.

"Yes. I saw her out again in a boat with that boy."

"That boy? Do you mean Jack?"

"Yes. I wonder you trust her to his care -- after what happened at the wreck."

"Why should I not? Jack understands how to manage a boat. Marion is safe with her brother."

"But he is not her brother," cried St. John.

"Not in blood, perhaps, but in affection. They have been brought up together as children of one family."

"My dear Aunt Alice, do you think you have done wisely in encouraging this intimacy?" he said earnestly.

"What can you mean?" she demanded. "Jack is fourteen years old and Marion is eighteen."

"Of course. But you know nothing of the boy's parentage. He is an unknown waif, cast upon the shore in his infancy, very possibly of a low family."

"No, you are wrong there. Remember, I saw his mother. Everything indicated her to be a lady. The child's clothing was of fine texture. But even if it were otherwise, he has endeared himself to me by his noble qualities. I regard him as a son."

St. John shrugged his shoulders. "You look upon him with the eyes of affection. To me he seems --  -- "

"Well?"

"A commonplace boy, -- a mechanic's child, very possibly, -- who is quite out of place among the Ruthvens."

At this Mrs. Ruthven grew indignant.

"You are prejudiced!" she cried. "I will not discuss the matter farther with you. I wish no one to speak to me against Jack. He is as dear to me as Marion herself."

The young man drew a deep breath. "I am silenced, Aunt Alice. But I wish to speak to you about Marion. She is no longer a child, but a young lady."

"Yes, she is now eighteen," answered Mrs. Ruthven slowly. "But to me she seems a child still."

"Well -- er -- at what age did you marry, aunt?"

"At eighteen."

"Then, Aunt Alice, you cannot be surprised if I have thought of Marion as my future wife. I love her warmly and sincerely."

At this abrupt declaration Mrs. Ruthven was considerably surprised.

"Why, St. John, do you wish to marry that child?" she exclaimed.

"Why not? She is eighteen."

"Yes, but I had never thought of her as old enough to be married. Have you spoken to her?"

"Yes," he returned slowly, and with a cloud on his face.

"And what did she say?"

"Nothing -- that is, she was taken by surprise and did not wish to discuss the matter at present."

Mrs. Ruthven drew a breath of relief. "She was sensible. Have you any reason to think that she loves you?"

"I think she will soon. I am not conceited, Aunt Alice, but I think I have a good appearance and -- I am a Ruthven."

"You are much older than she, St. John."

"I am, but a man of my age is still a young man."

"I should not object if she loved you, but I have never seen any indications of it."

"Will you let her know that you favor my suit?"

At this Mrs. Ruthven shrugged her shoulders.

"But I am not sure that I do," she returned slowly.

"Have you heard anything to my discredit?" he demanded stiffly.

"No, no, St. John; but don't be precipitate. Let the matter rest for the present."

"Well, if you insist upon it, Aunt Alice," he said, his face falling.

"It seems to me best."

"But still, Aunt Alice, if Marion allows her affections to drift in another direction --  -- "

"I do not think she will, for the present. She is more interested in the war than in anything else. Why, if I would allow it, she would go off and offer her services as a nurse."

"Don't let her go, aunt -- I beg of you."

Mrs. Ruthven looked at her nephew curiously.

"What makes you so afraid of this war, St. John?"

"Afraid? I am not afraid exactly," he stammered. "I was thinking of dear Marion. It would be horrible for her to put up with the hardships, and such sights!"

"But somebody must bear such sights and sounds. War is war, and our beloved country must be sustained, even in her darkest hour."

He trembled and turned pale, but quickly recovered.

"What you say is true, Aunt Alice. I have wanted to go to the front, but my mother positively refuses her permission. She is in mortal terror that the Yankees will come to our plantation and loot the place in my absence."

"Do you think you can keep them from coming?"

"No, but I can -- er -- I can perhaps protect my mother."

"If you went off, she could come over here and remain with me."

"She wishes to remain at home. The old place is very dear to her. It would break her heart to have the enemy destroy it."

"I should not wish our place destroyed. Yet the only way to keep the enemy back is to go to the front and fight them."

"Well -- I presume you are right, and I shall go some time -- when I can win my mother over," said St. John lamely.

He wanted to speak of Marion again, but, on looking across the garden, saw his cousin and Jack approaching. Soon the pair came up and Marion greeted St. John with a slight bow.

"We have been out rowing, mother," said Jack, as he came up and kissed Mrs. Ruthven. "It was lovely on the bay."

"Did you go far?"

"We went over to Hoskin's beach. Marion rowed part of the way."

"I hope you had a nice time," said St. John stiffly, turning to Marion.

"We had a lovely time," answered the girl. "Jack is the best rower around here."

"Humph! Why, he's only a boy!" sneered the spendthrift.

"Yes, I am only a boy, St. John, but I reckon I can row as good as you," replied our hero warmly. He had not forgotten the encounter on the road.

"Do you, indeed?"

"Yes, I do. Some day we can try a race. I'll give you choice of boats and beat you."

At this Marion set up a merry laugh.

"I believe Jack can beat you at rowing, St. John," she said.

"I never race with boys," answered the spendthrift, more stiffly than ever.

"I'll race you to-day," went on Jack. "And I've rowed three or four miles already."

"Oh, Jack! you are too tired and the sun is too strong," remonstrated Mrs. Ruthven, although inwardly pleased to see the lad stand up for himself.

"I said I never raced with boys," said St. John.

"I would like to see a race," came from Marion. "I dare you to row Jack, St. John."

"Let us make it to the rocks and back," said Jack. "And you can have any of the boats you please. I dare you to do it," and he looked at St. John defiantly.

"St. John may be tired. Perhaps he has been working," suggested Mrs. Ruthven, although she knew better.

"No, he has been walking and resting along shore," said Marion. "We saw him from our boat."

"I'll give you another advantage, besides choice of boats," said Jack, bound that St. John should not back out. "I'll carry Marion as extra weight."

"Oh, that wouldn't be fair!" cried the girl. "Let St. John carry mamma."

"No, I must decline to go," said Mrs. Ruthven.

"I'll take Marion, and St. John need carry only himself," said our hero. "I am certain I can beat him. I dare him to take me up."

There seemed no help for it, so St. John gave in, and soon the three were on the way to Old Ben's boathouse.



Chapter XII.

The Boat Race On The Bay.


"I think this is a very foolish proceeding," observed St. John as they walked along.

"I think it's going to be lots of fun," replied Marion. "The one who wins shall receive a lovely bunch of roses from me."

"Then I'll win," said the spendthrift, and bestowed a meaning smile upon her, which instantly made her turn her head.

They used a short cut to the beach, consequently they did not meet Old Ben and Dr. Mackey.

When the boathouse was gained they went to inspect the four boats lying there.

St. John knew the boats well, for he was by no means an unskilled rower.

He picked out the lightest of the craft, one which was long and narrow, and also took the best pair of oars.

Marion was going to remonstrate, but Jack silenced her.

"But, Jack, if you have a poor boat, and carry me, too --  -- " she began, in a whisper.

"I'll beat him, anyway," replied our hero. "I know I can do it."

Soon they had the boats out.

Marion half expected St. John to invite her to enter his craft, but in this she was mistaken. The spendthrift was afraid that the extra weight would prove fatal to his success. Yet it angered him to have his cousin go off with Jack.

"Marion, you ought to remain on shore," he said. "The race ought to be rowed with both boats empty."

"Well, if you think best --  -- " she began.

"No, Marion, you are to go with me," put in Jack hastily. "I said I would row with you in my boat, and I will."

"But I am quite a weight --  -- "

"Never mind; jump in."

As there seemed no help for it, Marion entered Jack's boat and our hero pulled a rod away from the shore.

"Now where is the race to be?" asked St. John, as he followed Jack's example and pulled off his coat.

"Let Marion decide that," said the youth promptly.

"Then make it to the Sister Rocks," said Marion. "Each boat must go directly around the rocks."

"That suits me," said Jack.

"It's a good mile and a half," grumbled St. John. He had no desire to exert himself in that warm sun.

"It's no farther for you than for Jack," answered the girl. "Come, are you ready?"

There was a pause, and then St. John said that he was.

"And you, Jack?"

"All ready, Marion."

"Then go!" cried the girl.

The four oars dropped into the water and off went the two boats, side by side.

St. John, eager to win for the sake of finding favor in Marion's eyes, exerted himself to the utmost, and soon forged ahead.

"Oh, Jack! he is going to beat," cried the girl, in disappointment. "I am too much of a load for you."

"The race has but started," he replied. "Wait until we turn the rocks and then see who is ahead."

On and on went the two boats, St. John pulling strongly, but somewhat wildly -- a pace he could not keep up. Jack rowed strongly, too, but kept himself somewhat in reserve.

When half the distance to the Sister Rocks was covered St. John was four boat-lengths ahead.

"Ha! what did I tell you!" he cried. "I will beat you, and beat you badly, too!"

"'He laughs best who laughs last,'" quoted Jack. "Marion, sit a little more to the left, please. There, that's it -- now we'll go along straighter."

"I wish I could help row," she said. "But that wouldn't be fair. But, oh, Jack! you must beat him!"

Slowly, but surely, they approached the Sister Rocks. Being ahead, St. John turned in, to take the shortest cut around the turning-stake, if such the rocks may be called.

"Too bad, Jack, you will have to go outside," cried Marion.

"Never mind, I'll beat him, anyway," answered our hero, and now let himself out.

The added strength to his stroke soon told, and before long he began to crawl close to St. John's craft. Then he overlapped his opponent and forged ahead.

"Hurrah! you are ahead!" cried Marion excitedly, but in a voice her cousin might not hear. "Keep up, Jack; you are doing wonderfully well."

Our hero did keep up, and when he reached the first of the Sister Rocks he was more than two boat-lengths ahead.

He knew the rocks well, and glided around them skillfully, with just enough water between the rocks and the boat to make the turning a safe one.

"Now for the home stretch!" he murmured, and began to pull as never before. He felt certain he could defeat St. John, but he wished to make the defeat as large as possible. "He'll find even a nobody can row," he told himself, with grim satisfaction.

To have Jack go ahead of him drove St. John frantic, and as he drew closer to the rocks he became wildly excited.

"He must not win this race -- he a mere nobody," he muttered. "What will Marion think if he wins?"

The thought was maddening, and he pulled desperately, first on one oar and then on the other. Around the rocks the waters ran swiftly, and before he knew it there came a crash and his craft was stove in and upset. He clutched at the gunwale of the boat, but missed it, and plunged headlong into the bay.

When the mishap occurred Jack was paying sole attention to the work cut out for him, consequently he did not notice what was taking place. Nor did Marion see the disaster until several seconds later.

"St. John will --  -- " began the girl, and then turned deadly pale. "Oh, Jack!" she screamed.

"What's the matter?" he cried, and stopped rowing instantly.

"Look! look! St. John's boat has gone on the rocks and he is overboard!" she gasped.

"How foolish for him to row so close," was Jack's comment. And then he added, in something like disgust, "I reckon the race is off now."

"We must go back for him," went on Marion. "See, he has disappeared."

The girl was right, the weight of St. John's clothing had carried him beneath the surface. The swiftly running water had likewise caught him, and when he came up it was at a point fifty feet away from the nearest rock.

"He will be drowned, Jack!"

"Help! help!" came in a faint cry from the spendthrift. "Help me, Jack! Don't leave me to perish!"

"Keep up, I'm coming!" answered Jack readily, and as quickly as he could he turned his boat and pulled in the direction where St. John had again sunk from sight.

The spendthrift was but an indifferent swimmer, and the weight of his clothing was much against him. Moreover, he was scared to death, and threw his arms around wildly instead of doing his best to save himself.

He had gone down once, and now, as Jack's boat came closer, he went down a second time.

"Oh, Jack! he will surely be drowned!" gasped Marion, and she placed her hands over her eyes to keep out the awful sight.

"Look to the boat, I am going after him!" cried our hero suddenly, and leaping to the bow, he dove into the bay after the sinking young man.

LEAPING TO THE BOW, HE DOVE INTO THE BAY AFTER THE SINKING YOUNG MAN. -- Page 92.

He had been afraid of bringing the craft closer and hitting St. John. Now he struck out boldly, and then made a second dive, coming up close to the spendthrift's side.

St. John wished to cry out, but the words would not come. Espying Jack, he grabbed for the lad and clutched him around the throat.

"Don't hold on so tight!" cried Jack in alarm. "I will save you. Take hold of my shoulder."

But St. John was too excited to be reasoned with, and instead of letting up, he clung closer than ever, so that soon both were in peril of going down.

"Let up, I say!" repeated Jack, and then, drawing up one knee, he literally forced the young man from him. Then, as St. John turned partly around, he caught him under the arms and began to tread water.

By this time Marion was at the oars, her temporary fear vanishing with the thought that not only St. John, but also Jack, was in peril. With caution she brought the rowboat closer.

"Catch hold there," said Jack, and seeing the boat, St. John made a wild clutch for the gunwale, nearly upsetting the craft.

"Don't -- you'll have me in the water next!" screamed Marion. Then Jack steadied the boat, and St. John scrambled in over the stern, to fall on the bottom all but exhausted, and so frightened that he could not utter a word. Jack followed on board.

"Oh, St. John, what a narrow escape!" gasped Marion, after Jack was safe. "I thought you would surely be drowned!"

For the moment St. John did not speak. He sat up, panting heavily.

"The race is off," said Jack. "Shall I go after your boat, St. John?"

"I don't care," growled the spendthrift, at last. "Where is she?"

"Caught between the rocks."

"Let Old Ben get the boat," put in Marion. "Both of you had better get home with your wet clothing."

"I'm all right," answered the spendthrift coolly.

"St. John, Jack saved your life."

"Oh, I would have been all right -- although, to be sure, my boat was wrecked."

"Why, what would you have done?" asked Marion, in astonishment.

"I would have swam to shore, or else crawled on the rocks and signaled Old Ben to come out after me," answered St. John.

He never thought to thank Jack, and this made Marion very indignant.

"Jack did a great deal for you, St. John," she exclaimed. "And he won the race, too," she added, and would say no more.

Without loss of time Jack rowed the boat back to the landing and St. John leaped out. He wished to assist his cousin, but she gave her hand to Jack. Then the three walked toward the plantation in almost utter silence.



Chapter XIII.

Dr. Mackey Tells His Story.


Left to herself, Mrs. Ruthven grew restless and began to walk around the garden, examining the flower beds and the shrubbery.

She did not like what St. John had had to say concerning Marion. While she did not exactly fear the young man, yet she had heard several reports which were not to his credit.

"They say he gambles on horse races," she thought. "And I have heard that the plantation is heavily mortgaged. Perhaps he wishes to marry Marion only for the money she may bring him. And then it is not right for him to remain around here when other men are at the front, serving their country's flag."

She remained in the garden for some time, and was on the point of moving for the house when she saw Old Ben approaching with Dr. Mackey.

"A stranger -- and dressed in the uniform of a Confederate," she said, half aloud. "What can he wish here?"

"Good-afternoon, missus," said Old Ben, removing his hat. "Here am a gen'man as wishes to see yo'," and he bowed low.

"To see me?" said Mrs. Ruthven.

"Yes, madam," replied the doctor. "Permit me to introduce myself. I am Dr. Mackey, a surgeon attached to the Fifth Virginia regiment," and he bowed gravely.

"I am happy to make the acquaintance of an officer in our army, sir," replied Mrs. Ruthven, and held out her hand.

"I understand the late Colonel Ruthven was also of our army, and died at a gallant charge on the field of Gettysburg," continued the doctor, as he shook hands.

"You have been correctly informed, doctor."

"De doctor brings most important information, missus," put in old Ben, who was almost exploding to tell what he knew.

"Is that so?" cried Mrs. Ruthven. "What is it?"

"I came to speak to you about yonder wreck on Hemlock Bluff rocks," said the surgeon. "The sight of that wreck has taken me back to the affairs of about eleven years ago."

"So you were -- you knew of it at that time, sir?"

"Yes, I was one of the passengers on the ship, madam."

"A passenger! I thought all of the passengers were drowned, -- I mean all but those who came ashore here."

"I was not drowned. I was swept overboard before our ship came into the bay, and clung to a spar for hours, until the storm abated. Then a ship bound for Cuba came along and took me on board and carried me to Havana. The shock and the exposure were too much for me, and when I recovered physically the authorities at the hospital adjudged me insane, and I was placed in an asylum for years. Slowly my reason returned to me, and at last I left the island of Cuba and came to the Southern States. This was shortly after the war had broken out, and, knowing nothing else to do, I offered my services to General Lee, and was accepted and placed in the hospital corps."

"But why did you not come here before?"

"I could not tell exactly where the ship had stranded, and did not hear of the wreck on Hemlock Bluff rocks until about three weeks ago. Then I determined to make an investigation. I have now visited the wreck and have learned positively that it is that of the ship upon which myself, my wife, and our little son took passage."

"Yourself, your wife, and your little son," repeated Mrs. Ruthven, and then of a sudden her breast began to heave. "Your wife and son were with you?"

"Yes, madam."

"Wha -- what was your little son's name?" she faltered, hardly able to go on.

"Jack."

"By golly, he must be our Jack's fadder!" burst out Old Ben. "Now don't dat beat de nation!"

"Jack! No! no! You -- you cannot be our Jack's father!" cried Mrs. Ruthven.

"I understand you are very much attached to the boy," went on Dr. Mackey smoothly. "It is a pity. Yes, he is truly my son."

The tears came into Mrs. Ruthven's eyes, but she hastily brushed them away. "Jack does not look much like you," she declared.

"That is true, but he bears a strong resemblance to my dead brother Walter, and that is what made me certain he is my son. I saw him in town a day or two ago, although he did not see me."

"This is very strange." The lady hardly knew how to go on. The thought that she might have to give up Jack was a bitter one. "Have you spoken to Jack yet?"

"No. Isn't he here?"

"No, he went for a boat race, against his cousin, St. John Ruthven -- I mean my nephew," she stammered.

"Do you expect him back soon?"

"I do not believe he will be gone more than an hour or so."

"Then I will wait."

"Of course, Dr. Mackey. Will you come into the house?"

The surgeon was willing, and the lady led the way. But presently she turned back to beckon to Old Ben.

"Go after Jack at once," she said. "Tell him it is important, but do not say anything more to anybody." Ben nodded, and without further delay strode off.

"I have heard something of how the wreck struck here and how my poor wife was cast ashore with Jack in her arms," said the doctor, as he threw himself into an easy-chair. "I should be very much gratified to receive the particulars from your lips. Did my wife have anything to say?"

"Nothing much, sir. She was delirious up to the moment of her death."

"Poor, dear Julia!" murmured the surgeon, and bringing out his handkerchief, he wiped his eyes with much affectation.

"Was her name Julia?" asked Mrs. Ruthven curiously.

"Yes, madam." The doctor looked up suddenly. "What makes you ask?"

"It ran in my mind that before your wife died she murmured something about her name being Laura."

"Poor dear! she was truly out of her mind," replied the surgeon. "But it is not to be wondered at -- considering what happened to me." And he proceeded to make use of his handkerchief again.

Mrs. Ruthven sank into a chair and gave herself up to bitter reflection. What if this man should take Jack from her? The plantation would seem very lonely without him.

Voices were now heard in the garden, and looking out of the window the lady of the house saw Jack approaching, accompanied by Marion and Old Ben. St. John had taken himself off, in order to get home and exchange his wet clothing for dry garments.

"Oh, Jack! what does this mean?" cried Mrs. Ruthven when she saw that our hero was dripping wet.

"He saved St. John's life, mamma," exclaimed Marion.

"Saved St. John's life?"

"Yes. St. John's boat struck on the rocks, and he went overboard. The current was strong, and he would have been swept away only Jack leaped overboard and went to his assistance."

"You noble boy!" murmured Mrs. Ruthven, and as he came in, by way of one of the long veranda windows, she caught him by both hands.

"Old Ben said you wished to see me," replied Jack, and then he caught sight of Dr. Mackey and his face fell. "The man I had the row with," he thought.

"Jack, this is Dr. Mackey," said Mrs. Ruthven, in strained tones. "He -- he came here to see you." She could get no further.

"To see me? What for?"

"My boy, I am pleased to meet you," said the doctor, rising and extending his hand. And he then added in a lower voice, "How like Walter! How very like Walter!"

"I -- I don't understand you," stammered Jack. "What do you want of me?"

"My boy, you are thinking of that encounter we had on the bridge. Let us both forget it. I came here on a most important mission. Jack, I am your father!"

"My father?" And our hero leaped back in astonishment.

"Yes, my son, I am your father." Dr. Mackey caught our hero by the hand. "No doubt the news seems strange to you. Nevertheless, it is true."

Jack hardly heard the latter words, for his head was in a swim. This crafty-looking, overbearing individual his parent? The shock was an awful one. He turned to his foster mother.

"Mother, is this true -- is this man my real father?" he cried beseechingly.

"So he claims," returned Mrs. Ruthven.

"My dear, dear son, I trust you do not disbelieve me," said the doctor, in an apparently hurt tone of voice.

"I -- I don't know what to say," faltered Jack. "This is so strange -- so unexpected. Why didn't you come here before?"

"I have just been telling Mrs. Ruthven my story," and the surgeon repeated what he had said, with several added details. As the man went on our hero's face grew very pale, and he moved slowly towards Mrs. Ruthven and clutched her by the shoulder.

"Mother, I don't want to leave you!" he whispered hoarsely. "I don't like this man, even if he is my father!"

"I do not want you to leave me, Jack," she answered, embracing him in spite of the fact that he was dripping wet. "But if this man is really your father --  -- "

"Make him prove it!"

"You will not take his word?"

"No! no! I do not like his looks. He is the man who met me on the bridge and treated me like a slave."

Marion had listened to the conversation with a look of horror slowly rising on her face. Now she rushed toward Jack.

"Jack, can this be true, and must I give you up?" she sobbed.

"No, I'm not going to give you up, Marion. We have always been brother and sister, and so we shall remain -- if you are willing."

"Yes, dear Jack; stay by all means."

By this time Dr. Mackey had arisen to his feet, and now he came up to Jack with a darkening face.

"Did I understand you to say that you wished me to prove I was your father?" he demanded harshly.

"Yes, I do wish you to prove it," answered Jack, with a boldness born of desperation. "And until you prove it I shall remain here -- if Mrs. Ruthven will let me."

"By golly, dat's de talk!" came from Old Ben, who was hanging around on the veranda.

"Shut up, you worthless nigger!" cried the doctor, at which Ben disappeared like magic.

"This is a very -- ahem -- a very strange way to treat a newly found father, Jack."

"I don't acknowledge you as my father."

"Ha! you won't believe me?"

"I will not, sir, and until you prove your claim in court I shall remain with the lady who has been a real mother to me," answered our hero pointedly and firmly.



Chapter XIV.

Jack Speaks His Mind.


A dead silence followed our hero's declaration to remain with Mrs. Ruthven until Dr. Mackey had proved his claim to Jack in a court of law.

"This is a fine way to talk!" ejaculated the surgeon at last. "A fine way, truly!"

"I mean what I say!" declared Jack. "Mother, am I right or wrong?" And he turned pleadingly to Mrs. Ruthven.

"Dr. Mackey will certainly have to establish his claim to you before I give you up, Jack," replied the lady of the plantation quickly. "You see, I have adopted him legally, and he has been as dear to me as though he were my own flesh and blood."

"Well -- er -- of course, in one way, your decision does you credit, madam," answered the surgeon lamely. "You have done a great deal for the lad, and for that I must be as thankful as he is. When I have proved my claim I will pay you back all the money you have spent upon him."

"I shall not wish a cent, sir."

"Yet I shall insist, madam."

"Are you wealthy?" asked Marion curiously.

"Yes, Miss Ruthven -- or I will be as soon as I have proven my identity. As yet I have been able to do but little. Let me add, Mackey is not my real name."

"What is your real name?" questioned Mrs. Ruthven.

"I will reveal that later, when I have taken the proper steps in law to obtain the vast property which is rightfully coming to me. You see, when I disappeared, so to speak, nearly eleven years ago, my property went into the hands of distant relatives, and they hate to give it up, and are just as anxious to prove me an impostor as you seem to be."

"I am not anxious to prove you an impostor, Dr. Mackey; my heart is wrapped up in Jack, that is all. If he is your son, I will rejoice that he will be well off."

"I don't want to be rich; I would rather stay with you," put in our hero quickly, and he meant what he said.

"Your affection for your foster mother does you credit, Jack," said the doctor smoothly.

"She has been the best of mothers to me; so why shouldn't I love her?"

"True, my son, true. But it is strange that you have no warm feeling for me -- such as I have for you."

"You are a stranger to me."

"I trust your feeling towards me changes, for I want my only son to love me."

At this Jack was silent, and instead of looking at the man he looked at Mrs. Ruthven and at Marion. Then, unable to control his feelings, he rushed from the room, mounted the stairs, and burst into his own apartment, where he threw himself on the bed, wet as he was, to give himself up to his misery.

"I don't want that man for a father!" he cried, over and over again, half tearfully and with set teeth. "I don't want him! He isn't a bit like anybody I could love! Oh, how I wish I had never set eyes on him!"

"It is a great shock to Jack, and to all of us," was Mrs. Ruthven's comment, after the lad was gone.

"My reception here has been a great shock to me," said the doctor bluntly. "My own son runs away from me."

"He had some trouble with you a couple of weeks ago."

"Pooh, that was nothing! I had almost forgotten it."

"Jack does not forget such things easily. Moreover, he is slow to make friends with anybody."

"He doesn't know the chances he is throwing away. Were it not that he is my son, and my heart goes out toward him, I would never bother him."

"What chances has he?" asked Marion.

"I shall be very rich; and, not only that, our family has a famous name in England, with a title attached. Jack may some day be a nobleman."

"I reckon he'd rather be an American," answered Marion.

"Well, there is no accounting for tastes," said the surgeon dryly. "And you evidently have him well drilled in."

"What actual proofs have you that Jack is your son?" asked Mrs. Ruthven, after a painful pause.

"I have a number of private papers; also the marriage certificate which proves that I married Jack's mother. More than that, I expect soon to meet an old college chum who knows much of the past, and who can testify in my behalf."

"Well, on my own account and on Jack's, I feel that I must make you prove your claim, Dr. Mackey. It will be hard enough to give up the boy when I am assured that he is really your own."

"I will not discuss the situation further," cried the doctor, moving stiffly toward the door. "But unless you wish me to take immediate steps to take Jack from you, you must make me one promise."

"And what is that, sir?"

"That you will not spirit the boy away from this plantation, so that he cannot be brought into court when wanted."

"I will promise that. I do not wish to do anything contrary to law."

"Then that is all for the present, Mrs. Ruthven, and I will bid you good-day."

"When do you expect to come back again?"

"As soon as my duties will permit. The Yankees are pressing us hard, and I cannot neglect my duties as a surgeon in our army."

In a moment more the doctor was gone. Mrs. Ruthven watched him out of sight, then sank in a chair, all but overcome. Old Ben saw her and came up, hat in hand, his honest face full of genuine grief.

"Missus, dis am de worst wot I eber did heah," he said. "De idea, dat dat man wants to take our Jack away! It am dreadful!"

"Yes, Ben; I do not know how I can endure it."

"He don't look like Jack one bit; not one bit, missus!"

"I know it, Ben. He says Jack resembles his brother Walter."

"Maybe he dun nebber had a brudder Walter."

"Evidently you do not believe him?"

"No, I don't."

"Where did you meet him?"

"He cum to de boathouse, and got me to row him ober to de wrack."

"You took him there. What did he want at the wreck?"

"I dunno dat, missus. He tole me to go away fer an hour or so. He went below in de wrack, out ob sight."

"Perhaps he was after something belonging to the past. Did he bring anything away with him?"

"I aint suah about dat, missus. When I rowed him ashore he had a tin box hidden away under his coat, but he might have had dat when I took him ober."

"How large a box?"

"About dis size," and Ben held out his hands.

"He wouldn't be likely to take such a box to the wreck with him. He must have found it on the ship," went on Mrs. Ruthven, with interest.

"Where could he find it, missus? De folks around yeah has tuk everyt'ing off dat wrack long ago."

"Perhaps not. To tell the truth, Ben, I do not like that man's manner at all."

"No more do I, missus. He's got a bad eye, he has," responded the colored man warmly.

"If you see him again, Ben, I wish you would watch him closely."

"I will do it, missus. Yo' can trust Ole Ben."

"You may be able to learn something important."

"If I do, I'll bring de news to yo' directly, missus."

"Perhaps you had better follow him now," went on Mrs. Ruthven suddenly. "If he goes to the battlefield, you can come back."

"I will, missus," and in a moment more Ben was off.

Meanwhile Marion had gone up to Jack's room and knocked on the door. At first there was no answer, and the girl knocked again.

"Who is it?" came in a half-choked voice.

"It is I, Marion. Can't I come in?"

"Yes," answered Jack, and Marion entered the room and sat down beside our hero on the bed.

"Oh, Jack, I'm so sorry for you!" was all she could say.

"Marion, do you honestly think that man is my father?" he questioned anxiously.

"I don't know what to say, Jack. It's all so strange."

"If he was my father it seems to me I ought to feel differently toward him."

"Perhaps it's the shock, Jack."

"No, it isn't. I could never love that man as a son ought to love his father," went on our hero impetuously.

"Hush! you mustn't talk so!"

"I can't help it. I hated that man when we met on the bridge -- and -- and I hate him still!"

"Oh, Jack!"

"It's true, Marion. I don't see why he wanted to come here. I was happy enough, with you and mother."

"He hasn't taken you away yet, Jack. Mother will make him prove his claim first, never fear. She feels as badly almost as do you."

"To me the whole story sounds unreasonable, Marion. If there is a big fortune in the background, that man may only be scheming to get it."

"But, if that is true, why doesn't he ignore you and keep the money for himself?"

"I don't know -- excepting it may be that he wants me in order to make his claim stronger, or something like that. I don't know much about law."

"Neither do I. But if it comes to the worst, mother will get a lawyer and make that man prove everything he says."

The two talked the matter over for a while, and gradually Jack grew calmer. But look at it from every possible light, he could not make himself believe that Dr. Mackey was his father.

Presently Mrs. Ruthven entered the chamber and also sat down to comfort our hero.

"He is certainly a strange man," said she, referring to the surgeon. "He went to the wreck and was aboard alone for some time, so Old Ben tells me."

"What did he do?"

"Ben doesn't know."

"I shall visit the wreck again before long and make a search," said Jack.

The three talked the matter over for several hours, but reached no further conclusions. Jack expected the doctor back the next day, but he did not appear, nor did he show himself for some time to come. In the meantime things of great importance happened.



Chapter XV.

Captain Jack At The Front.


Two days after the conversation recorded in the last chapter the folks living at the Ruthven plantation were disturbed at daybreak by the distant firing of cannon, which continued for over two hours, gradually drawing closer and closer.

"What can this mean?" asked Mrs. Ruthven, in alarm, as she moved to the window. "Can the Yankees be pressing our army back again?"

"I will take the spyglass and go to the roof," said Jack. "Perhaps I'll be able to see something."

Armed with the glass he made his way to the garret of the plantation home, and then up a ladder leading to a scuttle of the roof. Marion, as anxious as anybody, came after him.

Standing on the roof, Jack adjusted the spyglass and gave a long look in the direction from whence the sounds were proceeding.

"What do you see, Jack?"

"I can see nothing but smoke," he answered. "Some is over at Bannock's woods and the other near Townley church."

"Don't you see any of our soldiers?"

"No. The trees are in the way, and all I can see is a stretch of the bay road. Hark! the cannon are at it again!"

"But the sounds are closer," persisted Marion.

"That is true. They must be -- hullo! there come our men, along the bottom of the woods -- they are retreating!"

"Do you mean to say they are coming this way, Jack?"

"Yes, Marion. See for yourself!" And he handed the girl the spyglass.

Marion took a long look, and gave a sigh. "You are right, our brave soldiers are suffering another defeat. Perhaps they will come to our plantation!"

"If they do, we ought to do all we can for the wounded," answered Jack quickly.

"To be sure. Oh, see! they are running this way as fast as they can -- fully two regiments of them!"

Again Jack took the glass. "Yes, and now I can see the Yankees. My, what a lot of them! At least twice as many men as there are on our side. I really believe they are going to push on to here, Marion!"

At this the girl turned pale. "And if they do?"

"We must defend ourselves as best we can," answered Jack. "Do you know what I am going to do? Call out the Home Guard!"

"But, Jack, you may be shot down?"

"If I am, it will be only at my post of duty, Marion."

So speaking, Jack leaped down the ladder into the garret and ran downstairs. He met Old Ben just coming into the house, accompanied by Darcy Gilbert.

"Darcy! just the fellow I want to see! And Old Ben, too!"

"The Yankees are coming!" answered Darcy.

"I know it, Darcy. I was going to call out the Home Guard."

"Exactly my idea."

"Old Ben can help you get the boys together."

"'Deed I will, Massah Jack, if yo' wants me to," responded the colored man.

Darcy and Ben were soon off and Jack re-entered the house, to be confronted by Mrs. Ruthven.

"What are you up to, Jack?"

"I have called out our Home Guard, mother. The Yankees shall not destroy this plantation or molest you and Marion."

"You must do nothing rash, Jack."

"I will be careful. But this is private property, and you and Marion are ladies, and our enemy must remember this," responded Jack, and ran off to don his uniform and his sword.

Inside of half an hour the members of Jack's company began to appear, until there were nineteen boys assembled. Each had his gun or his pistol fully loaded, and the appearance made by the lads, when drawn up in a line, was quite an imposing one.

"Ise got a pistol," said Old Ben, showing a long, old-fashioned "hoss" pistol on the sly. "If anybody tries to shoot Massah Jack, he will heah from dis darky, suah."

"Thank you, Ben," answered our hero. "You always were true to me. If ever I grow up to be a man and get rich, I shan't forget you," and this made Old Ben grin from ear to ear.

Presently there was a clatter on the road beyond the plantation, and a Confederate battery, drawn by horses covered with foam, swept past.

"The Yanks are coming!" was the cry. "Get indoors and hide your jewelry and silverware!"

"They are coming!" muttered our hero. He called the boys together. "Home Guard, attention!" he cried out. "Line up here. Carry arms! Boys, are you willing to stand by me and help me to keep my mother's house from being ransacked?"

"Yes! yes!" was the ready reply.

"Hurrah for Captain Jack!" put in several of the more enthusiastic ones.

"Thank you, boys. We won't fight unless we have to. But if it comes to that, let everybody give a good account of himself."

"We will! We will!"

Soon another battery swept by the house, the horses almost ready to drop from exhaustion. Marion saw this and whispered to her mother.

"Let me do it, mother," she pleaded.

"If you so much wish it," answered Mrs. Ruthven.

With all speed the girl ran to the barn and brought out her own horse, a beautiful black, and ran him to the road.

"Take my horse and hitch him to yonder cannon!" she cried. "He is fresh -- he will help you save the piece!"

"Good fer you, young lady!" shouted one of the cannoneers. "We've got friends yet, it seems!" The horse was taken, and the cannon moved on at a swifter pace than ever.

"That was grand of you, Marion!" cried Jack. He knew just how much she thought of the steed she had sacrificed, her pet saddle horse.

And now came several of the hospital corps, carrying the wounded on stretchers, and also several ambulances. In the meantime the shooting came closer and closer, and several shells sped over the plantation, to burst with a crash in the woods beyond.

"The battle is at hand! God defend us!" murmured Mrs. Ruthven.

Several Confederates with stretchers were crossing the lawn. On the stretchers lay three soldiers, all badly wounded.

"We can't carry them any further, madam," said one of the party. "Will you be kind enough to take them in?"

"Yes, yes!" cried Mrs. Ruthven. "Bring them in at once. We will do our best for them!" And she summoned the servants to prepare cots on the lower floor, since it would have been awkward to take the wounded upstairs.

The stretcher-carriers were followed by others, until six wounded Confederates lay on cots in the sitting room. A young surgeon was at hand, and he went to work without delay, and Mrs. Ruthven and Marion assisted.

And now the army was passing by the plantation, some on foot, some on horseback, and all exhausted, ragged, covered with dust and dirt, and many badly wounded. The shooting of small-arms had ceased, but the distant cannon still kept booming, and occasionally a shell burst in the vicinity. As the last of the Confederates swept by Jack ran down to the roadway.

"The enemy are coming!" he said, after a long look ahead. "They will be here in less than ten minutes."

Soon the trampling of horses' hoofs was heard, and then came the occasional blast of a trumpet. At last a troop of cavalry swept by, paying no attention to the Ruthven homestead.

The cavalry was followed at a distance by a company of rascally looking guerrillas -- followers of every army -- who fight simply for the sake of looting afterward.

"To the house!" cried the captain of the guerrillas, a man named Sandy Barnes.

"Company, attention!" cried out Jack, and drew up his command across the lawn in front of the homestead.

"Halt!" shouted Captain Barnes. And then he added; "What are you boys doing here?"

"We are the guard of this house," answered Jack, quietly but firmly.

"Guard nothin'! Out of our way!" growled the guerrilla.

"We will not get out of your way, and you will advance at your peril."

"What, will you boys show fight?" queried the guerrilla curiously.

"We will!" came from the boys. "Keep back!"

"This is private property and must be respected," went on Jack. "Besides, the house is now a hospital, for there are six wounded Confederates inside, in charge of a surgeon."

The guerrilla muttered something under his breath.

"Come on, anyhow!" shouted somebody in a rear rank. "It looks like a house worth visitin'!"

"Try to enter the house and we will shoot!" went on Jack, his face growing white.

"Why, youngster, you don't know who you are talking to," growled Barnes.

He stepped forward as if to enter the house by a side door, when Jack ran in front of him and raised his sword.

"Not another step, if you value your life!"

"Out of my way, boy!" And now the guerrilla raised his own sword, while some of his men raised their guns.

It was truly a trying moment, and Marion, at the window, looked on with bated breath. "Oh, if Jack should be killed!" she thought.

But now there came a shout from the road, and there appeared a regiment of regular Federal troops. The guerrillas saw them coming, and gazed anxiously at their leader.

"It's Colonel Stanton's regiment!" muttered a guerrilla lieutenant. "He won't stand no nonsense, cap."

"I know it," growled Barnes. "Right face, forward march!" he shouted, and, as quickly as they had come, the guerrillas left the plantation and took to a side road leading to the distant hills.

But the Federal regiment had seen them, and as the guerrillas ran they received a volley which lay several of them low. They were virtually outlaws, and knew it, and lost no time in getting out of sight.

"Halt!" shouted the Federal colonel as he rode up across the lawn, and one after another the companies behind him stopped in their march. Then the Northerner came closer to Jack and the others of the Home Guard.

"What's the matter here? What does this mean?"

Jack gazed up into the face of the Federal colonel and saw that it was an unusually kindly one. "We are defending this home, sir; that's all. I reckon those fellows who just ran off wanted to ransack it."

"The scoundrels! I've been after them twice before. Was anybody hurt?"

"No, sir."

"You are a young Confederate, I presume?"

"I am the captain of these boys. We call ourselves the Home Guard. We wish to protect our homes, that's all."

At this the face of the colonel broke out into a warm smile.

"You do yourself credit, my lad. You could not do better than protect your homes and your mothers and sisters. Whose place is this?"

"Mrs. Alice Ruthven's."

"Did the Confederate battery just retreat past here?"

"I cannot answer that question, sir."

"Well, it doesn't matter much. We have got them on the run, and that was all we wanted for the present."

"I hope you don't intend to do anything to this place," went on Jack anxiously. "It is private property, and, besides, we have six wounded men here, in charge of a surgeon."

"An officer who is a gentleman always respects private property," was the grave answer. "As long as you do nothing treacherous, you have nothing to fear from me or my men." And so speaking, the colonel rode back to the road.

"A fine-looking man, and a gentleman, if ever there was one," thought Jack. "What a difference between him and that fellow who threatened me with his sword!"

"Will they come back, Jack?" asked Mrs. Ruthven, as she came outside.

"I don't know, mother. But the officer said we had nothing to fear."

"He looked like an honest gentleman."

"So I thought. How are those wounded men making out?"

"One is already dead, poor fellow. But the surgeon has hopes of the others."

"Is Marion helping the doctor?"

"Yes. I want her to come away from the awful sights, but she will not. Jack, she is almost as brave as you are!"

"Pooh! I'm not so brave, mother."

"Yes, you are. Why, that rascal was going to run you through with his sword!"

"Dat he was," put in Old Ben. "But let me tell yo' sumt'ing, missus. I had dat feller covered wid dis hoss-pistol ob mine. If he had tried to slew Jack dat would hab been de end of the rascal, suah pop!"

"Good for you, Ben! Continue to look out for Jack, and I will reward you handsomely," concluded Mrs. Ruthven, and returned to the house.



Chapter XVI.

Colonel Stanton's Visit.


The Federal regiment went into camp up the road, but a short distance from the Ruthven home. The coming of the soldiers filled the whole neighborhood with alarm, but it was soon evident that Colonel Stanton was a strict disciplinarian and did not countenance any pilfering, and then the inhabitants became more quiet. In the meanwhile the Confederate troops had departed for parts unknown. But another battle was not far off.

Attached to Colonel Stanton's regiment was a young man named Harry Powell, a surgeon, who was a nephew to Mrs. Ruthven, although the two had not seen each other for years. Powell was a fine fellow, and well liked by all who knew him, the single exception to the case being St. John Ruthven, who was too much of a sneak to admire anybody so free-hearted and manly.

Harry Powell had drifted to the North several years before, and established a practice in Philadelphia. He was thoroughly opposed to slavery, and when the war broke out lost no time in joining the Federal troops, much to the horror of his two aunts and his cousin Marion. As for St. John, that spendthrift said it was "just like Harry, who had no head on his shoulders, anyway."

On the day following the arrival of the Federal troops Old Ben was making his way to his cabin for some things, when he ran across Colonel Stanton on his way to the Ruthven mansion. The colonel was accompanied by Harry Powell, but the young surgeon now wore a heavy mustache, and for the moment the old colored man did not recognize him.

"See here, my man. I want to talk to you," began Colonel Stanton, as he held up his hand for Ben to halt.

"Yes, sah," and Old Ben touched his hat respectfully.

"Did I understand that this is the plantation of Mrs. Alice Ruthven?"

"Yes, sah."

"Why, it's Old Ben!" cried Harry Powell, striding forward. "Don't you remember me, you old rascal?" and he slapped the colored man on the back.

Old Ben stared in astonishment for a moment, and then his ebony face broke out into a broad smile.

"Bless my soul, if it aint Massah Harry Powell!"

"Of course it is, Ben."

"Yo' is so changed I didn't know yo', sah."

"I suppose I am changed, Ben. Is my aunt at home?"

"Yes, sah."

"Good. I want very much to see her."

Old Ben shook his head dubiously.

"Massah Harry, yo' aint gwine an' joined de Yanks, hab yo'?" he questioned.

"Yes, Ben; I am fighting for the old flag."

"Yo' aunt an' Miss Marion will be wery sorry to heah dat, sah."

"I presume so. But that cannot be helped. I did as my heart dictated, Ben. I want to see all colored folks free, as you are."

"Dat would be wery nice certainly, sah, but -- but --  -- "

"It was too bad we had to fight, you mean." Harry Powell looked up. "Who is that coming?"

"Dat am Massah Jack, sah?"

"Oh! Why, when I was here before he was nothing but a little shaver." The young surgeon raised his voice. "Hullo, Jack! come here."

Wondering who it was who was calling him so familiarly, Jack came forward. He started back upon seeing Harry Powell, and in a Federal uniform.

"You!" he cried.

"Yes, Jack. Come, won't you shake hands with me?" and the young surgeon smiled good-naturedly.

"Well -- that is -- I don't like to shake hands with a -- a Yankee," stammered Jack.

"Oh, so you object to my uniform?"

"I do, Harry. Why did you join the Yankees?"

"Because I thought it best. If you won't shake hands with me as a Yankee, won't you shake hands as a cousin?"

At this our hero's face relaxed, for he had always liked Harry Powell immensely.

"Yes, I'll do that," he said, and they shook hands warmly.

"And how is your mother these days, Jack?"

"Quite well, but a good deal alarmed."

"She need not be alarmed because of us, Jack. Is that not so, Colonel Stanton?"

The colonel bowed. His manner was so pleasant that Jack felt more drawn to him than ever.

"You are kind," he said. "I thought all Yankees were brutes."

"They are far from that, Jack. But I was going to ask, can I see my aunt?"

"I suppose so. But she'll be hurt to see you in that uniform."

"Never mind, I'll risk that," rejoined Harry Powell.

Old Ben continued on his way, and Jack and the others walked toward the Ruthven plantation. Then our hero ran ahead, to tell Mrs. Ruthven of the visitors.

"A fine, manly young fellow, Powell," remarked Colonel Stanton, when he and the young surgeon were left alone.

"Yes, he has turned out a first-rate lad, colonel."

"I presume, were he older, he would be at the head of a regular Confederate command, instead of being at the head of this boyish Home Guard."

"Undoubtedly, sir. But I am glad he is not in the regular ranks."

"Why?"

"I should hate to fight against him, sir."

"I see. Well, this war has brought brother against brother, and worse. To tell the truth, I heartily wish it was over, myself."

In a few minutes more Mrs. Ruthven appeared, her face full of sorrow. As she approached Harry Powell, the tears stood in her eyes.

"My dear aunt, how glad I am to see you, after this long separation!" cried the young man impulsively.

"Oh, Harry! Harry! How can you come here in that uniform?" she returned.

"Let us speak of that later, Aunt Alice. Allow me to introduce you to my superior, Colonel Stanton."

Mrs. Ruthven looked at the colonel steadily, and he bowed gravely. Each saw that the other was of good blood and breeding. The lady of the plantation dropped her eyes.

"Colonel Stanton, courtesy bids me say you are welcome, but -- I beg you to consider that I am a Southern woman," she faltered.

"I hope, Mrs. Ruthven, you will not look upon me as an enemy."

"Are you not in arms against my country?"

"Against your section, yes, but not against your country, madam. I fight under the flag which belongs alike to the South and the North."

At this Mrs. Ruthven shook her head sadly.

"I cannot agree with you, sir. But let that drop. May I ask the news? Have our troops been hopelessly defeated?"

"I cannot answer you, Mrs. Ruthven. Our side has won a battle and the Confederate troops have taken to the mountain side. They may engage us again before long."

"Your troops are encamped but a short distance from here, I believe?"

"It is true."

"Are we to consider ourselves as prisoners of war?"

"By no means, Mrs. Ruthven. I am informed that your house is something of a hospital. Let it remain so."

"Thank you."

"You certainly did not expect ill treatment, did you?" went on the colonel curiously.

"You seem to be a gentleman, I must admit, but I have heard such stories of violence and rapine that I have some reasons to be apprehensive."

"The stories are in most cases baseless and without truth. I hope you are not prejudiced enough to think that Federal officers are destitute of honor and humanity. Every true soldier, no matter under what banner he draws his sword, respects a lady, and would be the last to injure or annoy her."

"I can believe that of you, sir, but you are an exception."

"I cannot accept the compliment. I know many of my brother officers, and I am glad to say that what is true of me is true also of them."

"But your President, Mr. Lincoln, I am told is a cruel monster, intent upon the destruction of the South."

"You are sadly misinformed, Mrs. Ruthven. There never beat a warmer, kinder heart than that of Abraham Lincoln, I know, for I have seen him and spoken with him, and I know that no one sorrows more over the stricken homes and bloodshed of this unhappy strife. He is misjudged now, but posterity will do him justice."

"I cannot believe it. If he deplores the evils of war, why does he not end it at once, and order his hordes of Yankee invaders to throw down their arms?"

"Because the life of the nation is at stake. I do not wish to speak severely of your leaders. They are actuated by a mistaken sense of right. Amid the clash of arms, Reason is silent. We are fighting, not against the South, but for its best good."

"You plead well, Colonel Stanton, but I am not convinced," answered the lady of the house.

At that moment Jack came up again, bringing Marion.

"Marion!" cried Harry Powell, and ran up to her.

"Harry!" she returned, and put out her hand to him.

"Will you shake hands with a Yankee?" he asked. "Jack was rather backward about doing it."

"I am always ready to shake hands with my cousin," she returned, and blushed.

Colonel Stanton was then introduced, and a minute later Harry Powell asked about St. John Ruthven.

"Is he in the ranks, aunt?" he questioned.

"He is not," answered Mrs. Ruthven, and drew down her mouth.

"He cannot leave his mother," put in Marion contemptuously.

"Evidently you think he ought to go?"

"He is a strong, able-bodied man. I would go, were I in his place."

"So would I," put in Jack.

"Then he isn't very patriotic."

"Oh, yes he is -- in words," returned Marion. "But in deeds --  -- " She shrugged her pretty shoulders, and that meant a good deal.

Colonel Stanton and Mrs. Ruthven entered the house, followed by Jack, and presently Marion and the young surgeon found themselves alone in the garden.



Chapter XVII.

A Scene In The Summerhouse.


In years gone by Marion and Harry Powell, as little girl and boy, had thought a good deal of each other.

Now, as the pair faced once more, much of the old feelings came back, and pretty Marion found herself blushing deeply, she could not tell exactly why.

She despised Harry's uniform, yet she felt that he looked remarkably handsome in it, and not such an awful bear of a Yankee, after all. The manliness of the young surgeon's superior had likewise made a deep impression upon her.

Before going into the house Mrs. Ruthven had invited the young man to remain to dinner, and he had readily accepted the invitation. But he was by no means anxious to go into the house with the others.

"It is so nice and cool in the garden, Marion," he said. "Let us remain out here for a while, if you have no objections."

"As you will, Harry. But we need not stand. Let us go down to the old summerhouse. Of course you remember that place."

"To be sure, Marion -- I remember it only too well. How you used to bring in the flowers and make bouquets and wreaths, and open a flower store and bid me buy --  -- "

"And you wouldn't buy, more than half the time," she laughed. "You always were somewhat contrary, Harry. Is that what made you turn Yankee?"

"I hardly think so. I want to see all the slaves set free."

"Is that all?"

"Isn't that enough?"

"Most Yankees want to see the South broken up and ruined."

"No! no! That is a mistake."

The summerhouse was soon gained, and she sat down, and without ceremony he took a seat on the bench at her side.

"This takes me back ten or fifteen years," he declared, as he looked around at the familiar surroundings. "There are the same old magnolias, with the swing, and the same old rose bush, or new ones just like the old. Marion, you ought to be happy here."

"I was -- until the war broke out, and poor papa was killed."

"Yes, that was a shock, and I felt it too, when the news reached me. He was a noble man, Marion."

"So they all say, Harry, but that does not give him back to us. And now another danger threatens us."

"Another danger? You mean the presence of our troops here? Marion, no harm shall come to you, if I can prevent it."

"But I do not mean that. It is concerning Jack."

"What of your brother?"

"Oh, Harry, he is just like a brother to me, and mamma thinks of him as her son! Now a stranger has appeared on the scene, and he wants to take Jack away from us."

"A stranger. Who?"

"A Confederate surgeon named Dr. Mackey. He claims that he is Jack's father."

"But is he?"

"We do not believe that he is. But he says he can prove it."

"This is news certainly, Marion. Will you give me the particulars?"

"I will," and she did so, to which Harry Powell listened with keen interest.

"Humph! And Jack does not like the man?"

"No, he despises him."

"That will make it awkward, if this doctor's story is true."

"He will have to bring strong proofs to make me believe the story, I can tell you that."

"I do not blame you, Marion." The young surgeon mused for a moment. "It runs in my mind that I have heard of this Dr. Mackey before."

"Where?"

"I cannot remember now. But I believe it was while I was practicing in Philadelphia."

"Was he a doctor there?"

"It runs in my mind that he was connected with some bogus medical institute which defrauded people through the mails. But I am not certain."

"If there is truth in this, I wish you would look the matter up, Harry. Mamma will want to know all she can of Dr. Mackey before she gives up Jack to him."

"I will do my best for you, Marion. I love Jack, too -- although he was very young when I went away, if you will remember."

"You have been away a long time, Harry," she replied, and drew a long breath.

"That is true, and I realize it now, although I did not before." He gazed steadily into her face and suddenly caught her hand. "Dear cousin, cannot you forgive me for going over to the enemy?" he pleaded.

She flushed up. "I ought not to, Harry, but -- but --  -- "

"You will, nevertheless?"

"I -- I will think of it," she faltered.

"We were very intimate when I went away. I would not wish that intimacy broken off."

"Were we intimate?" she murmured shyly.

"Yes, indeed. Don't you remember it? You used to sit in my lap."

"How shocking!" she cried. "Are you sure?"

"As if I could forget it."

"You seem to have an awfully good memory for some things," she said slowly.

"I remember something more, Marion. We were like brother and sister in those days, and you used to put your arms around my neck and kiss me."

"I don't believe I ever did anything so dreadful, Harry!"

"I remember it perfectly well."

"Don't you think we had better go into the house now?"

"Don't get angry, Marion. But -- but -- I always did think a lot of you, and always shall -- even if I have turned Yankee."

"Yankee or not, Harry, you will always be very dear to me as my cousin," she returned hastily.

"Speaking of cousins, does St. John come here often?"

"Yes, quite often."

"I suppose he comes to see you?"

"He comes to see mamma and me. He and Jack are not very good friends."

"What, doesn't Jack like him?"

"He considers St. John overbearing, and St. John thinks Jack an intruder, and possibly of low parentage."

"Is St. John married yet?"

"No."

"And he comes here quite often, you say?"

"Yes."

"Perhaps he is going -- that is, he would like to marry you, Marion," blurted out Harry Powell.

At this the girl flushed crimson.

"Well -- he has spoken something of it," she replied, in a low voice.

"The dickens he has!"

"Cousin Harry!"

"I beg your pardon, Marion, but -- but -- this is not pleasant news."

"You mustn't get rough, Harry. St. John says there are no true gentlemen among the Yankees. But I think differently -- now I have met Colonel Stanton."

"Oh, confound St. John! There are truer gentlemen among my fellow officers than he will ever be." Harry Powell took a turn around the summerhouse. "But I forgot. I ought not to have spoken so of your future husband."

"Who said he was my intended husband?"

"Why, you intimated as much."

"I am sure I did not."

"It is the same thing. You said he had spoken of marriage to you."

"That is a very different matter."

Harry Powell took another turn around the summerhouse. "I suppose you love him, though I don't understand how any girl could love such an insufferable bore."

"Harry, aren't you prejudiced against St. John?"

"Perhaps I am. But seriously, Marion, what can you find to admire in St. John?"

"He is a Ruthven."

"That is true."

"If I married him I would still remain a Ruthven."

"Then why not remain an old maid and likewise a Ruthven? It would be far better, take my word on it."

"Then you don't advise me to marry?"

"I don't advise you to marry St. John."

"Oh!"

"Are you engaged to him?" he asked, coming closer.

"I am not."

"I am glad to hear it."

"Are you married, Cousin Harry?" she asked suddenly.

"Me? No, Marion -- not yet."

"I suppose you'll marry some Yankee girl one of these days."

"I don't think so, unless --  -- "

"Unless what?"

"Unless the girl I always did love goes back on me, Marion. Do you think she will go back on me?" and he caught both of her hands in his own.

"Harry, you are a -- a -- Yankee."

"But that doesn't affect my feelings for you."

"A true Yankee ought not to care for a Southern girl."

"And why not?"

"Well, I don't know exactly. But it doesn't seem right."

"Do you mean to say that a Southern girl ought not to care for the man who is fighting as his conscience dictates?" he demanded, turning a trifle pale.

"No, no, Harry! I honor you for sticking to your principles. But we had better say no more at present on this subject." She glanced down the garden path. "See, St. John is coming. Let go my hands."

He dropped her hands and took a seat on the other side of the summerhouse, and a moment later St. John Ruthven presented himself at the doorway.



Chapter XVIII.

Meeting Of The Cousins.


St. John had come up the garden path quickly, and had failed to notice Harry Powell, although he had caught sight of a well-known dress which Marion wore.

Now, when he saw the young surgeon, his face fell, for he had calculated upon seeing Marion alone.

"Excuse me, Marion," he said, "I did not know you had company."

"Come in, St. John," replied the girl. "Do you not recognize my visitor? It is Dr. Harry Powell."

"Oh!" St. John was much surprised, and showed it. "How do you do?" he continued stiffly.

"Shake hands. You are cousins," went on Marion, not liking the dark look which had come to St. John's face.

"Excuse me, but I cannot shake hands with one who wears that uniform," returned the spendthrift, drawing back. "I am surprised, Marion, to see you upon such intimate terms with your country's foe."

Marion's face flushed, and she bit her lip. Harry Powell set his teeth and then smiled coldly.

"I perceive you wear no uniform at all, St. John," he remarked pointedly.

"No. My duty to my mother keeps me at home," stammered St. John.

"If all who have mothers were to remain at home we would have few soldiers."

"It is a very great trial to me to have to remain at home," went on the hypocrite smoothly. "Yet, to my notion, a man is far better off at home than to be wearing a Yankee uniform."

"That is for each man to decide for himself."

St. John turned to Marion.

"Does your mother know that Dr. Powell is here?"

"Yes; she has invited him to dine with us."

"To dine with you!" exclaimed the spendthrift.

"Yes, what is wrong about that?" questioned Harry Powell.

"I thought she was a true and loyal Southern woman."

"I do not follow you," answered Harry Powell hotly. "The ties of blood count for something, even in war times."

"They do not count for as much as that -- to me," said St. John sourly.

"Then I presume you will not care to stop and dine with us, St. John," put in Marion.

"Thank you, no. I will remain another time -- when it is more agreeable, Marion."

So speaking, St. John bowed low to the girl, nodded slightly to the young surgeon, and hurried from the place.

Marion looked at Harry Powell with a face that was crimson.

"Forget the insult, Harry!" she cried.

"It is not your fault, Marion. But what a cad St. John is! I never liked him much. I can easily understand how Jack cannot get along with him."

"I wish he would join the army. It might make a man of him."

"I believe he is too cowardly to don a uniform. But come, let us go into the house, or your mother will wonder what is keeping us."

When they entered the homestead they found Colonel Stanton taking his leave. The colonel was perfectly willing to allow the young surgeon to remain.

"Have a good time, Powell," he said. "And try to convince your worthy relatives that all Yankees are not the monsters they are painted."

"He's a downright good fellow!" cried Jack, when the Federal officer had departed. "I don't wonder that you like him, Harry."

"He is a very nice man," said Marion, and to this Mrs. Ruthven nodded affirmatively.

Dinner was almost ready to be served, and while they were waiting Marion noticed that the young surgeon was studying Jack's face closely.

"What makes you look at Jack so?" she questioned, in a low voice, so that our hero might not hear.

"I was studying his face," was the slow reply.

"Studying his face?"

"Yes. Marion, did you notice how Colonel Stanton looks?"

"I did, although not very closely."

"It seems to me that Jack bears a wonderful resemblance to the colonel."

"Now you speak of it, I must say you are right," answered Marion thoughtfully. And then, after another pause, she continued: "Is the colonel a married man?"

"I hardly think so. I have never heard him speak of a wife or children."

"Then it is likely that he is a bachelor." And there, for the time being, the subject was dropped.

Despite the fact that the house was surrounded by Federal troops and that a portion of the homestead was being used as a hospital, the dinner passed off in a far from unpleasant manner. Mrs. Ruthven was glad to meet her nephew once more, and made him tell the story of his service in detail. Not only the lady of the house, but also Marion and Jack, hung upon the young surgeon's words, and Jack's eyes glistened when he heard about the hard fighting which had been witnessed.

"Oh, how I wish I had been there! I would have helped to beat the Yankee troops back!" he cried.

"You're a born soldier, Jack!" answered Harry Powell. "And I must say I like you the better for it. I can't stand such stay-at-homes as St. John."

"Oh, St. John is a regular -- a regular --  -- "

"Hush, Jack!" interrupted Mrs. Ruthven reprovingly. "He says his mother needs him at home."

"And our country needs him at the front," said Marion.

"We don't need cowards," finished Jack. "Harry, you don't have cowards in your ranks, do you?"

"I am afraid all armies have more or less cowards in the ranks," laughed the young surgeon. "Some fellows would never make soldiers if they remained in the service a hundred years. Human nature is human nature the world over, you know."

"I wonder if Dr. Mackey is a brave man," muttered Jack, but nobody paid attention to this question.

The repast over, Harry Powell took his leave, but promised to come again, if possible, before leaving the vicinity. Marion saw him go with genuine regret, and blushed painfully when, on watching him hurry down the road, he suddenly turned and waved his hand toward her.

"Dear, good cousin Harry," she murmured. "How different from St. John!"

Two days passed and nothing of importance occurred to disturb the Ruthven homestead. On the second day St. John called to see Marion, but she excused herself by saying she had a headache, which was true, although the ache was not as severe as it might have been.

As he was leaving the place St. John ran up against Jack, who had been down to the outskirts of the Federal encampment, watching the soldiers drill.

"Hullo, where have you been?" said the spendthrift carelessly.

"Been down watching the Yankees drill," answered Jack.

"It seems to me you take an awful interest in those dirty Yankees," retorted St. John, with a sneer.

"I take an interest in all soldiers."

"Then why don't you join them, and evince your interest in some practical way?"

"I'd join our troops quick enough, if I was older. I'd be ashamed to stay at home and suck my thumb."

Jack looked at St. John steadily as he spoke, and this threw the spendthrift into a rage.

"Do you mean to insult me by that?" he roared.

"If the shoe fits you can wear it."

"I'll knock you down for the insult."

"I don't think you will."

"Why not?"

"Perhaps you are not able, that's why."

"Pooh! Do you think you can stand up against me?"

"Perhaps I can. Don't forget our encounter on the road."

"You took a mean advantage of me. I've a good mind to thrash you right here."

"You may try it on if you wish, St. John," and so speaking Jack began to throw off his coat.

"Will you take back what you said?"

"What did I say?"

"Said I was a coward for not becoming a soldier -- or about the same thing."

"I won't take back what I think is true."

"So you dare to say I am a coward?" howled the spendthrift.

"If you want it in plain words, I do dare to say it, and furthermore, it is true, and you know it. Your plea that you must remain at home is all a sham. When the Yankees came this way you were all ready to run for your life at the first sign of real danger. You never thought of your mother at all."

"Ha! who told you that?"

"Never mind; I found it out, and that's enough."

"I -- I was suffering from an extremely severe toothache, and hardly knew what I was doing that day."

"I don't believe it."

"You young rascal! you are growing more impudent every day."

"I am not a rascal."

"You are, and an upstart in the bargain. I heard at the village that some Confederate surgeon claims you as his son. Is that true?"

"If it is, it is his business and mine."

"Well, if you are his son, why don't you get out of here?"

"I shall not go as long as Mrs. Ruthven wishes me to remain."

"Does she want you to stay?"

"Yes."

"And Marion wants you to?"

"Yes."

"It is strange. But if I were you I wouldn't stay where I had no right to stay," went on St. John insinuatingly.

"But I have a right here."

"Indeed!"

"Yes. The late Colonel Ruthven adopted me, and I am his son by law."

"Bah! That will count for nothing if this Confederate surgeon can prove you belong to him."

"Well, he'll have to prove it first."

"Of course you won't get out of this nest until you are pushed out," blustered St. John. "It's too much of a soft thing for you. You ought to be made to earn your own living."

This remark made Jack's face grow crimson, and, striding up to St. John, he clenched his fists, at which the young man promptly retreated.

"I am perfectly willing to work whenever called upon to do so," said our hero. "But it is not for you to say what I shall do, remember that. I know why you wish to get me out of here."

"Do you, indeed!"

"I do, indeed, St. John Ruthven. You want to get hold of some of Mrs. Ruthven's property. If I was out of the way, you think she might leave it all to Marion and to you."

"Well, I have more of a right to it than you, if it comes to that."

"But Marion has the best right, and I hope every dollar of it goes to her."

"Well, that aint here or there. Are you going with your father or not?"

"He must prove that he is my father first."

"You won't take his word?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because I do not like the man," and our hero's face filled with sudden bitterness. What if Dr. Mackey should prove to be his parent, after all? How St. John would rejoice in his discomfiture!

"I suppose this Dr. Mackey is a very common sort of man," continued the spendthrift, in an endeavor to add to our hero's misery.

"What do you know about him?"

"Nothing but what I heard at the village."

"Is he down there now?"

"Of course not. He went with our troops."

Jack drew a sigh of relief. It was likely that the doctor would not show himself in the neighborhood for some time to come, probably not until the Federal troops had departed.

"I am going to talk to my aunt of this," said St. John suddenly, and, without another word to Jack, turned his steps toward the plantation home.



Chapter XIX.

A Summons From The Front.


St. John found his aunt too busy to spend much time talking about Jack's past and Dr. Mackey's claim, and it was not long before he took his departure, feeling that he had gained nothing by this new attack upon our hero's welfare.

"I wish I could get him out of the way," he muttered, as he walked homeward, by a side road, so as to steer clear of the Federal troops. "If only he would join the army, and get shot down."

He entered his home filled with thoughts of Jack and Marion, but all these thoughts were driven to the winds after he had read a communication which had been left for him during his absence.

The communication was one from a well-known Southern leader of the neighborhood, and ran, in part, as follows:

"Many of us think it time to call upon you to take up arms as we have done. With our noble country suffering from the invasion of the enemy, every loyal Southerner is needed at the front. Join our ranks ere it be too late. The muster roll can be signed at Wingate's Hotel, any time to-day or to-night. Do not delay."

As St. John read this communication his face grew ashen. "Called upon to join at last!" he muttered. "What shall I do now? What excuse can I offer for hanging back?"

"What is in your letter, St. John?" asked his mother.

"They want me to join the army -- they say every man is needed," he answered, with half a groan.

"To join? When?"

"At once."

"What shall you do?"

"I -- I don't know." His legs began to tremble, and he sank heavily on a chair. "I -- I am too sick to join the army, mother," he went on, half pleadingly.

Now Mrs. Ruthven did not care to have him leave her, yet she was but human, and it filled her with disgust to have her only offspring such a coward.

"You weren't very sick this morning."

"I know that. But the sun has affected my head. I feel very faint."

"If you don't join the ranks, all of our neighbors will put you down as a coward, St. John."

"They can't want a sick man along," he whined.

"They will say you are shamming."

"But I am not shamming. I feel bad enough to take to my bed this minute."

"Then you had better do it," answered Mrs. Ruthven, with, however, but little sympathy in her voice.

"I will go to bed at once."

"You must not forget that your cousin, Harry Powell, is in the army."

"Yes, on the Yankee side."

"Still he is brave enough to go. Marion may think a good deal of him on that account."

"Well, I would go, for Marion's sake, if I felt at all well," groaned St. John. "But I am in for a regular spell of sickness, I feel certain of it."

"Then go to bed."

"Write Colonel Raymond a note stating that I am in bed, and tell him I would join the ranks if I possibly could," groaned St. John, and then dragged himself upstairs and retired. Here he called for a negro servant and had a man go for a doctor.

Much disgusted, Mrs. Mary Ruthven penned the note, and sent it to town, shielding her son's true character as much as possible.

For the remainder of the day St. John stayed in bed, and whenever a servant came into his room he would groan dismally.

When the doctor arrived he was alarmed, until he made an examination.

"He is shamming," thought the family physician. But as the Ruthvens were among his best customers, he said nothing on this point. He left St. John some soothing medicine and a tonic, and said he would call again the next day.

Instead of using the medicine, the young spendthrift threw it out of the window.

"Don't catch me swallowing that stuff," he chuckled to himself. "I am not altogether such a fool."

Several days passed, and nothing of importance happened to disturb those at either of the Ruthven plantations.

But a surprise was in store for Jack and those with whom he lived.

One of the wounded soldiers stopping at Mrs. Alice Ruthven's home was named George Walden. The poor fellow had been shot in the shoulder, a painful as well as a dangerous wound.

For several days he lay speechless, and during that time the Confederate surgeon and Mrs. Ruthven, as well as Marion, did all they could to ease his suffering.

One day George Walden began to speak to Marion.

"You are very good to me," he said. "You are in reality an angel of mercy."

"I am glad to be able to help you, and thus help the Southern cause," replied Marion. "But you must not speak too much. It may retard your recovery."

"I will not talk much. But you are so kind I must thank you. What is your name?"

"Marion Ruthven."

Then he told her his own, and said he had a sister at home, in Savannah, Ga., and asked Marion to write a letter for him, which she did willingly.

After that Marion and George Walden became quite intimate, and the soldier told much about himself and the battles through which he had passed.

"Some of them are nothing but nightmares," he said. "I never wish to see the like of them again."

"And yet you saw only the fighting, I presume," said Marion. "Think of what those in the hospital corps must behold."

"I was attached to the hospital corps," returned George Walden. "I have helped to carry in hundreds who were wounded."

"If you were in the hospital service, did you ever meet a doctor named Mackey?" questioned Marion, with increased interest.

At this question the brow of the wounded soldier darkened, and he shifted uneasily upon his couch.

"Yes, I know Dr. Mackey well," he said, at last.

"You do!" cried the girl. "And what do you know of him? I would like to know very much."

"Is he your friend?" asked George Walden cautiously.

"No, I cannot say that he is."

"Because, if he is your friend, I would rather not say anything further, Miss Ruthven. I do not wish to hurt your feelings."

"Which means that what you have to say would be of no credit to Dr. Mackey?"

"Exactly."

"I would like to know all about him. I will tell you why. You have noticed Jack, my brother?"

"The lad who helped move me yesterday?"

"Yes."

"Of course -- a fine young fellow."

"He is not my real brother. My parents adopted him about ten years ago."

"Indeed."

"Some time ago Dr. Mackey turned up here and claimed Jack as his son."

"Impossible! Why, Dr. Mackey is a bachelor!"

"You are sure of this? He says he was married to Jack's mother, who was shipwrecked on our shore, and who died at this house a few days later."

"I have heard Dr. Mackey declare several times that he was heart-free, that he had never cared for any woman, and consequently had never married."

At this declaration Marion's face lit up.

"I knew it! I knew it!" she cried. "I must tell mamma and Jack at once!"

"Dr. Mackey is a fraud," went on the wounded soldier. "To the best of my knowledge, he comes from Philadelphia, where he used to run a mail-order medical bureau of some sort -- something which the Post-office Department stopped as a swindle."

"My cousin thought he came from Philadelphia," said Marion. "But wait until I call my mother and Jack."

Marion ran off without delay, but failed to find either Mrs. Ruthven or our hero, both having gone to town to purchase something at Mr. Blackwood's store.

"Da will be back afore supper time, Miss Marion," said one of the servants, and with this she had to be content.

"My folks have gone away," she said to George Walden. "As soon as they come back I will bring them to you. I hope you can prove your words."

"I am sure I can prove them," answered the wounded soldier.

"Jack does not like this Dr. Mackey in the least, and the idea of being compelled to recognize the man as his father is very repulsive to him."

"I don't blame the boy. For myself, I hate the doctor -- he is so rough to the wounded placed in his care. He treated one of my chums worse than a dog, and I came pretty close to having it out with him in consequence."

"He doesn't look like a very tender-hearted man."

"He doesn't know what tenderness is, Miss Ruthven. I would pity your brother if he had to place himself under Dr. Mackey's care."

"We won't give Jack up unless the courts make us. My mother is firm on that point."

"But why does he want the boy?"

"That is the mystery -- if Jack is not really his son."

"Perhaps there is a fortune coming to your brother, and the doctor wants to secure it. A man like Dr. Mackey wouldn't do a thing of this sort without an object. I can tell you one thing -- the fellow worships money."

"What makes you think that?"

"Because I know that a wounded soldier once told him to be careful and he would give him all the money he had -- twelve dollars. The doctor was careful, and took every dollar that was offered."

"But had he a right to take the soldier's money?" asked Marion indignantly.

"Not exactly, but in war times many queer things happen that are never told of at headquarters," answered George Walden.

Here the conversation ceased, for the soldier was quite exhausted. Soon Marion gave him a quieting draught, and then George Walden slept.



Chapter XX.

The Storm Of Battle Again.


As related in the last chapter, Mrs. Ruthven and Jack had gone to Oldville to do some necessary trading.

Arriving at the town, they found all in high excitement. The stores were closed, and only the tavern was open, and here were congregated a number of men who had but lately joined the Confederate ranks.

"What is the matter?" asked Mrs. Ruthven of one of the men.

"Another battle is on," was the answer. "We are going to drive the Yanks out of this neighborhood."

"Another battle!" cried Jack. "Where?"

"They are fighting over near Larson's Corners. Can't you hear the shooting?"

"I can hear it now -- I didn't hear it before."

"Do you think they will come this way?" questioned Mrs. Ruthven anxiously.

"Aint no telling how matters will turn," answered the man addressed, and then hurried off to join the other newly enlisted soldiers. Soon the soldiers were leaving the town on the double-quick.

Jack watched the departure of the men with interest, and then espied Darcy Gilbert running toward him.

"Hi, Darcy!" he called out. "Where bound?"

"Jack! Just the one I wanted to meet. There's a fight on."

"So I hear. I reckon we had better call out the Home Guard again."

"By all means. The stores want protection, and so do the homesteads," went on Darcy. "Shall I go down the shore road and call up the boys?"

"Yes, and I'll take the Batsford road. If you see Doc Nivers tell him to call up the boys on the mountain road, will you?"

"Yes. What of those at Brackett's plantation?"

"I'll send Hackett or Purroy after them," answered Jack.

The two lads separated, and Jack turned to his foster mother.

"Mother, you heard what was said," he began. "You don't object, do you?"

"No, Jack; do your duty, as a brave boy should. But be careful -- I cannot afford to lose you!" and she wiped away the tears which gathered in her eyes.

"You will return home?"

"At once."

"If I were you I'd place Old Ben on guard at the plantation. I don't believe anybody will harm the place, now it is flying a hospital flag. Certainly the troops under Colonel Stanton won't trouble us."

"No; he is a gentleman, and I know I can trust him. Dear Harry! I wish he was not with the Yankee army."

"Well, he is fighting according to the dictates of his conscience, so there is no use in finding fault."

Mrs. Ruthven kissed Jack tenderly and hurried off, and then with all speed our hero set to work to summon together the lads composing the Home Guard.

The task was not difficult, for the firing in the distance -- which was gradually coming closer -- had aroused everybody. In less than an hour the Home Guard was out in force on the town green, with Jack in command.

"Boys, we may have some hot work to do," said the young captain. "I expect everybody to do his best. I trust there is no coward among us."

"Not a bit of it!" came back in a shout.

"We aint no St. John Ruthvens," whispered one of the young soldiers, but loud enough for a dozen or more to hear.

"That's so," answered another. And then he continued, "What a difference between our Jack and his cowardly cousin!"

"We are here to defend property more than to take part in any battle," said Jack. "Do not let the guerrillas steal, no matter what side they pretend to be on. A thief is a thief, whether he says he is a Confederate or a Yankee."

"That's right!" shouted the old storekeeper, who stood by.

A little while later the firing came closer, and presently up the road a cloud of dust was seen.

"The Yanks are coming!" was the cry, as a horseman dashed up.

"Coming?" repeated several.

"Yes, they are in retreat!"

A wild shout went up -- cut short by the sudden belching forth of cannon on the mountain side above the town. A little later some Federal troops swept into view.

"They are coming! Get out of the way!"

Soon the soldiers filled the road and the whole of the green. They had been fighting hard and were almost exhausted. Others followed until the streets of the old town were crowded. Then began a systematic retreat northward.

"We've got the Yanks on the run!" was the cry. "Give it to 'em, boys!"

The rattle of musketry was incessant, and ever and anon came the dull booming of cannon. Soon more Federal troops appeared, and those who had come first moved toward the mountain road.

It was a thrilling scene, and Jack longed to take part. But he realized that just now there was nothing for the Home Guard to do. Had they opened fire, the Federal troops would have annihilated them. Nobody molested the stores or town buildings, although the church was hit by several cannon balls. Gradually the fighting shifted to the mountain side, and then in the direction of the Ruthven plantations.

"They are moving toward St. John's place," remarked Jack, some time later, to Darcy. "We ought to go over to see that no damage is done there."

"St. John ought to take care of the place himself," grumbled Darcy. "He won't join the army or the Home Guard. What does he expect?"

Several sided with Darcy, but Jack shook his head. "I am going over. I would like eight or ten to go with me. The others had better remain around town." And so it was arranged.

The coming of the Federalists to the plantation owned by Mrs. Mary Ruthven filled St. John with supreme terror. Hearing the firing, the young man got up and dressed himself. He was just finishing when his mother appeared.

"St. John, Pompey says the Yankees are coming!" said the mother. "You must arm yourself and try to defend our home."

"The Yan -- Yankees!" he said, with chattering teeth. "How -- how near are they?"

"They have passed through the town and are all over the mountain side. Come, do not delay. I have given Pompey a gun and old Louis a pistol. Arm yourself and take charge of them. If we do not protect ourselves, we may all be killed."

Shaking so that he could scarcely walk, St. John went below and into the library, where hung a rifle over the chimney piece and also a brace of swords. He got down the rifle and loaded it. Then he strapped the larger of the swords around his waist.

"Now you look quite like a soldier," said his mother encouragingly. "I hope you can shoot straight."

"I -- I don't want to kill -- kill anybody," he answered. "If I do, the Yankees will be very -- very vindictive."

"But you must protect our home!" insisted Mrs. Mary Ruthven. "Come, brace up!"

Still trembling, and with a face as white as chalk, St. John walked to the veranda of the homestead. He gazed down the road and saw a body of soldiers approaching, in a cloud of dust and smoke. Then a cannon boomed out, and a ball hit the corner of the house, sending a shower of splinters in all directions.

"They have struck the house!" shrieked Mrs. Ruthven. "We shall all be murdered!"

"Spare us! spare us!" gasped St. John, as a company of soldiers came up to the mansion on the double-quick. "We have harmed nobody! Spare us!"

"You big calf!" cried one of the soldiers. "We aint going to hurt you. Git up from yer knees!" For St. John had indeed fallen upon his knees in his abject terror.

"Who -- who are you?"

"We are Confederates -- if you'll only open yer eyes to see. Git up!" And in disgust the Southern soldier pricked St. John's shoulder with his bayonet. The spendthrift let out a yell of fear, rolled over, and dashed into the house, leaving his gun behind him.

"St. John, where are you going?" cried his mother, coming after him.

"Oh, mother, we are lost!" he wailed.

"No, we are not. Go out again, and pick up your gun."

"I -- I cannot! They will -- will shoot me!" he shivered.

"But they are our own men, St. John. You are perfectly safe with them."

But he would not go, and she left him in the hallway, where he had sunk down on a bench. In one way he was to be pitied, for his fear was beyond his control.

Soon the Confederates left the plantation and the Federalists burst into view. The cannon continued to boom forth, and presently came a cry from the rear of the mansion:

"Fire! fire! The house is on fire!"

The report was true, and as the soldiers left the place up went a large cloud of smoke, followed by the bursting out of flames in several directions. Such was the state of affairs when Jack and his followers reached the roadway in front of the plantation.

"The house is on fire!" ejaculated the young captain. "Come, we must put out the flames."

"But the enemy --  -- " began one of the other boys.

"The Yankees are making for the mountain road and our troops are to the westward. I don't believe either will come this way again. Hurry up, or it will be too late!"

Jack ran up to the house with all speed, to meet Mrs. Mary Ruthven on the veranda.

"The house -- it is doomed!" wailed the lady of the plantation.

"Get us all the pails and buckets you have," answered Jack. "And have you a ladder handy?"

"There is a ladder in the stable, Jack. Oh, will you help put it out?"

"We'll do our best. Is St. John at home?"

"Yes," and so speaking, Mrs. Mary Ruthven ran off to arouse her son.

"You must help," she said. "Quick, or we will be homeless."

"But the -- the Yankees?" he asked.

"Are gone." She clasped her hands entreatingly. "Oh, St. John, do be a man for once!"

"A man? What do you mean, mother?" he cried, leaping up as soon as he heard that the enemy was gone. "I am not afraid. I -- I had a sudden attack of pain around my -- my heart, that's all."

"Then, if it is over, save the house," she answered coldly, and ran off to tell the servants about the pails and buckets.



Chapter XXI.

A Lively Fire.


In the meantime Jack and several others of the Home Guard had made their way to the barn and brought forth two ladders, a short affair and one which was both long and heavy.

"The short one can be placed on the veranda roof," said the young captain. "The other we can place against the corner, where the fire is burning the strongest."

"Somebody must have gone into the garret to set that fire," said another of the boys. "Where are the water buckets?"

"Here da am, sah," replied one of the negro servants, and handed them over.

"Somebody must keep at the well," said Jack. "Pompey, you know how to use the buckets best. You draw for us."

"Yes, Massah Jack."

"We'll form a line to the cistern, too," went on our hero. "Now then, work lively!"

The boys ran to the places assigned to them, and aided by the colored servants placed the ladders as desired. Soon water was being passed up and dashed upon the burning roof with all possible speed. But the fire was a lively one, and the breeze which was blowing helped it to spread.

"What can I do?" asked St. John, as he stood by, rubbing his hands nervously.

"Go down to the stable and the barns and put out the sparks blowing that way," said Jack.

"Don't you want me here?"

"Yes, if you'll go up to the top of the ladder," answered our hero, knowing full well St. John would do nothing of the sort.

"I -- I never could climb a ladder," faltered the young man, and turned toward the stable, where he spent his time in putting out the flying sparks, as Jack had suggested.

It was hot work on the long ladder, and soon Jack was all but exhausted. But he stuck to his post, knowing full well that, if he let up, the fire would soon get the best of them. All of the boys worked like Trojans, and the negro servants helped them as much as possible. Mrs. Ruthven remained in the house, packing up her valuables, so as to be able to leave, should it become necessary to do so.

IT WAS HOT WORK ON THE LONG LADDER AND SOON JACK WAS ALL BUT EXHAUSTED. -- Page 173.

"More water!" cried Jack. "The fire is eating to the center of the roof! More water!"

"We are bringing it as fast as we can!" panted the boy below him.

"Make the servants form a line to the cistern."

"I will," answered the boy, and soon the water was coming up as rapidly as Jack and the other lad on the roof could handle it.

At last the fire seemed to lose its force, and was extinguished at one corner of the roof. Then all hands turned their attention to the spot over the veranda. Here the flames had eaten under the gutter.

"We must have an ax!" exclaimed Jack, and one was quickly procured from the woodpile.

"Hi! what are you going to do with that?" yelled St. John, as he caught sight of the article.

"Going to chop a hole in the roof," answered our hero.

"How foolish! You'll make the fire worse."

"No, I won't -- I know what I am doing, St. John."

"You shan't chop a hole in the roof," insisted the unreasonable young man.

A cry of derision went up from half a dozen of the boys.

"Take a back seat, St. John," advised one. "You are too scared to know what you are saying."

At this the spendthrift's face grew as red as a beet.

"Shut your tongue, Larry Wilson," he retorted. "I say you shan't chop a hole in the roof. It will let the wind get to the flames."

"We want to get the water on the flames," replied Larry.

"And I say you shan't touch the roof with the ax!" screamed St. John. "I command you to stop."

"All right then, we'll stop," said Larry, and Jack said the same. In a moment more they were both on the ground, the other lads with them.

"Fo' de land sake, de house will burn up suah now!" groaned one of the negroes.

"If it does, it will be St. John's fault," answered our hero. He was thoroughly disgusted over the way St. John had acted.

"I'se gwine to tell de missus ob dis!" cried a second negro, and darted away in search of Mrs. Mary Ruthven.

Soon the lady of the house came running out, with a bundle in one hand and a box of jewelry in the other.

"What is this I hear, St. John?" she demanded.

"They want to chop in the roof, mother," he answered.

"We must make a hole, so that we can pour the water on the fire," explained Jack.

"Then go and make the hole," returned Mrs. Ruthven readily. "And please be quick!"

"But, mother --  -- " began St. John.

"St. John, they know more about putting out the fire than you do," was the tart reply of the young man's parent. "Let them do as they wish."

"All right then," growled the unreasonable son. "But if the house burns to the ground it will be their fault."

"It won't burn to the ground," answered Jack, and leaped up the ladder again.

Soon our hero was chopping away at a lively rate. In the meantime the others brought all the water possible to the scene.

When a hole was made in the roof the flames shot skyward for six or eight feet. At this St. John uttered a loud cry, almost of exultation:

"There, what did I tell you? Now the house will be burnt to the ground sure!"

"Lively with that water!" shouted Jack, ignoring him completely. And as the pails and buckets came up in a stream, he dashed the contents where they would do the most good.

It was perilous work, for the smoke rolled all around him, and more than once he was in danger of suffocation. But the water now did much good, and soon the flames began to go down.

"Hurrah! we have the fire under control!" shouted Larry.

It was true, and inside of quarter of an hour the last spark was put out. Then Jack crawled to the ground, almost too weak to stand.

"Is it out?" asked Mrs. Ruthven anxiously.

"Yes," answered our hero.

"Oh, I am so glad!" and she caught Jack warmly by the hand. At heart she was a true woman, and could appreciate what our hero had done for her.

St. John stood by in silence, hardly knowing what to say. At last he shuffled into the house.

"The water has made an awful mess," he declared, later, to his mother. "They needn't have drowned out the whole house like this."

"Don't say another word, St. John," answered his mother severely. "I am thankful the fire is out, even if you are not." And then she turned away to direct the servants in clearing away the muss that had been made.

The tide of battle had swept off in the direction of Jack's home, and anxious to know how Marion and his foster mother were faring, our hero soon after left Mrs. Mary Ruthven's plantation, and with him went Larry Wilson and three others of the Guard.

From a distance came the constant cracking of rifles and the booming of cannon.

"Let us take the short cut," suggested Jack, as he pushed across the fields. "There can be no time to spare."

"It is hard to tell who is winning to-day," returned Larry. "At first I thought the Yankees were in retreat."

"So did I, Larry. Well, we'll know how matters stand by night."

As they came in sight of our hero's home a Federal battery dashed into sight, drawn by horses covered with foam. The battery was followed by a regiment of infantry.

"Colonel Stanton's regiment!" cried Jack.

"They are in retreat!" answered Larry. "Look! our soldiers are coming down the hill after them like mad!"

"There is Colonel Stanton on horseback," went on Jack, straining his eyes. "What a fine figure he cuts!"

"Ba, Jack! how can you say that of a Yankee? I have half a mind to shoot him."

As Larry spoke he raised his gun, but Jack pulled it down.

"Don't, Larry!"

"Why not? We are at war, and he is our enemy."

"I know, but --  -- "

"But what? Are you too tender-hearted to be a real soldier?"

"It isn't that, Larry. Colonel Stanton is such a fine man --  -- "

"Those Yankees killed Colonel Ruthven, don't forget that," went on Larry earnestly. "We ought to bring down every one of them -- if we can."

"Perhaps, but I would like to see Colonel Stanton spared -- I cannot tell why."

On swept the soldiers, and for the moment the Federals were hidden by the smoke of gun fire. Then, as they reappeared, Jack set up a cry, half of alarm.

"What is it?" queried Larry.

"Colonel Stanton is shot!"

"Shot? You are sure?"

"Yes. See, he has fallen over the neck of his horse and several soldiers are running toward him. How sad! I wonder if he is dead?"

"If he is, it but serves him right, Jack."

"Perhaps; but I hope he isn't dead," answered Jack, with a peculiar look in his anxious face. As the Federal colonel disappeared from view he gave something of a groan, he could not tell why.



Chapter XXII.

After The Battle.


The Federal battery had gained a hill behind the Ruthven plantation, and from this point began to fire rapidly at the advancing Confederates.

Shot and shell sped over the homestead, and the inmates were, consequently, much alarmed.

"We will do well if we escape this murderous fire," said Mrs. Alice Ruthven to Marion.

"I wish Jack was here," answered the girl. "Where can he be keeping himself?"

"He remained behind to protect the property in town."

The tide of battle grew fiercer, and presently, just as Marion had gone to the kitchen to get something for the invalid soldiers, a heavy shot passed through the sitting room of the house, tearing down the plaster of two walls and damaging much of the furniture.

Of course all in the mansion were much alarmed. The negroes, especially, were panic-stricken, and ran forth in all directions.

"We is gwine ter be murdered," shrieked one. "Da is gwine ter shoot us all ter pieces!"

"Marion, are you hurt?" came from Mrs. Ruthven, who was in the front hallway at the time.

"No, mother. Were you hit?"

"No, Marion."

"Where did the shot strike?"

"Through the sitting room, I believe."

Both ran to investigate, and in the sitting room a sight met their gaze calculated to stun the stoutest heart.

Plaster and splinters lay in all directions, and the wounded soldiers were crying for aid and for mercy, thinking the enemy close at hand.

Under a mass of wreckage on the floor lay George Walden, senseless, and with the blood flowing from a wound in his temple.

"Oh, Mr. Walden is hurt, mamma!" shrieked Marion, and ran to raise him up.

They carried the wounded soldier to another part of the house and laid him on a fresh cot. Then, while Marion cared for him, Mrs. Ruthven went back to aid the others. In the meantime Old Ben was instructed to hoist the hospital flag to a higher point on the mansion.

The shot appeared to be about the last fired in that vicinity, and soon the shooting came from a distance, as Federals and Confederates withdrew in the direction of the mountains.

"Mother! Marion! are you safe?" It was the cry from Jack as he came up, almost out of breath from running.

"Yes, thank Heaven, we are safe so far," answered Mrs. Ruthven. "Where have you been -- at the town?"

"No, I was over to St. John's place," answered our hero, and in a few words told about the fire.

"We, too, have suffered," said Mrs. Ruthven. "A solid shot passed through the sitting room."

"Did it hurt anybody?"

"One of the wounded soldiers was knocked senseless. The others were more frightened than hurt."

"It has been a hot fight all around. And, oh, mother! what do you think? I saw Colonel Stanton shot down!"

"Is that true, Jack?"

"Yes, I saw the whole thing as plain as day. It's too bad. He was such a nice gentleman, even if he was a Yankee."

"You are right. Jack; he was indeed a gentleman. I felt perfectly safe while he was in the vicinity."

It was not long before Jack went upstairs to see how Marion was faring. He found his sister working over George Walden, trying to restore the hurt soldier to his senses.

"He is pretty badly off," said Marion. "I wish we had a doctor."

"Where is that surgeon who was here?"

"Gone to the battlefield."

"I don't know of any doctor to get just now, Marion."

"Then we must do the best we can ourselves. And by the way, Jack, this soldier knows Dr. Mackey."

"What?"

"Yes, and he said that Dr. Mackey is more or less of a fraud, and never was married."

"Oh, Marion! if he could only prove that."

"He thinks he can. He told me that the doctor came from Philadelphia, and Cousin Harry told me the same thing."

"We must follow up this man's record. I am now certain he is not my father."

"The soldier thought that perhaps there was property coming to you, and that Dr. Mackey wanted to get hold of it."

"I don't think he'd be above such a scheme, Marion. I never liked his looks from the first time I met him, at the bridge."

"I know that, Jack."

There was no time to say more, for there was too much to do. Marion continued her work around the sick rooms, and Jack went out to see how matters were faring at the stable and the barns.

He had hardly gained the vicinity of the stable when he heard a commotion going on within. Old Ben and two of the Home Guard boys were having a fight with three guerrillas, who were bent upon stealing several horses.

"Let go dem hosses!" Jack heard Old Ben cry. "Dem is private prop'ty; don't yo' know dat?"

"Git out o' the way, nigger!" cried the leader of the guerrillas. "We want these hosses, an' we are bound to have 'em!"

"If you touch the horses I'll fire at you!" came from one of the Home Guard boys, but scarcely had he spoken when one of the guerrillas raised his pistol and fired on the lad, wounding him in the shoulder.

This cowardly action made Jack's blood boil, and not stopping to think twice, he raised the gun he carried and blazed away. His aim took the guerrilla in the breast, and he sank down seriously, though not mortally, wounded.

A yell went up from the other guerrillas, and they fired at random, but did no damage to anybody but Old Ben, who was shot through the left shoulder. Then the other boys fired, and the guerrillas who could do so took to their heels.

"Ben, are you badly hurt?" asked Jack, when the encounter was over.

"Not wery, Massah Jack," answered the faithful old colored man, and went to the house to bind up his wound.

In the meantime the guerrilla who had been shot lay on the floor, raving and cursing in a frightful manner.

"Stop your swearing, or we'll do nothing for you," said Jack sharply, and then the fellow became more reasonable. He begged to have a doctor care for his wounds.

"We have no doctor here, but we'll care for you as best we can," said our hero, and this was done, although the guerrilla was kept at the stable, on a bed of straw.

At nightfall the fighting came to an end, and all became quiet around the plantation. It had been more or less of a drawn battle, and it was expected that the contest would be renewed at daybreak.

"Are you going to bed, Jack?" asked Mrs. Ruthven, a little after ten o'clock.

"No, mother; I think it best that I remain on guard," he answered. "Some of those guerrillas may come back, you know."

"But you must be tired out."

"I am; but I reckon I can stay up during the night without falling asleep at my post," he said, smiling faintly.

"Do as you think best, Jack; you and Marion must be my mainstays now," and she kissed him affectionately.

Hour after hour of the night wore along and nothing of moment happened. Jack spent the most of the time around the house, but toward daybreak made the rounds of the stable and barns.

He found the guerrilla groaning dismally.

"Give me sum terbacker, will yer?" asked the man presently.

Not wishing to appear too unkind, Jack procured a twist of tobacco for him, which he began to chew savagely.

"I'm in a putty bad fix, I reckon," said the guerrilla, after chewing in silence for several minutes.

"If you are, you have only yourself to thank for it," returned Jack coldly.

"Oh, I aint complainin', sonny. It's the fortunes o' war -- as them poets call it, I reckon."

"You might be in better business than stealing horses."

"So I might, sonny -- an' then agin' I might do wuss -- yes, a heap wuss. I was gwine ter turn them hosses over to the Confed'rate government -- they need hoss-flesh."

"You were going to do nothing of the kind. You are not a soldier, you are a common thief."

"Now, don't be hard on me, sonny. I fit on the right side, I did," drawled the guerrilla anxiously.

"You fought only for your own good."

"Taint so, sonny; I fit fer the glorious Stars an' Bars. Wot are ye calkerlatin' ter do with me, sonny?"

"I don't know yet. I reckon you'll stay where you are for the present."

"That's so too -- I can't move nohow. Hullo, who's thet?"

At this question Jack turned suddenly -- to find himself confronted by Dr. Mackey and two soldiers in Confederate uniform!



Chapter XXIII.

Dr. Mackey's Bold Move.


It must be confessed that Jack was startled, for he had not heard the approach of the surgeon and his companions, who had come up noiselessly and on foot.

"Hullo, you here?" asked Dr. Mackey, as he gazed at Jack in some astonishment.

"What brings you here, Dr. Mackey?" demanded our hero.

"I am looking for the dead or wounded in this neighborhood," was the answer. "Whom have you here?"

"A guerrilla we shot down."

"Ha! who shot him?"

"I did. He was trying to steal our horses."

"Dr. Mackey, don't you know me?" came from the guerrilla.

"Pete Gendron!" muttered the surgeon. "I never expected to see you here."

"Nor did I calkerlate to see you, doc. But I'm mighty glad yer come. Ye kin git me out o' this fix."

As he spoke, the guerrilla eyed Dr. Mackey sharply. On more than one occasion he had been the doctor's tool, and now he thought it no more than fair that the medical man should stand by him.

"Evidently you know this guerrilla," said Jack slowly.

"I do," answered the doctor slowly. He hardly knew how to proceed.

"I aint no guerrilla, an' Dr. Mackey kin prove it," cried Pete Gendron. The coming of the medical man had raised his spirits wonderfully.

"You are a guerrilla."

"I aint. Dr. Mackey will prove my words. He's a friend o' mine. Aint ye, doc?"

There was a peculiar emphasis to the guerrilla's words which made the surgeon shift uneasily from one foot to the other.

"If I don't humor Gendron, he may expose me," thought the surgeon dismally. "He knows too much to be made an enemy of."

"Is he your friend?" asked Jack.

"Not exactly my friend, Jack, but I know him pretty well," answered Dr. Mackey slowly, as if trying to feel his way.

"I aint a guerrilla, am I?" put in Pete Gendron eagerly.

"N -- no, he is not a -- a guerrilla," stammered the surgeon. "There must be some mistake."

"I want to be taken to the Confed'rate hospital," went on Pete Gendron.

"But he and his comrades were trying to steal our horses," said Jack firmly.

"As I said before, my dear Jack, there must be some mistake," returned the surgeon smoothly. Suddenly his face brightened. "Gendron, you made a mistake by leaving the hospital so soon. Your fighting in to-day's battle must have made you light-headed. You probably came here by mistake."

The guerrilla was crafty enough to seize upon the cue thus given.

"Thet must be the size on it," he murmured. "My head has felt queer ever since I got out in the sun. Reckon I aint accountable fer all my actions, doc."

"He is a perfectly honest man," said Dr. Mackey to Jack. "I have seen him fight most bravely in half a dozen battles."

Jack felt that the surgeon was falsifying, but how could he prove it? Then he felt that there would be no use in keeping the guerrilla at the plantation.

"Well, take him away, if you want to," he answered. "But I shall still hold my opinion of the rascal."

"You are as insulting as ever, Jack," sneered the medical man. "I came here, hoping to find you of a different turn of mind."

"I shall never change my mind regarding you, Dr. Mackey," was our hero's ready reply.

"Come outside, I would like to talk to you in private."

The surgeon spoke in a whisper, and feeling there would be no harm in listening to what he might have to say, Jack followed him into the open.

"I want to know what you intend to do about coming with me, Jack," said the medical man, when they were out of hearing distance of the others.

"I don't intend to go with you, Dr. Mackey."

"You are hard on your father."

"Once and for the last time, let me say that I do not acknowledge you as my father."

"Nevertheless, I am your parent, and will soon be in a position to prove my claim."

"And when that time comes I may be in a position to prove you an impostor, Dr. Mackey."

"What! This to me!" ejaculated the medical man, in a rage.

"Yes, that to you."

"Boy, you are -- are mad -- you do not know what you are saying."

"I know perfectly well what I am saying."

"Prove me an impostor?"

"Yes."

"But how can you, when I am exactly what I claim to be."

"Dr. Mackey, where were you located before the war broke out?"

"You heard my story, Jack. There is no use to repeat it."

"You came from Philadelphia."

"Ha! who told you that?"

"You were connected with a medical company there which was put out of business by the post office authorities because of using the mails fraudulently."

At this assertion Dr. Mackey fell back as if shot.

"Jack, I demand to know who has told you this?"

"You are a bachelor, and were never married to my mother or to any other lady."

"I demand to know who told you this -- this -- string of falsehoods!" cried the doctor, catching our hero by the arm.

"A part of the story came from Mrs. Ruthven's nephew."

"What, St. John Ruthven? I hardly know the fellow."

"No, another nephew, Dr. Harry Powell, who is now attached to the Yankee army. He hails from Philadelphia."

"That viper!" ejaculated the medical man, then tried to check himself. "I -- er -- that is, I know Powell distantly. But he is much mistaken."

"I don't think so -- and neither does Mrs. Ruthven nor Marion."

"So you have been harboring a Yankee in this place, eh? A pretty business to be in surely," sneered the surgeon.

"We could not help ourselves. But I have another witness against you."

"Another?"

"Yes, a Confederate soldier who knows you well. He can testify that you never had either sweetheart or wife."

"Who is the man?"

"For the present I must decline to disclose his identity."

"You are trying to fool me!" stormed Dr. Mackey.

"No, I am telling you only the truth. Now I wish you to answer me a few questions. Why are you so anxious to claim me as your son?"

"Because you are my son. Good or bad, I cannot go back upon my own flesh and blood, as you are trying to do."

"I will never believe I am your son!" cried Jack impetuously. "Do you know what I think? I think you are trying to get hold of me so that you can obtain some money belonging to me."

"You -- you little rascal!" cried Dr. Mackey. "How dare you talk to me in this fashion?"

"Because I believe you are a fraud, that's why," answered our hero defiantly.

A commingled look of rage and disappointment came into the medical man's face, which suddenly gave place to a look of cunning.

"I will make you smart for this," he stormed, and caught Jack firmly by both arms. "Garder! Mason! Come here!" he called loudly.

"What is wanted?" asked one of the Confederate soldiers, as both came rushing from the stable.

"Conduct this young man to our camp, and see that he does not escape from you."

"You shan't take me from home!" ejaculated Jack. "Let me go!"

He struggled to release himself, but the two soldiers were powerful fellows, and soon made him their prisoner.

"You are making a mistake," puffed Jack. "Dr. Mackey is a first-class fraud."

"Dr. Mackey is all right," put in Gendron, the guerrilla.

"He must be held," said the surgeon. "I will be responsible for this arrest."

"At least let me see Mrs. Ruthven before I go."

"No, take him away at once," cried the surgeon quickly. "Then you can return for Gendron."

"Where shall we take him, doctor?" asked one of the privates.

"To the old red house up the river. You know the place?"

"Yes, sir."

No more was said, and a minute later Jack found himself being conducted across the plantation by a back way. He wanted to cry out, but one of the soldiers leveled his gun and commanded him to keep silent.

As soon as the party of three was gone Dr. Mackey entered into earnest conversation with Gendron, at the same time giving attention to the guerrilla's wound.

"Very well, Pete," he said, at the conclusion. "Stick by me and I'll stick by you."

"It's a whack," replied the wounded man.

"If anybody from the house comes here, tell them that Jack went off to get some Confederate ambulance corps to take you away."

"I will."

A few words in addition passed between the pair, and then Dr. Mackey left the stable.

He was anxious to have another talk with Mrs. Ruthven, but concluded that he must postpone the interview until later.

"I reckon I have done enough for one night," he said to himself grimly. "With that boy in my power, perhaps she and the others will sing a different tune. Anyway, I'll not let the lad out of my grasp until he promises to do exactly as I desire."



Chapter XXIV.

The Hunt For Jack.


"Marion, where is Jack?" asked Mrs. Ruthven, in the morning.

"I do not know, mamma."

"When did you see him last?"

"Just before he started for the stable last night."

Mrs. Ruthven was very much worried, and with good cause, as my readers know. She sought out Old Ben, who had his shoulder bandaged.

"Ben, have you seen Jack?"

"No, missus, I aint."

"Is he around the stable or the barns?"

"Perhaps he is, missus. Ole Ben will go an' look, if yo' want it."

"Yes, Ben; I cannot imagine what has become of him."

Old Ben hurried off, and Mrs. Ruthven went upstairs to wait upon George Walden, who had now developed a raging fever.

"It is very odd what has become of Jack," said the lady of the plantation. "He never went off like this before."

It was fully half an hour before Old Ben came back. The colored man looked much worried.

"Can't find him nowhar, missus," he said. "An' dat dar guerrilla is gone, too."

"The man who was shot while trying to steal the horses?"

"Yes, missus."

"Then something must be wrong. Didn't you find any trace at all of Jack?"

"Not de slightest, missus. Old Ben looked eberywhar, too -- 'deed I did, missus."

"I do not doubt you, Ben. But this is terrible. Jack must be somewhere."

"Dat's so, too, missus."

"Were there any signs of violence about?" asked Marion. "Any -- any blood, for example?"

"Some blood at de stable. Miss Marion. But I rackon dat was from de shootin' ob dat dar guerrilla."

Marion heaved a deep sigh, and Mrs. Ruthven shook her head slowly. Here was fresh trouble, more painful than any that had gone before.

"The guerrilla couldn't go off alone, could he?" asked Marion.

"Jack said he was quite seriously wounded, Marion. Still, the rascal may have been playing possum with Jack, and stolen off on the sly."

"If he was strong enough to do that, perhaps he took Jack with him to keep the boy from sounding an alarm."

"You may be right. We must find the boy if we can."

Slowly the day wore away, and no tidings came to the plantation. Toward evening St. John put in an appearance.

"The soldiers have cleared out," he said. "There isn't a regiment of any sort within a dozen miles."

"I am glad of it," answered Mrs. Ruthven, and then continued quickly, "Have you seen anything of Jack?"

"Do you mean to-day?"

"Yes."

"No, I haven't seen him since he made such a mess of it up at our house, putting out the fire," growled the spendthrift.

"It's a wonder you didn't put out the fire yourself," put in Marion sharply. She did not like talk against her brother.

"I -- I was sick, sicker than anybody supposed," stammered St. John. "Had I been at all well, things would have gone on very differently, I can assure you."

"Then you haven't seen or heard of Jack," said Mrs. Ruthven. "He has been missing since last night."

"No, I haven't seen him -- and I don't want to see him. He insulted me and made trouble between me and my mother."

"On account of the fire?"

"Yes. He thinks he is a regular lord of creation, he does," went on St. John hotly. "He wants dressing down, Aunt Alice."

"I cannot believe Jack has done anything very wrong."

"He is a nobody, and puts on altogether too many airs."

Mrs. Ruthven would not listen to this talk, and changed the subject by asking him what had brought him over from his home.

"I was asked to come over and see if you had any of the Yankee wounded here."

"Who sent you?"

"Colonel Bromley of our army."

"No, we have only Confederates here."

"How many?"

"Five. Four of them are doing very well, you can tell the colonel, but the fifth was hurt when our house was struck by a cannon ball, and he is now in a high fever."

"All right, I'll tell him."

"Have you joined the army at last?" questioned Marion curiously.

"Not exactly, but I told the colonel I would help him in any manner that I could," answered St. John, and hurried away for fear of being questioned further.

The truth of the matter was that the fire had brought on a bitter quarrel between St. John and his mother, and the parent had insisted that the son overcome his cowardice and do something for his country. St. John had demurred in vain, and had at last gone to the Confederate headquarters and offered his services; but as a civilian, not as a soldier.

When the young man was gone Mrs. Ruthven and Marion had Old Ben and the others make another search for Jack, and this hunt lasted far into the night.

But it was of no avail; our hero had disappeared as utterly as if the earth had opened and swallowed him.

"Mamma, do you think it possible that the Yankees captured him?" was the question Marion put.

"Not unless Jack left home during the night, Marion. And what would cause him to leave without telling us that he was going?"

"That is true. Jack wouldn't do anything to cause us anxiety."

"It is a great mystery," sighed Mrs. Ruthven.

Later a negro, living on the mountain side, came down to the plantation and asked to see the lady of the house.

"I was t'inkin' yo' would be wantin' ter know wot became o' Master Jack," said the colored man, who rejoiced in the name of Columbus Washington.

"What do you know of him?" asked Mrs. Ruthven quickly.

"I seed him early dis mornin', missus -- away up in the mountains."

"The mountains? Alone?"

"No, missus -- he was a prisoner."

"Of the Yankees?"

"De men wot had him was dressed as Confed'rates, missus."

"You did not know them?"

"No, missus."

"And you are certain that Jack was held a prisoner?"

"Oh. yes, missus, fo' one ob de men said he would shoot if de boy tried to git away from him."

Mrs. Ruthven clasped her hands in despair.

"A prisoner! Did you speak to him?"

"No, no! I was afraid to show myself. De men was armed an' I wasn't -- an' I didn't want to git in no trouble."

"Where were they taking Jack?"

"I can't say as to dat. I met dem on the ole mill trail near de blasted tree."

"You saw nobody else around?"

"No, missus."

"It is very strange why Jack should be carried off in this fashion. I wish you had followed them and seen what became of my boy."

"Perhaps I kin follow dem by de trail, missus. Ise putty good at dat."

"Then do so by all means, and I will reward you for your work."

"T'ank yo,' missus; yo' was always de lady to remember poor niggers."

"If you wish, you can take Old Ben with you. He is good at trailing, too."

So it was arranged, and half an hour later Old Ben and Columbus Washington were on their way. Both knew the mountains thoroughly, and lost no time in getting to the spot where Jack had last been seen.

Then began a hunt for the trail, and this discovered, both went on once more, little dreaming of the surprise in store for them.



Chapter XXV.

A Remarkable Revelation.


Alarming news reached the Ruthven plantation that night. A large force of Federal soldiers had loomed up in the vicinity, and the Confederate army had been compelled to fall back to the mountains and to the valley beyond.

"Our victory is swallowed up in defeat," said Marion, but even as she spoke a soft look came into her eyes. Perhaps, if the Yankees were coming again, she would see Harry Powell once more. Even though she did not wish to acknowledge it to herself, Marion thought much of her dashing cousin.

"What a man he is, compared with cowardly St. John!" she said to herself. And then she prayed to Heaven that Harry might come out of the war unharmed.

Marion's wish was gratified so far as seeing Harry Powell was concerned, for the young surgeon dashed up on horseback early in the morning.

"I could not keep away," he said, after shaking hands with Mrs. Ruthven and his cousin. "I heard that the fight was fierce in this neighborhood, and I wanted to learn if you had suffered."

"We had a cannon ball go through the sitting room," answered Mrs. Ruthven.

"And was anybody hurt?"

"One of the wounded soldiers was hit. He has now a high fever in consequence."

"Thank God the cannon ball did not hit you or Marion!" ejaculated Harry Powell, and gave Marion a look that made the girl blush deeply. "Somebody said the Ruthven place had been on fire."

"That was at St. John's place," answered Marion. "But the fire was put out before great damage was done."

"I am happy to see that you were not hurt, Harry," said Mrs. Ruthven. "You must have been in peril many times."

"I was in peril, aunt, and I did not escape wholly. I was wounded in the shoulder, although the hurt is of small consequence."

"I am glad that you escaped," cried Marion. And she gave him a look that meant a good deal.

"Poor Colonel Stanton was not so fortunate," went on the young surgeon. "He was shot through the breast, and now lies between life and death."

"Jack saw him shot, from a distance," said Mrs. Ruthven.

"Did he? And where is Jack now?"

"He has disappeared," and the lady of the plantation gave her nephew some of the particulars.

Harry was invited into the house, and he remained to lunch, in the meantime telling of the general progress of the war.

"Frankly, I wish it was at an end," he said. "I hate to see one section of our glorious country fighting the other. It is not right."

During the talk it developed that Colonel Stanton was lying at a house about half a mile distant, up the bay road.

"He acts very queerly," said Harry Powell, "just as if his wound had affected his mind."

"Can we do anything for him?" asked Mrs. Ruthven.

"I do not know of anything now. But perhaps I'll think of something later, aunt. I do not wish the colonel to suffer any more than is necessary. He is a thorough gentleman."

"I feel you are right, Harry. He has given me an entirely different idea of Yankees from what I had before," returned Mrs. Ruthven warmly.

The lady of the plantation became deeply interested in the wounded colonel's case, and when the young surgeon went away she had one of the negroes of the place hitch up a horse to the carriage and drive her over to where the wounded officer lay.

The colonel was in something of a fever, and hardly recognized her. For a long time he kept muttering to himself, but she could not catch his words.

"The ship is doomed!" he cried suddenly. "We are going to pieces on the rocks!" And then he began to speak of the army and of the terrible battle through which he had gone.

"What can he mean by saying the ship is doomed?" was the question which Mrs. Ruthven asked herself. "Can it be that he was once in a shipwreck?"

For a long while after this the colonel lay silent. Then he opened his eyes and stared around wildly.

"All drowned, you say?" he exclaimed. "No! no! Laura must be saved! Save my wife -- never mind me! How high the waves are running! Where is the child? Captain, why don't you put out to sea? Don't you see the rebels? They are luring us to the coast! See, that rebel is stealing my child, my darling Jack! Ha! we have struck, and I am drifting. Laura, where are you? Save Jack! Look, look, they are retreating! The battle is won! Oh, what a storm -- can nothing be saved?" And then the poor man sank back, completely exhausted.

Mrs. Ruthven drank in the spoken words like one in a dream. What was this the wounded officer was saying? Something about a storm, about a wife Laura, and a child named Jack!

"Can it be possible that he is speaking of our boy Jack?" she asked herself, and then looked at the colonel's face more closely than ever. The resemblance was more than striking, it was perfect. Give Jack that heavy mustache and those wrinkles, and the faces would be exactly alike.

"He must be Jack's father!" she went on. "How wonderful! But what does this mean? Why did he not claim Jack long ago?"

For over an hour she sat by the colonel's side, but he made no further efforts to speak. In the meantime a surgeon came in to attend to the officer's wound.

"If you can have him taken to my house, I will see to it that he has the best of care," said Mrs. Ruthven.

"Why, are you not a Southern woman, madam?" questioned the surgeon, in pardonable surprise.

"I am, but I know Colonel Stanton, and do not wish to see him suffer any more than is necessary."

"He is a friend?"

"Something of a friend, yes."

"And who are you, if I may ask?"

"I am Mrs. Alice Ruthven, owner of the plantation half a mile from here. Dr. Harry Powell, whom you may know, is my nephew."

"I know Dr. Powell well, and if he says it is all right, I'll have Colonel Stanton removed to your home without delay."

"When will you see Dr. Powell?"

"To-day. This is not a nice place, and I would like to see the colonel have better quarters."

A little later Mrs. Ruthven left and drove home with all speed.

"Marion, I have wonderful news!" she exclaimed, on entering the room where the girl sat making bandages for the wounded soldiers.

"What is it, mamma; is Jack found?"

"No, but I am almost sure that I have found Jack's father?"

"Oh, mamma! Of course you don't mean that horrid Dr. Mackey?"

"No, I mean Colonel Stanton."

"Mamma!" And Marion leaped up, scattering the bandages in all directions.

"Did you ever notice how much Jack and the colonel resembled each other?"

"I did."

"The colonel is in a fever, and while I was there he cried out about a shipwreck, and asked that his wife Laura and his son Jack be saved."

"Didn't you always think Jack's mother was named Laura?"

"I did -- although I wasn't sure."

"But why didn't he come to claim Jack?"

"That's the mystery. I have asked that the colonel be brought here, and as soon as he is well enough to stand being questioned I am going to learn the truth of the matter."

"I hope he is Jack's father," murmured Marion. "But if so, what of Dr. Mackey?"

"That's another mystery."

"He must know something of the colonel's past."

"Undoubtedly."

"I wonder if the two ever met in this vicinity?"

"There is no telling. I am impatient to question the colonel. But of course nothing can be done until he is better and in his right mind."

That evening there was the rattle of wagon-wheels on the gravel road leading up to the Ruthven mansion, and, looking out, Marion and her mother saw an ambulance approaching. The colonel was inside, and they hastened to prepare a bedroom for his accommodation.

"Is he better?" asked Mrs. Ruthven of the surgeon in charge.

"A trifle," was the answer. "What he needs is rest and quiet. He has a strong constitution, and that is in his favor."

It did not take long to transfer Colonel Stanton to the bedchamber prepared for his reception, and once he was in the house Mrs. Ruthven did all in her power to make him comfortable. The ride had somewhat exhausted the officer, and he slept heavily until far into the next morning.



Chapter XXVI.

Dr. Mackey Shows His Hand.


"Well, what do these fellows intend to do with me, anyway?"

It was Jack who asked himself the question, as he sat up, after quite a long sleep.

He was a close prisoner in a little cabin far up the mountain side. His hands were bound tightly behind him and were made fast to a heavy wooden stake driven into the hard mud flooring.

Night had come and gone, and all of the Confederates had left him. Now it was almost night again.

"If they would only give me something to eat and to drink," he went on. He was very dry, and his stomach was empty.

Half an hour later a footstep sounded outside, and Dr. Mackey appeared, carrying a knapsack filled with provisions, and a canteen of water.

"Sorry I had to keep you waiting. Jack," he said, as he set the articles down and proceeded to liberate our hero. "But I had the whole affair to smooth over, and I had also to get Gendron out of the muss," and he smiled grimly.

"Dr. Mackey, why do you treat me in this fashion?" demanded Jack.

"Because I want you to come to your senses and understand that I am your father."

"Do you think you are treating me as a father should?"

"A son who will not obey must be made to obey. Here, I have brought you something to eat and to drink. Fall to and make the most of it."

It would have been foolish to refuse the invitation, and our hero began to eat without delay. The surgeon watched him curiously.

"Jack, don't you think you are acting the part of a fool?" said the man presently.

"No, I do not."

"I offer you a name, a good home, and your share of a large fortune, and yet you turn your back on me and my offers."

"Have you a large fortune coming to me?"

"There is a large fortune coming to both of us. You shall have your full share of it -- providing you will do as I wish."

"And what do you wish?"

"Well, in the first place, I wish you to let the world know that you are fully satisfied that I am your father."

"And after that?"

"After that I will resign my commission as a surgeon in the Confederate army and take the necessary steps to claim the fortune which awaits us."

"Why haven't you claimed the fortune before?"

"Because I had to prove that my wife had been drowned, and had also to prove that you were either alive or dead. Had you been dead, I could have taken the fortune for my own. But you are not dead, and so I am willing you shall have your share."

"Where is this fortune?"

"Never mind about that now. I will give you my word that, if all goes well, you shall have your full share."

"And how much will that be?"

"Not less than fifty or sixty thousand dollars. The whole fortune is worth over a hundred thousand dollars."

It must be confessed that our hero was staggered for a moment. The sum was certainly a large one -- a good deal more than the Ruthven plantation was worth.

"It's a lot of money," he said, at last.

"Indeed it is, my boy. We can be happy on that amount for the rest of our lives."

"But you haven't proved to me that you are my father," went on Jack abruptly.

The crafty face of the surgeon fell, and he bit his lip.

"What more proof do you require?" he said coldly. "Do you suppose I would wish to divide that fortune with a stranger?"

"I presume not, nor would I wish to divide any fortune that was coming to me with a stranger."

"Ha! what do you mean?" gasped the medical man.

"I mean just this: That fortune may be coming to me, and you may be trying to gain possession of it by palming yourself off as my father."

The shot told, and Dr. Mackey staggered back and turned pale.

"Jack, you think you are smart, but you don't know what you are saying," he stormed.

"Perhaps I do, Dr. Mackey. One thing I do know -- you are not to be trusted."

"What? This to my face?"

"You took the part of Gendron, when you knew he was nothing but a guerrilla and a horse-thief."

"I know nothing of the kind. Gendron has a good record behind him. He was shot, and that may have hurt his brain."

"I don't believe that fairy tale. To my mind, you sided with him because you were afraid he would expose you."

"Boy, you are growing more bold. Don't you realize that you are in my power?"

"Am I?"

"Yes, you are -- absolutely in my power. And you have got to do as I wish, or you'll take the consequences."

As Dr. Mackey spoke, he began to walk up and down the cabin nervously.

"What do you mean by my taking the consequences?"

"You'll find that out later."

"Would you kill me?"

"I would make you mind me -- as a son should."

"I would rather do without the fortune than have you for a father, Dr. Mackey."

"Well, there is no love lost between us, when it comes to that, boy."

"Then you are willing to admit that you care more for the fortune than you do for me?"

"Why shouldn't I -- after the way you have acted toward me? No father wishes a son who hates him."

"I will agree with you there," answered Jack slowly.

"If you don't wish to live with me, well and good -- after we have our money. You can take your share and I'll take mine -- and that will be the end of it."

"And you will let me return to the Ruthven plantation, if I wish?"

"Yes. But not until everything is settled."

"And what must I do to help settle it?"

"You must sign a paper acknowledging me as your father, and must bear witness to the fact of your being wrecked on this shore, and that your mother is dead. We will have to get Old Ben for another witness."

"And after that?"

"After that I will take the next step."

"You will not tell me more now?"

"No. I don't know whether I can trust you or not."

"But why this secrecy, if everything is aboveboard?"

"As I explained to Mrs. Ruthven, some distant relatives hold the fortune now, and if they learn of what I am doing they will at once take steps to head my claim off. I wish to spring a surprise on them."

"But if the claim is a just one, and half the property is coming to me, you do not suppose I am going to tell them in advance of what you intend to do."

"Boy, you do not understand such matters -- you are not old enough," growled the surgeon. "Once more, and for the last time, will you do as I wish you to?"

"I will not promise yet."

"Then you shall remain here, a prisoner."

"For how long?"

"Until you come to your senses and agree to do as I wish."

A few words more passed, and then Dr. Mackey made our hero a prisoner again, and took up the canteen and the knapsack.

"You may have to remain alone for a long time," he said, on departing. "But if you get lonely and hungry, remember it is your own fault."

"I think you are a brute!" cried Jack after him. Then he listened and heard the surgeon's footsteps receding rapidly. Soon all became quiet.

Hour after hour went by, and nobody came near our hero. It was indeed lonely, and as the time passed his heart sank within him.

Then Jack heard the faint patter of footsteps over the dry leaves surrounding the cabin. The sounds came closer.

"Perhaps it's a dog," he thought. "I hope it is one from our plantation, on the hunt for me."

At last a shadow fell across the open cabin doorway and the figure of a strange creature came slowly into view. At the sight Jack could not suppress a scream. The visitor was a mountain wild cat!



Chapter XXVII.

Colonel Stanton's Tale.


Two days after being brought to the plantation Colonel Stanton's fever went down, and the surgeon who came to attend him pronounced the officer much better.

"But he must remain where he is for some time," said the medical man.

"He can remain as long as he pleases," declared Mrs. Ruthven. "I have no wish to hurry his departure."

She was anxious to learn the truth concerning the colonel's past, yet realized that she must move with caution, otherwise he might be thrown into another fever.

"Colonel Stanton," she said, seating herself at his side, "were you ever in the neighborhood before -- I mean some ten or eleven years ago?"

At this question Colonel Stanton became immediately interested, and his wide-open eyes showed it.

"I do not know if I was in this neighborhood," he answered slowly.

"You do not know? Surely you must remember where you were at the time I mention."

"The time you speak about was a very bitter one to me, madam," was his slow answer.

"And you do not wish to speak about it?" she said softly, seeing the pain in his face.

"I have spoken to nobody about it for years, madam. Yet I would not mind speaking to you -- you are so kind to me. During the time you mention I took an ocean voyage which was very disastrous to me and mine. The ship went down with all on board, including my wife and child."

"Did the ship go down on this coast?"

"She struck somewhere along the coast; where, I am not exactly sure."

"May I ask the name of the vessel?"

"She was the Nautilus."

Mrs. Ruthven's breast began to heave. "It must be true!" she murmured.

"What must be true, madam?"

"The Nautilus was wrecked on our coast here, not over half a mile from this plantation."

"You are sure of this?"

"I am. The wreck is still on the rocks in the bay."

"And were you living here at the time?"

"I was, and I know all about the wreck, and so does Old Ben, the negro who has the boathouse on the shore."

The wounded officer's interest increased.

"I would like to visit that wreck some time, if it is still intact," he said. "I left some valuable papers in a secret closet. It is possible they are still on board."

"Do you know who was saved from the wreck?"

"Saved? No one was saved."

"You are mistaken -- a lady and her child were saved. The lady died two days later, but the child still lives."

"What was the name of that lady? Tell me, quick?" gasped the officer, and tried to sit up, but fell back through weakness.

"Do not excite yourself, Colonel Stanton, I beg of you!" pleaded Mrs. Ruthven, in alarm, fearful of the patient's agitation.

"But tell me the name of that lady -- and was the child a boy?"

"I do not know the name of the lady, for she was badly hurt and could not give it. The boy's name was Jack."

"Jack! My child's name was Jack. And you say he still lives?"

"He does. The child is our Jack, for my husband and I adopted him."

"Your Jack? That fine, manly fellow? Oh, Mrs. Ruthven, send him to me at once!"

"I cannot do that just now, Colonel Stanton."

"If only we can prove he is my son! Have you nothing belonging to the lady?"

"Yes, I have her clothing, also the little boy's, and some jewelry."

"Bring them to me," and now the colonel sank back, too weak to say more.

As much agitated as her patient, Mrs. Ruthven hurried from the room, and presently returned with the clothing, the lace handkerchief, and the wedding ring.

"They were my darling Laura's!" murmured Colonel Stanton, as he gazed at the things. "And this was little Jack's dress. Mrs. Ruthven, beyond a doubt Jack is my son!"

"I suspected as much two days ago, Colonel Stanton. When you had a fever you spoke of a shipwreck and of the loss of your wife and son Jack. Yes, Jack must be your son. But how were you saved?"

"It is a strange tale, madam. As you know, my wife and my son were washed ashore. I thought them drowned. Hours after I found myself, I scarcely know how, clinging to a spar, tossing up and down on the dreary waste of waters, far out to sea."

"And you were picked up?"

"Not for twenty-four hours or more. Then those on a passing ship espied me, and sent out a small boat to my rescue. I can remember how they hauled me in, and how I shrieked with joy, and then fell to the deck unconscious."

"The exposure was too much for you."

"Yes, and it not only affected my body, but likewise my mind, for it is only in a dim, uncertain way that I remember being taken on a voyage of several weeks' duration, and then finding myself in a strange-looking hospital. There I remained for two months, and was then transferred to an insane asylum."

"An insane asylum! Colonel Stanton, how you must have suffered!" cried Mrs. Ruthven sympathetically.

"That was not the worst of it, madam. At the asylum I was treated most brutally by a good-for-nothing physician, who did his best to pry into my family affairs."

"And who was that physician, Colonel Stanton? Excuse my curiosity, but I have a strong motive for wanting to know."

"He was a tall, wicked-looking fellow, who went by the name of Mackenzie, although I have since learned that his real name is Mackwell or Mackey."

"Dr. Mackey! He has been here."

"Here?"

"Exactly, and he claims Jack as his son!"

"The vile impostor!" cried the wounded officer wrathfully. "He is a villain to his very finger tips. It is to him that I owe my long term in the insane asylum. Where is he now?"

"That I cannot tell you. I refused to give Jack up, for I did not like the looks of the man, and moreover Jack did not wish to go with him. I told him he would have to prove his claim at court."

"That was right. If I can get my hands on him, I will either shoot him or place him behind the bars."

"He certainly deserves arrest for plotting to take Jack."

"I presume he is scheming to obtain the property which is rightfully mine. During my lucid intervals at the asylum he got me to tell him my story. There was property in England coming to me, and also an estate in Virginia coming to my wife. The trip on the ocean was taken to obtain the property coming to Laura. He drew from me all the details he could, and then drugged me, so that for a long time I knew scarcely anything of what happened. When I regained my own mind, I learned that he had left the asylum several weeks before, and departed for parts unknown."

"And were you kept at the asylum?"

"I was, for years, for this rascal had put me on the books as being incurable, and subject to attacks of great violence."

"Of course he did this to obtain possession of the property."

"Undoubtedly."

"It is strange he did not put in an appearance before."

"You must remember he knew no more than I about the exact fate of the Nautilus. How he found out the vessel was wrecked here I do not know."

"He has paid the wreck a visit -- Old Ben rowed him over to it!" cried Mrs. Ruthven, struck with a sudden idea.

"Did he bring anything away with him?"

"Old Ben thought he brought with him a tin box."

"It must have been my box -- the one I placed in the secret closet! I must get it away from him. But tell me of Jack. When will he be back?"

"I -- I cannot say, Colonel Stanton."

"Did you send him away on an errand?"

"I -- I did not."

"But he is not here. Tell me, is he -- is he missing -- shot?"

"He is missing, yes. I do not believe he has been shot."

"It must be more of Dr. Mackey's work," muttered the wounded officer, and then sank down. The conversation had exhausted him utterly, and it was a long while before he spoke again.



Chapter XXVIII.

In The Hands Of The Guerrillas.


Our hero knew only too well how dangerous a wild cat can be, and as he gazed at the beast looking in through the open doorway of the lonely cabin his heart was filled with dread.

"A wild cat!" he muttered. "Scat! go away!" he yelled.

The sudden cry caused the beast to retreat a few steps, and for the instant Jack breathed easier. But then the beast approached once more.

"Go away! scat!" he repeated, but now the wild cat stood its ground, its eyes gleaming fiercely and its mouth half open, showing its sharp teeth. It was tremendously hungry, and this had caused it to find its way to the habitation.

"Go away, I say," repeated Jack, and then, as the wild cat took a noiseless step forward, he let out a scream: "Help! Help!"

The wild cat now prepared to leap upon him. It crouched low, shaking its short tail from side to side. The leap was about to be taken when, of a sudden, bang! went a gun, and the beast rolled over on its side.

"A good shot, Ben!" came in the voice of Columbus Washington. "I rackon ye killed him."

"Ben!" cried Jack, in great joy, as the face of the faithful old negro showed itself at the doorway. "You came in the nick of time!"

"Dat's so," answered Old Ben, as he came forward and poked the wild cat with his gun barrel. "Dead, are ye? Well, Old Ben will make suah," and he hit the wild cat's skull a blow that crushed it completely.

"Ben, you saved my life," went on Jack joyfully. "I was certain I was going to be chewed up."

"Wot fo' is yo' a prisoner yeah?" asked Columbus Washington, as he gazed at Jack's bonds curiously.

"Dr. Mackey made me a prisoner."

"What, dat man!" ejaculated Old Ben.

"Yes, Ben; he had me taken from the stable, where I had gone to watch that guerrilla."

"And where am de guerrilla?"

"Dr. Mackey helped him to escape."

The faithful old colored man shook his head doubtfully.

"Massah Jack, do yo' dun t'ink dat doctor am your fadder?" he asked.

"No, Ben; I think nothing of the kind."

"Neider do I. He is a-plottin' against yo'."

"That is what I think, Ben. If I could manage it, I would have him arrested. Then we could get at the bottom of this affair."

Jack was speedily released, and the party of three left the lonely mountain cabin and started across the country for the Ruthven plantation.

"Yo' mudder will be tickled to see yo'," remarked Old Ben, as they trudged along. "She was worried to death ober yo' absence."

"After this I will see to it that they don't get me again," replied our hero.

Half a mile was covered when, on turning a point in the trail, they came unexpectedly upon a company of Confederate guerrillas who were taking it easy, lying in the grass.

"Hullo! who are you?" demanded one of the guerrillas as he leaped up and drew up his gun.

"Friends!" answered Jack.

Just then he caught sight of the men who had marched him away from the stable, and also of Pete Gendron, who was lying on some blankets in the shade.

"Friends, are you!" cried one of the men who had marched him off. "Up with your hands, sonny!"

There was no help for it, and Jack put up his hands, and his negro companions did likewise.

"I reckon as how we cotched ye nicely," went on the man with the gun. "Whar did ye come from -- thet cabin up the mountain?"

"Yes."

"Whar is Dr. Mackey?"

"I do not know."

"Did he let ye go?"

"Of course he didn't let the boy go," growled Pete Gendron. "The niggers must have released him."

"Is that true, sonny?"

"That is none of your business," answered Jack, not knowing what else to say.

"Aint it, though? All right, ride yer high hoss, if yer want to. But throw down them arms fust."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean all of yer are prisoners, thet's wot I mean," drawled the guerrilla.

"You have no right to hold me up in this fashion."

"Ye forgit, sonny, thet might makes right in most cases. Come, hand over them firearms."

Jack had been provided with a pistol by Old Ben, and this he was compelled to surrender, and his companions were also disarmed. The guerrillas numbered fully a score, so resistance would have been foolhardy.

"What do you intend to do with me?" asked our hero, after he had been made a prisoner by having his hands bound behind him.

"We'll hold ye till Dr. Mackey comes back."

"When will that be?"

"Can't say."

This ended the talk, and presently the guerrillas moved up the mountain side to where there was a fair-sized cave.

They marched our hero into this cave, and tied him and his companions fast to some jagged rocks in the rear.

A fire was started up and the outlaws -- for the guerrillas were nothing less -- proceeded to make themselves comfortable by lying around, drinking, smoking, and playing cards.

Gendron was not badly wounded, and sat up to look on at the card-playing.

So the hours wore away. Toward night a scout went out to learn what the armies were doing, and he did not come back until the next day.

Two days were spent by Jack and his companions in the cave. During that time the guerrillas treated them brutally, and gave them hardly sufficient food to keep them from starving.

Gendron was particularly bitter against Jack, and insulted our hero upon every possible occasion.

"If I was the doctor I'd blow your head off, and get that money for myself," he said once.

"What do you know about that money?" demanded Jack.

At this the guerrilla closed one eye suggestively.

"I know a whole lot, sonny."

"Then you know what a rascal Dr. Mackey is?

"I didn't allow as how he is a rascal, sonny."

"Well, he is, and you know it. I can't see how he puts up with a fellow like you, though."

This was said to draw Gendron on, and it had the desired effect.

"He can't help himself," chuckled the guerrilla. "I know too much."

"What do you know."

"I know all about the doctor's private papers -- the ones he carries in the tin box."

"The papers about the property?"

"O' course."

"Those papers won't help him any," went on Jack, wondering what the guerrilla would say next.

"Won't they? They'll prove that he is --  -- . But never mind -- you shan't git nothin' out o' me," and then Gendron relapsed into sudden silence, as though he realized that he had been talking too much.

On the afternoon of the next day Dr. Mackey appeared, accompanied by another man, evidently an officer of the guerrillas. His face grew dark as he gazed first at Jack and then at Old Ben and Columbus Washington.

"So you were going to help Jack to escape," he said harshly to the negroes.

"Jack is my young mastah," replied Old Ben. "Why shouldn't I try to sabe him?"

"You are the fellow who saved Jack years ago, when the shipwreck occurred, I believe."

"I am, sah."

"Then I am glad I have you in my power," answered Dr. Mackey. "You may prove useful to me."



Chapter XXIX.

The Escape From The Cave.


Dr. Mackey turned away to consult with the guerrillas, and Jack and his companions were left to themselves for the best part of half an hour.

The surgeon was evidently much disturbed over something, and Jack caught the words, "must leave the country," and "I will send the money," spoken to the guerrilla captain.

"Can it be possible that he intends to leave the States?" mused our hero. "Well, we can easily get along without him. But I would like to know more of that fortune."

At length Dr. Mackey came to him and sat down by his side.

"So you thought to escape me, did you?" he began.

"Do you blame me?" questioned our hero, as coolly as he could.

"Not exactly. But I want to warn you that it won't pay to try to escape again. I have given the soldiers orders to shoot you down, if you attempt it."

"In that case they must be outlaws, not soldiers, Dr. Mackey."

"They know how to obey orders."

"Again I demand to know what you are going to do with me."

"If you wish to know so much, I will tell you. I am going to take you out of the country."

"To where?"

"That you will learn after we are on shipboard."

"Then you intend to take me away from America?"

"Yes."

"Are you going to take me to Europe?"

"As I said before, you'll learn your destination when you are on shipboard."

"Supposing I won't go with you?"

"If you won't go peaceably, I'll have to use force, that's all."

"You mean you'll drug me, or something like that?"

"Never mind the details. You'll go with me, and that ends it. Moreover, you'll do just as I want you to."

"When do you intend to take me away?"

"That will depend upon circumstances. Probably to-morrow night, or the next day."

"What of my companions?"

"Old Ben shall go with us."

"And Columbus?"

"Is that the nigger's name?"

"Yes. Columbus Washington."

"The guerrillas will take care of him."

"Do you mean to say they will shoot him?"

"What if they do? Niggers don't count in this world."

"I think you are a monster, Dr. Mackey!" exclaimed our hero, in horror. "To kill a negro is as much murder as to kill anyone else."

"I won't discuss the subject. The question is, will you go along peacefully with me?"

"I will not. You have no right to abduct me in this fashion."

"I have a right to do as I please with my own son."

"Again I say I am not your son. Do you know what I think? I think you are nothing but a swindler -- a rascal who wishes to use me as a tool, in order to get hold of some fortune coming to me or to somebody else."

Dr. Mackey glared at Jack for a moment, then leaped forward and struck our hero a cruel blow in the face.

"That for your impudence!" he cried wrathfully. "After this, keep a civil tongue in your head."

The blow made Jack's blood boil, but he was helpless to resent it. "You are a coward, to hit me when I am tied like this," he said. "But some day, Dr. Mackey, I may be able to square accounts, and then you had better beware."

One of the guerrillas now came forward to consult with the surgeon, and Jack was left with the other prisoners, to meditate over what had been said and done.

"He's de wust rascal wot I eber seen," whispered Old Ben sympathetically. "Wot a pity he wasn't shot down in de fust battle wot he eber got into!"

"He wants to take us both out of the country, Ben."

"Wot, away from ole South Carolina?"

"Yes -- on a trip on the ocean."

"I don't want to go, Massah Jack."

"No more do I; but how can we help ourselves?"

"I wish dis niggah could git free, Massah Jack."

"We must try our best to escape to-night. If we don't do it to-night, I reckon our last chance will be gone."

"Ise willin' ter do all I kin," answered Old Ben, and the other negro said the same.

With the setting of the sun over the mountains a strong breeze sprang up, and presently the sky was obscured by heavy clouds. Dr. Mackey had gone off half an hour before.

"We're in fer a heavy storm," Jack heard one of the guerrillas say. "It's a good thing we can crawl into the cave when it comes."

"If they come in here our chances of escape will be slim," thought our hero.

The approaching storm made it very dark in the cave, and during this time he worked with energy at his bonds.

At last he was free, and without making any noise he rolled over and released Old Ben and Columbus Washington.

Suddenly there was a shout from outside.

A guerrilla on guard had discovered a man on the trail, with two horses loaded with store goods.

"Here's a chance fer a haul!" was the cry.

The guerrillas ran outside, and soon the majority of them were making after the traveler.

Only two were left on guard, and one of these was more than half overcome by the liquor he had imbibed.

"Now is our chance!" whispered Jack, as he tiptoed his way to the cave entrance. "Ben, you and I will pounce upon that man with the gun. Columbus, you silence the fellow sitting on the rock. We must not let them cry for aid."

The negroes understood the plan, and in a moment more the party of three were upon the guerrillas. While Jack seized the gun of the one, Old Ben caught him from behind and placed a large hand over his mouth.

"Silence, on your life!" said Jack, and leveled the gun at the rascal's head. The man understood and, when allowed to breathe, said not a word.

To capture the half tipsy sentinel was likewise easy, and after both were disarmed they were ordered to enter the cave.

"If you make the least outcry we'll come back and shoot you," said Jack.

Then he motioned to the two negroes, and all three set off on a run down the mountain side. They heard a rifle shot to the right, and consequently moved to the left.

The storm now burst over the mountains in all of its fury, with vivid flashes of lightning and sharp cracks of thunder. As they proceeded they heard the distant falling of one tree or another, as the giants of the forest were laid low by the elements.

"I dun rackon da won't follow us in dis yeah storm," remarked Old Ben, as they stopped after a while, to catch their breath. "Da will be fo' gittin' back to de cabe an' stayin' dar."

"I hope that traveler escaped them," answered Jack. "But those gun-shots sounded dubious."

"De gorillas ought all to be hung!" came from Columbus Washington. "Da aint no sodgers, no matter if da do w'ar a uniform."

"They are outlaws, pure and simple," answered Jack. "But come, we must go on. Ben, how far are we from home, do you calculate?"

"Six or seben miles, Massah Jack."

"Then we have a good, stiff walk before us."

"Do yo' t'ink yo' can walk dat far, Massah Jack, in dis awful storm?"

"I can, unless the rain sets in harder. I am anxious to get back, you know."

"I don't blame yo' fo' dat, Massah Jack. De folks will be mighty glad to see yo', too," answered Old Ben.

On they went through the darkness, Old Ben following the trail with the keenness of a sleuth-hound. But it was far from a pleasant journey, as Jack soon discovered, as he stumbled along over dirt and rocks and through the dripping bushes. He was soaked to the skin, and the rawness of the air caused him to shiver.

The downpour was now extra heavy, and they had to come to a halt under some trees, in order to get their breath again. The wind was blowing strongly and it was directly in their faces.

"How many miles have we made, Ben?" asked Jack.

"Not more dan t'ree, Massah Jack?"

"Then we have nearly four still to cover."

"Yes, Massah Jack, an' wery hard roads, too, ober Hallack's hill."

"If there was a cabin handy, I would go in for a rest of an hour or two. The storm may let up."

"Da is a cabin down de trail, on de bend."

"Then let us stop there."

So it was arranged, and soon they gained the cabin, which was deserted, the owner having joined the soldiers a year before, and his wife and children being with some relatives in the town.

It was easy to get into the cabin, and once inside they started to make themselves as comfortable as possible.

But they had not been in the place over half an hour when voices outside filled them with fresh alarm.



Chapter XXX.

Brought To Bay.


"Somebody is coming!" whispered Jack excitedly. "I wonder if it is the guerrillas?"

"If da come, de jig am up!" groaned Old Ben.

"Let us hide upstairs," returned our hero. "Quick!"

There was no time to say more, and all three ran for the ladder leading to the loft of the cabin, which was but a story and a half high. Jack was the first up, and the negroes quickly followed, and then all lay low on the flooring, hardly daring to breathe.

In a moment more two men entered the cabin, shaking the water from their rubber cloaks as they did so. The two men were Dr. Mackey and St. John Ruthven.

"What a beastly night!" exclaimed St. John with a shiver. "When I left home to meet you I never expected such a storm as this. If I had, I shouldn't have come."

"I didn't look for such a rain myself," returned Dr. Mackey, throwing off his cloak. "Anybody around?"

"Don't seem to be, although there are muddy footprints on the floor."

The two gazed around, but Jack and his companions were wise enough to keep out of sight, and apparently satisfied that the cabin was deserted, Dr. Mackey flung himself on a bench and St. John did likewise.

"You said you wished to see me on important business," observed the spendthrift.

"I do," was the reply. "I wish to help both you and myself."

"In what way."

"In several ways, Mr. Ruthven. In the first place, you are aware that I claim Jack as my son."

"I know that."

"I am very anxious to establish my claim to the boy."

"I don't see how I can help you, Dr. Mackey, although I am glad enough to have you claim Jack."

"You ought to help me, for it will be helping yourself as well. Your aunt thinks a great deal of Jack. If he is allowed to remain at the plantation she may take it into her head to leave him half of her property."

"I know that, too."

"The property ought to go to that girl and to you. With Jack out of the way you will be pretty certain of your share."

"But I don't understand your game, Dr. Mackey. Why do you want Jack, if he doesn't care for you?"

"I love the boy, in spite of his actions. Besides, he must come with me in order that I may establish our joint right to a fortune which awaits us."

"Well, what do you want me to do?" questioned St. John, after a pause, during which Jack waited with bated breath for what might follow.

"Jack was picked up from a shipwreck nearly eleven years ago. He and his mother were taken to your aunt's home, and it was from this home that Jack's mother, my wife, was buried."

"Well?"

"I am quite certain that your aunt is keeping all of the things which were taken from my wife's person at the time of her death, and also the clothing Jack wore when he was rescued. I wish to obtain possession of those things, or, failing that, I want to get a minute description of them."

"Do you want me to get the things for you?"

"If you can."

"But my aunt may object to giving them up."

At this the face of Dr. Mackey fell.

"I'm afraid you don't quite understand me, Mr. Ruthven. I don't want your aunt to know anything about it."

"Oh!" St. John's face became a study. "You -- er -- you wish me to get the things on the sly?"

"Yes. You must remember they belong to me. But if you tell Mrs. Ruthven she will be sure to raise a big fuss, and that is what I wish to avoid."

"I don't see how I can get the things?"

"Can't you get your aunt or your cousin to show them to you? Then you can watch where they are put, and the rest ought to be easy."

"I'm afraid my aunt is very careful of the things. I have heard her say as much, to my cousin Marion."

"Well, you ought to take a little risk. Remember, it is to your interest to help me in establishing my claim to Jack."

"I'll do what I can," replied St. John, after a moment's consideration.

"I would like to get the things as soon as possible."

"I'll go over to my aunt's plantation the first thing in the morning. But she may not want to listen to me just now. She is extra busy, you know."

"With those wounded Confederate soldiers?"

"Not only with those, but she also has a Federal officer there -- brought in a few days ago."

"A Federal officer? Does she sympathize with the North?"

"She does to some extent."

"Who is the fellow?"

"A Colonel Stanton."

At the mention of that name Dr. Mackey leaped up in alarm.

"What! that man -- in her house!" he gasped.

"Do you know Colonel Stanton?"

"I -- that is -- I know of him. Is he badly wounded?"

"I think he is."

"I hope he dies then. He is -- a -- a -- very bad customer to meet."

"I can't understand why my aunt makes so much of him."

"Tell me, has this Colonel Stanton met Jack?"

"Yes, they met some time ago, when the Yankees first came to this neighborhood."

"Ah!" Dr. Mackey drew a long breath. "I wonder what Jack thought of the colonel?"

"He likes the Yankee very much."

"Humph! Well, there is no accounting for tastes." Dr. Mackey pulled himself together with an effort. "If you see this Colonel Stanton don't tell him about me, or repeat anything I have said, will you?"

"I don't want to see the Yankee. I haven't any use for any of them."

"Colonel Stanton ought to be arrested as a spy. I know for a fact that he once entered our lines and reported our movements to his superiors. It would be a feather in your cap if you could have him arrested by the Confederate authorities."

"By Jove! do you really think that?" asked St. John, with renewed interest.

"I do."

"Then I'll report the case without delay. I thought he was something of a sneak the first time I saw him."

"If the South would hang him as a spy it would be a good job done."

"Would you be willing to appear against him?" asked St. John anxiously.

"Well -- er -- no, but I can bring two other men to appear."

"Then I'll surely have him arrested."

"And what about those things?"

"I will get them, if I possibly can."

A loud clap of thunder interrupted the conversation at this point, and when it was renewed the topic was not of special interest to Jack.

But our hero had heard enough to make him very thoughtful. Why had Dr. Mackey been so startled to learn that Colonel Stanton was at the Ruthven plantation, and why had he been so anxious to know if he and the colonel had met?

"Here's a fresh mystery," he told himself. "I must unravel it if I can."

"I am going to return home now," said St. John presently, when the storm seemed to be clearing away. "If I don't get back, my mother will be wondering what has become of me."

"All right," answered the doctor. "But let me hear from you by to-morrow night, sure."

"I will."

"And don't mention my name to Colonel Stanton."

"But if I have him arrested you will furnish those witnesses to the fact that he is a spy?"

"I will, rest assured on the point."

A little later St. John hurried off in the darkness. Dr. Mackey watched him go, and then began to pace the floor nervously.

Jack touched Old Ben on the shoulder.

"Wot am it, Massah Jack?" whispered the faithful old negro.

"Ben, we must make the surgeon a prisoner."

"All right, Ise ready to do my share."

"I am going to jump down on his back. You follow me with the gun."

"I will, Massah Jack."

The surgeon continued to pace the floor of the cabin, and, watching his chance, Jack crawled to the edge of the loft opening.

Just as Dr. Mackey swung around on his heel our hero gave a nimble leap and landed squarely on his shoulders, sending the surgeon to his knees.

"Hi, what's this?" spluttered the rascal, and tried to throw Jack off. But our hero clung as fast as grim death.

"It means that you are now my prisoner, Dr. Mackey."

"You!" ejaculated the astonished man. "Let me go, I say!" And he began to struggle more violently than ever.

But by this time Old Ben was on the floor, and the negro lost no time in poking the muzzle of the gun under the surgeon's nose. This brought Dr. Mackey to a standstill, and he glared at his opponents in amazement.

"Don't -- don't shoot!" he gasped.

"Then keep quiet."

"How did you escape from the cave?"

"That is our business, Dr. Mackey. Will you submit, or not?"

"I suppose I'll have to submit. You are three to one." Columbus Washington was now beside Ben.

"Columbus, see if you can find a rope or a strap. We'll bind his hands behind him," went on Jack.

"What are you going to do with me?" questioned the surgeon anxiously.

"Put you where you deserve to be -- behind the bars," was our hero's quiet, but firm, answer.



Chapter XXXI.

Father And Son -- Conclusion.


"Jack, do you mean to say you would put your own father in prison?" asked Dr. Mackey reproachfully, after Old Ben had tied his hands behind him.

"I would -- were he such a fraud and villain as you, Dr. Mackey," was our hero's calm reply. "You will never make me believe that any of your blood flows in my veins."

"Then you believe I am an impostor?"

"I do."

The doctor fell back and sank on a bench. Jack's firm manner appeared to take his nerve from him.

"What shall you do next?" he asked finally.

"Take you straight to our plantation."

"No! no! Colonel --  -- " Dr. Mackey stopped short. "Do not take me there, I beg of you!"

"But I shall take you there, and what is more, I am going to find out what Colonel Stanton has to say concerning you."

At this the surgeon grew as pale as death.

"You -- have no right to take me to the plantation. Remember, I am a Confederate officer. If you keep me a prisoner, you will be liable to heavy punishment."

"We'll risk it." Jack turned to Columbus Washington. "See if the rain is letting up."

The colored man went out and presently reported that the worst of the storm seemed over.

"Then we will start," said Jack. "Now, Dr. Mackey, if you try to escape, I will order Old Ben to fire at you."

"You are very hard on your father."

"If you call me your son again, I will knock you down where you stand."

At this curt threat the surgeon relapsed into silence, his brow showing plainly that he was in deep thought. The cabin was soon left behind, and Columbus Washington showed the most direct route to the Ruthven plantation. Jack came behind the colored man, with Dr. Mackey beside him, and Old Ben brought up the rear, his gun ready to shoot at the first sign of opposition upon the prisoner's part.

The first streaks of dawn were beginning to show themselves when the party of four came in sight of the mansion. As they came closer Dr. Mackey showed increased alarm over the situation.

"Jack, let us come to terms," he said presently.

"What terms?"

"For reasons of my own I do not wish to visit Mrs. Ruthven's house while Colonel Stanton is under her roof."

"Surely you are not afraid of a sick man, even if he is a Yankee spy."

At this the surgeon winced.

"It is not that. I -- I --  -- "

"I will not listen to you. March!"

"But, Jack --  -- "

"March, I say, or Old Ben shall fire on you."

With something resembling a groan the surgeon went on, and in a few minutes more the party gained the piazza, and Jack was using the big knocker on the door lustily.

"Who is there?" came from an upper window, and then Mrs. Ruthven uttered a cry of joy. "Jack!"

"Yes, mother; I am back again; safe and sound," he answered.

Mrs. Ruthven was soon down and let him in. She was naturally startled to behold Dr. Mackey, especially as a prisoner.

"What can this mean?" she began, and then looked at Jack curiously. "Jack, do you know the truth?"

"What truth, mother?"

"That this man is an impostor."

"I have thought so all along. But what do you know of this?"

"Colonel Stanton is here, Jack. He knows Dr. Mackey only too well."

"So I supposed from what this fellow said."

"To you?"

"No, to St. John."

"My dear Mrs. Ruthven, this is all a dreadful mistake," burst in the surgeon. "I do not know Colonel Stanton at all. I spoke of a Colonel Stanwood -- quite a different person, I can assure you."

"I do not believe you, Dr. Mackey," answered Mrs. Ruthven emphatically.

"You are very hard upon me, madam."

"I think I have a right to be hard upon you, sir. You have tried your best to rob me of my son."

"But he shan't do it, mother," put in Jack warmly.

"No, Jack, he'll never be able to do that -- now," answered Mrs. Ruthven significantly. And then she added, "See to it, Ben, that he does not get away. I wish to speak to Jack in private."

"He shan't git away from Old Ben, nohow," answered the faithful negro.

Mrs. Ruthven led Jack into the parlor and closed the door carefully.

"My boy, I have a great surprise for you," she began. "Do you think you can bear it?"

"What surprise, mother?" he asked quickly.

"Colonel Stanton is here, wounded. He has told me something of his past, and it concerns you."

"Me?"

"Yes, Jack. You are not Dr. Mackey's son at all, but the son of the colonel."

"I am Colonel Stanton's son!" gasped our hero, hardly able to frame the words.

"I knew you would be amazed. But it is true, as he has proved beyond the shadow of a doubt."

"But -- but --  -- " Jack tried to go on, but words failed him. He the son of the colonel -- the son of a Yankee officer? It was something of which he had never dreamed. Yet, even on the instant, he remembered how much the colonel had impressed him, and what a gentleman he had thought the officer.

"I will tell you the story," went on Mrs. Ruthven, and did so. Jack was all attention, and when he learned the true depth of Dr. Mackey's villainy his eyes flashed fire.

"Now I understand why he didn't wish to meet Colonel Stanton face to face," he said. "No wonder he is afraid."

"Your father is sleeping now," continued Mrs. Ruthven. "He is improved, but still somewhat weak. You can go to him when he awakens. I think it will be best, for the present, to keep the fact of Dr. Mackey's capture a secret."

"You are right, mother."

The matter was talked over, and Dr. Mackey was later on taken to a garret room and tied fast to an old four-poster bedstead, a piece of furniture weighing considerably over a hundred pounds. Then Old Ben was placed at the door to watch him.

Just before the colonel awoke Jack went in to see him. As our hero looked at that handsome face his heart beat rapidly. He bent over and kissed the colonel's forehead, and this awoke the wounded man.

"Jack, my son!" murmured the colonel, as his eyes rested on the face of the youth. "My son, at last!"

"Father!" was the only word Jack could utter, but, oh, how much it meant! Then he caught his parent by both hands, and for a moment there was utter silence.

"I was so afraid something had happened to you," went on the colonel. "Oh, Jack! you do not know how glad I am that we have found one another!"

"And I am glad, too," replied our hero. "Do you know I was drawn to you from the first time I saw you?" he added.

"And I was drawn to you -- even though you were a little Confederate," and the colonel smiled.

"And you are a Yankee!" cried Jack. "But I don't care what you are, father," he continued hastily. "Blood is thicker than water; isn't it?"

"Yes, Jack; and what is more, I trust this cruel war will soon be over, and we will have no North and no South, but just one country."

Jack remained with his parent for over an hour, then went off to see what could be done with Dr. Mackey.

It was the middle of the forenoon when Marion discovered St. John coming, accompanied by several Confederate soldiers.

"He has come to arrest my father," said Jack. "But he shan't do it."

"He will be surprised when we show him Dr. Mackey as a prisoner," returned Marion.

She went to let her cousin in, and St. John began at once to speak of Colonel Stanton.

"He is a spy," said the spendthrift. "You should be ashamed to harbor him in your house. These men will place him under arrest."

"I don't think they will," put in Jack, as he came forward. "So you are here to do Dr. Mackey's dirty work, are you," he added.

"Eh? What -- er -- do you mean?" stammered St. John.

"You are found out, St. John," said Mrs. Ruthven, coming on the scene. "And let me tell you that hereafter it will be best for you to remain away from this place. You schemed to steal some of my things, but you shall not do it."

"Why, Aunt Alice --  -- " he began.

"It is true. Do you know that Dr. Mackey is a prisoner?"

At these words St. John fell back and grew very pale.

"A prisoner, did you say?" he faltered.

"Yes. He has plotted against not only Jack and myself, but also against the Federal officer who is under my roof, badly wounded."

"You mean Colonel Stanton?"

"I do."

"He is a spy, aunt."

"He is nothing of the sort. He is a brave officer, and as such deserves the best of treatment. St. John, the less you mix up in this affair the better it will be for you."

A stormy scene followed, and St. John came out of it considerably frightened, especially when he was told that the colonel was Jack's father and that Dr. Mackey was proved to be a thorough villain.

"I -- I won't ask for this arrest just now," he said, to the men he had brought along. "We will let the matter drop for the present. The man is too sick to be moved, anyway." And soon after he hurried away, and his companions with him. He never showed himself at his aunt's door again.

"And we are well rid of him," said Marion. "He is as cowardly as he is unprincipled."

On the day following Jack's return home there was a long-drawn battle in the mountains between the Federal troops and the guerrillas, which resulted in the killing off of a number of the outlaws, including those who had held our hero a prisoner. In this contest Gendron was also killed, and he died without revealing what he knew of Dr. Mackey's past.

The outlaws' camp was thoroughly searched, and here were found the goods stolen from the trader who had been attacked in the storm, and also a number of other things of value, including the tin box taken from the wreck of the Nautilus. Later on this box, with its contents, was turned over to Colonel Stanton.

"My precious papers!" said the officer to Jack, as he looked them over. "My son, nothing now stands between us and our fortune."

A few words more and we will bring this tale to a close.

Colonel Stanton's recovery was slow, and by the time he got around again the great Civil War was a thing of the past. For this the colonel was truly thankful, and so were Jack, Mrs. Ruthven, and Marion.

As soon as it was possible to do so, the colonel resigned from the army. This done, he set to work to prosecute Dr. Mackey and recover the fortune due himself and Jack. As a result of these movements Dr. Mackey received a term of ten years in prison, and inside of a year the Stantons, father and son, came into possession of a fortune worth a hundred and fifteen thousand dollars.

Colonel Stanton had thought at first to go back to the North and settle down, but Mrs. Ruthven hated to part with Jack, and it was decided that all should remain at the plantation. A year later the colonel married the widow, so that Mrs. Ruthven, now Mrs. Stanton, became once more Jack's mother.

"And that is just what I wanted," said Jack, after the wedding.

The ceremony at the plantation was a double one, for at the time Mrs. Ruthven married the colonel Marion gave her heart into the keeping of Dr. Harry Powell, who had now set up a lucrative practice for himself in Philadelphia. The double wedding was a grand affair, and was the talk of the neighborhood for a long time afterward. The Ruthvens from the other plantation were invited, but while Mrs. Mary Ruthven came, St. John was conspicuous by his absence.

St. John was now a worse spendthrift than ever, and it was not long before the plantation went under the hammer, and Mrs. Mary Ruthven was compelled to live upon her sister-in-law's charity. St. John drifted to New Orleans and finally to the West, and that was the last heard of him. Let us trust that he saw the error of his ways and turned over a new leaf.

As for Jack, he proved to be indeed the son of a soldier, for some years later he entered West Point Military Academy, and graduated with high honors. From the Academy he, too, went West, but as an officer at one of the well-known forts. His career here was full of daring and honor, and he speedily rose to the position of colonel, which he filled with all of his old-time bravery and loyalty.

<eob>

The Goat And Her Kid

By

Harriet Myrtle



The Goat and her Kid.


The grass plot at the back of the cottage was a very bright green, and sparkled with the morning dews. It was kept smooth, and level, and short, by the garden-roller going over it once a week, and still more by the constant nibbling of the goat, who was allowed to be there all day, because she had a pretty little young kid that ran by her side.

But it is not to be supposed that this kid was contented with always running close to its mother's side. Kids are very fond of dancing and frisking about, and this one was more fond of it than any other in the whole village.

One day a poor Italian boy came down the lane playing upon a pipe, and beating a little tabor. He used to play these for two dolls that danced upon a board by means of a string which went through their bodies, and was fastened to his knee, so that when he moved his knee quickly the dolls seemed to dance about upon the board.

The boy stopped at the gate, put down his board, placed his dolls upon it, with the string at his knee, began to play his pipe, and beat upon his tabor, and, as he played, the dolls danced up and down, and round and round, first on one side, then on the other, now bobbing down their heads, now frisking about their feet.

But while this was going on at the gate, the kid heard the pipe and tabor, and after listening to it a minute, with its head on one side, suddenly jumped up in the air, gave a great many little kicks, very quick and funny, then ran frisking round its mother, and at last stood upon its hind legs, and danced all across the grass plot.

Little Mary, who had been looking at the dolls, happened to turn round at the moment when the kid was dancing. "O, you little dear, dear kid!" cried Mary, first running towards the kid, then back to look at the dolls, then again at the kid, then at the dolls, and the Italian boy played away with his pipe and tabor, and made his dolls jump up in the air, and reel, and set, and hop; but it was all nothing to the jumps in the air of the kid, and its frisking kicks and flings, and its fun and its fancies.

At last the Italian boy went away, with a large piece of bread and cheese in his hand, and his dolls and dancing-board at his back; but playing his pipe and tabor all down the lane. The goat stood looking after him, with her head raised tall in the air, and a serious face; but the kid continued to dance as long as the pipe and tabor could be heard.



The Little Foundling.


In the beginning of June, when the young birds have got nearly all their principal feathers, but have not yet learned to fly, it is a sad thing if by any accident one of them tumbles out of the nest. This misfortune sometimes happens when a nest is too full. Five or six little birds are a good many for a nest no bigger than a teacup; and there are often as many as five. We have also to recollect that these young things are always very wild, and impatient, and unreasonable, and make a great fluttering together, and scramble and climb over each other, especially when their mother brings them food in her bill. There is, of course, not enough food for all of them at once, but they all try to get it at once, and some of them are naughty and greedy, and try to get a second morsel before their brothers and sisters have had any at all. Now, the careful mother-bird knows this very well, and she, therefore, divides everything among them, so that each has a bit in turn, and while she feeds them she begs the rest to be as patient as they can, and not flutter, and chirrup, and gape so widely, and above all things, to mind they do not tumble, or push each other, over the edge of the nest.

It happened one day that this very accident occurred in a hedge-sparrow's nest which had been built in the largest branch of a hawthorn-tree. This tree grew in the middle of a hedge that went round a large field, where there were at this time a number of haymakers, all very busy with the hay. While some were tossing the hay about in order to spread it out in the sun and dry it, others were raking up the hay that was already dry enough, and piling it up into haycocks. Men and women, and boys and girls too, were all at work in this way, and singing in the sun as they tossed the hay with forks, or raked it up with large wooden rakes. When the hay was thus moved about on the field, a frog sometimes jumped up, and went silently leaping away towards the hedge; and sometimes a field-mouse sprang out from the short grass, with a loud squeak, and ran off to hide himself in the hedge, squeaking all the way, not because he was in the least hurt, but because he had waked in a great fright.

At the same time that all this was going on, the sparrow, whose nest was in the hawthorn-tree, had brought a few seeds and a morsel of crust to her young ones. The seed she distributed with ease, but the morsel of crust was rather hard, and required her to pinch and peck it a good deal with her bill before it could be soft enough for the young birds. The young ones, however, were all so anxious to be first to receive the crust the moment it was ready, that they all began to make a loud chirruping, and scrambling, and pushing, and fluttering, and trampling, and climbing over each other, till at last two of them were on the very edge of the nest, and had each got hold of the crust. But the mother-bird did not approve of such rudeness, so she took it away from them in her own bill just as the two were beginning to pull with all their might, standing on opposite sides of the nest. They could not recover themselves, but over they went, fluttering down into the tree. One fell into the next bough below, but the other went fluttering into the hedge under the tree. The mother helped the nearest one up again into the nest, by showing it how to hop and fly from branch to branch; the other, however, was too low down, so there sat the unfortunate little fellow all alone upon a twig, chirruping and looking up in vain at his lost nest.

This unlucky nestling had not long sat in this way before some boys, who had brought the haymakers their dinners, and were returning home, saw him in the hedge, and immediately began to try to catch him. But though he could not fly, he could flutter, and if he was not able to run, at least he could hop; so every time one of the boys got near to him, the nestling scrambled on to the next bough, and thus from bough to bough all along the hedge. If the boys had only known how dreadfully frightened the poor little bird was, they never could have been so cruel as to hunt him in this way. They did not know this, however, and only thought of catching him. At last he had got to the end of the hedge, and then went fluttering down upon the field with the boys after him. They soon were so close to him, as he hopped and fluttered along the short grass, that the poor little fellow felt their hands would presently be upon him, and as a last chance of escape, he crept and hid himself under a wisp of hay.

Just at that moment there came into the field Charles Turner, with his sister Fanny, and their maid, each having a little wooden rake to make hay with. They saw the boys all running very eagerly after something in the grass, and they ran directly towards them to see what it was.

"O," cried Charles, "it is a poor little bird that cannot fly!"

"Do not hurt it," cried Fanny. "Pray, Charley, ask them not to hurt it!"

The nestling had been obliged to hop from beneath his little morsel of hay, and had now crept underneath a haycock.

"We did not mean to hurt it, Miss," said one of the boys; "we only wanted to catch it, and we could not. But I am afraid one of us trod upon it somehow by accident, when it was under the bit of hay there; and, perhaps, it has been hurt somewhere. I'm very sorry if it is hurt." As he said this, the boys all went away; and the one who had spoken really did look sorry.

"I wonder where the little fellow is hiding," said Charles. "If he has been hurt, we had better look for him, to see if we can help him to find his nest."

"Yes, let us look for him," said Fanny; and they both went to work directly to remove the hay and search underneath the haycock, -- Sarah, their maid, helping them.

They were not long in finding the nestling. He was crouching close to the ground, with one bright little round black eye looking up at them, and was panting as if his little heart would break.

"We will not hurt you, poor little thing!" cried Fanny, as her brother stooped down and took him up softly in both hands. The nestling's breast panted quicker than ever, and every now and then he gave a flutter, when Charles tried to look at him to see where he was hurt. At last, when he found how gently he was held, and that all they did to him was to smooth down the feathers of his back and wings, he began to be quiet, and to pant less, and gradually to cease making any fluttering.

"Now then," said Charles, "he is quiet, and we may examine him." So he slowly began to open his hands, and Fanny began to blow the little bird's feathers with her mouth close down to him, to blow them on one side that they might see where he was hurt. But no bruise or scratch could be found. Presently, however, Charles said, "O, I see what has happened. The boys in running after him have trod upon his feet, and bruised them dreadfully. They are all red, and swelled, and crooked, and I do not believe they can ever get properly well again. His little claws have been twisted and broken. He will never be able to hop about any more; and I am sure he can never perch upon a twig. He will have nothing to hold fast with. What is to become of him?"

Fanny began to cry as she heard all this, and looked at the nestling's bruised feet, and saw how badly they were injured. "He will die," said she, "if we let him go: he will never be able to get up to his nest, nor hop about to find his food; and he will be starved. Do, Charley, let us take him home with us. If he gets well enough to hop and fly, we will give him his liberty; and if not, let us take care of him."

Accordingly, home they all went, carrying the bird, gently wrapped up in a white handkerchief, and held loosely in Fanny's double hands, so as not to press him. When they arrived they suddenly recollected that they had no cage for him, and did not know where to put him. Not knowing what to do, as their papa and mamma happened both to be out, Charles went into the yard to ask advice. To his great joy, Timothy, the coachman, told him there was an old wire lantern hanging up in the stable, which he might have. The old lantern was brought, and some hay and grass were laid at the bottom, and then Timothy said he knew of a chaffinch's nest which had been built last year in a pear-tree that grew up one side of the stable wall, and they might get it down, and put this little lame fellow into it.

"But then," said Fanny, "what will the chaffinches do without a nest!"

"O, you don't understand," said Charles. "It is an empty nest, made last year. It has no owners now."

"Do get it, then, Timothy, please," cried Fanny.

Away went Timothy for the old chaffinch's nest, and Charles with him, while Fanny remained with the nestling, standing beside the wire lantern. They soon came back with the nest, which Fanny placed at the bottom of the lantern.

By this time Mrs. Dowse, the cook, came into the yard smiling, and bringing with her a saucer containing bread and milk and a quill, in order that the nestling should have some supper. "O, thank you, Mrs. Dowse," cried Fanny. "I had quite forgotten that he would want something to eat. Will you teach us how to feed him?"

Mrs. Dowse took the nestling in her left hand, and a quill full of bread and milk in the other, the nestling all the while making a great kicking and struggling and resistance, not knowing what in the world was going to be done to him. The first time, however, he opened his bill to give a loud chirrup, as much as to say, "What are you about with me, Mrs. Dowse?" the quick fingers of the smiling cook popped a quill full of bread and milk down his throat. In a moment he opened it wide for another! and wider still for another! and yet wider still for one more! There was an end of all his resistance. He had found out what Mrs. Dowse wanted to do to him, and was very much pleased at it. In this way he was fed every day by Fanny, who soon learned to manage it very neatly.

The papa of Charles and Fanny used to call the nestling "The Little Foundling," and so did their mamma, but Fanny and Charles also gave him the name of "Chirp." Poor little Chirp's feet did not get well. He still continued quite lame, as the bones of his claws had all been injured severely. In other respects he was very well; ate his food with a great appetite, and seemed contented and happy. His lantern was always hung in the pear-tree by the stable wall every fine day.

This little Foundling, however, was not the only bird in the house. Fanny's uncle had brought her a beautiful canary on her last birthday, and he was of the most graceful shape, the most delicate yellow color, and the most clear and joyful voice that ever were seen or heard. He lived in a large cage of bright brass wire, which had a circular top and three perches. One perch was just level with his long seed-box, and, in fact, led up to it; the second perch was in the middle of the cage, and the third was in the circular top, which arched over him in the shape of a bell. He often had groundsel and chickweed hung in the wires over head, to look like a bower; and opposite this top perch was a small looking-glass, in which he could see himself. He had a drinking-glass hung outside his cage at the bottom, and up in one corner a round bath-glass to wash in. Every morning he had his bath; then he took his breakfast; then he hopped up to the top perch under his bell-shaped bower, and set his feathers all to rights at his looking-glass; then he bowed to himself once or twice (fancying all the while he saw another canary in the glass); then he polished his bill upon the perch to complete his toilet; and then he sang himself a delightful song. His name was Dicky. He was quite a gentleman.

When the weather was fine, this very gentleman-like canary bird was always hung in a mulberry-tree. Whenever he found himself among all these beautiful green leaves he sang louder and more joyfully than ever. Fanny and Charles, therefore, thought it was a pity to leave the poor little Foundling so lonely in his pear-tree by the stable, and accordingly they brought his funny old lantern and hung it upon the next bough to the one that held the cage of the canary. And there all day the poor little ragged lame sparrow sat looking with earnest eyes of admiration at the beautiful canary, and listening with the greatest wonder and pleasure to his singing. He only now and then ventured, when the canary stopped to utter his "chirp! chirp!" as much as to say, "more! more!" They were hung up close together in this manner almost every day for a week or two. They looked at one another very much; the nestling sparrow evidently regarding the canary with great admiration, and the canary seeming to pity and be sorry for the poor little lame Foundling.

One day Fanny said to her brother, "Do you see, Charley, how these birds look at each other? I should so much like to put Chirp into Dicky's cage."

"I have been thinking of the very same thing," said Charles. "Let us run and ask mamma if we may do it."

Away they ran and asked.

"Why," said their mamma, "it certainly will have rather a strange appearance. The two birds do not seem suitable companions. It is an odd fancy, children; but you may do it if you like."

No sooner said than done. Off ran Fanny and Charles -- took the little Foundling out of his old lantern -- opened the door of Dicky's cage -- and at once put him in, and fastened the door. In a moment, Dicky flew up to his top perch, and stood looking down very earnestly; and the little Foundling, though he could stump about on his lame toes, never moved, but sat looking up at Sir Dicky. The nestling looked like a poor little ragged lame beggar-boy whom a sprightly gentleman in a bright yellow coat had been so compassionate as to take into his house.

Presently the Foundling went to the seed-box, and looked in. Down came Dicky in a moment, and drove him away from his box, and then ascended again to the top perch. This happened every time poor Chirp went near the seed. However, he took a good drink out of the bath-glass, at which both Fanny and Charles laughed very much. They then gave the Foundling some food through the wires of the cage. This they had to do for several days, till Dicky at last became more good-natured, and no longer prevented the poor lame Foundling from eating out of his seed-box.

They gradually became very good friends in the cage, though Dicky, except for his bath and his seed, was almost always upon the perch in the middle or the top of the cage, while Chirp, who never recovered from his lameness, went stumping about at the bottom. In other respects, however, the Foundling grew to be a good, strong sparrow with all his proper feathers, and made a clean and respectable appearance. He now looked like a stout faithful servant in a brown coat who inhabited the lower story, while the gay and sprightly owner of the house sat in the upper rooms to sing, or dance upon two perches. They lived very happily, and Fanny and Charles rejoiced that they had brought home the little lame Foundling.



Winter Pleasures.


"Do jump up and look out at the trees," said Susan, one morning in December, to little Mary, "they are so beautiful; all sparkling like silver!"

"It seems very cold," said Mary, rather sleepily. "Will you draw up the blind, Susan, that I may see out?"

Susan drew up the blind.

"O," cried Mary, "how lovely the window looks! I see fairy palaces, and wreaths of flowers, and numbers of birds, and bright butterflies! O, and look at those angels, flying with white wings spread, and below them there is a lovely lake! Look, Susan, do you see what I mean?"

"I don't see that so plain," replied Susan; "but I see a pretty cottage just there, in the corner of this pane."

"O, yes!" said Mary; "and look, there is a high mountain behind it, and a forest of tall fir-trees growing all up the sides, and there is a river running along before it, with pretty flowers like stars on its banks. O, and little fairies dancing among them! Now it all sparkles like diamonds and rubies! Beautiful, beautiful!" cried Mary, jumping out of bed. The sun had just risen, and his beams, tinged with red, shone on little Mary's frosted window, and gave it this beautiful appearance.

"But it is much too cold to stand looking at it, dear," said Susan; "make haste, and let us get you down to the warm parlor fire."

Splash went Mary into her bath, and made all the haste possible; and while she was dressing, the window was a continual pleasure; for as the sun shone on the glass, small portions of the frost-work melted away, and let the bright rays shine through; and first these clear spots looked like little shining stars on the fairies' foreheads; then like stars in the sky; then they changed into pretty ponds in a wood; then into lakes with rocky banks; the angels seemed to fly farther away; the wreath of flowers took different forms; the fairies danced off with the birds and butterflies; and at last, just as the largest lake had become so large that Mary thought it must be the sea, it was time to go down stairs.

The parlor looked so very comfortable and felt so warm. There was a bright fire; Bouncer was stretched on the rug; the kettle boiled on the hob; breakfast was laid; the sun shone in at the lattice window. And now Mary, looking out into the garden, remembered what Susan had said about the trees, for they did indeed look beautiful. Every branch and every twig was incrusted over with crystals of white frost; they no longer appeared like common trees; no wood was to be seen; they seemed to have been changed by some fairy in the night into silver, and sprinkled with diamonds. The laurels and other evergreens had all their leaves covered and fringed round the edges with the same silvery, sparkling frost-work. The ivy-leaves near the window looked the best of all; their dark green color seemed to make the jewels shine more brightly, and then their pretty forms were shown off by all this ornament. As Mary was fancying herself in some fairy palace, or in Aladdin's garden, and wondering whether there was any fruit made of precious stones hanging on the trees, her papa and mamma came down to breakfast, and they all enjoyed the sight together. Mary's pretty cousin, Chrissy, who had been May-Queen on the first of May, was on a visit at the cottage, and when she came down, she was delighted too with the beautiful sight, and thought the branches like white coral tipped with diamonds.

While they were at breakfast, Mary asked the question which she had asked for several mornings past. It was, "Do you think Aunt Mary, and Thomas, and Willie will come to-day?"

"I think it quite possible that they may," said her mamma; "but to-morrow is more likely."

"You had better try not to expect them till to-morrow, Mary," said Chrissy.

"I will try," said Mary, "but I think I do expect them to-day. And now let me think how many days it is before Christmas Eve will come. Yesterday we counted it was eleven days, so to-day it is ten. Still ten days."

"But you know, Mary, we have plenty to do first," said her mamma. Mary nodded and smiled.

Christmas Eve was the day they kept at the cottage; because Mary's papa and mamma always spent Christmas Day with grandmamma. She lived in a large old house, in a country town ten miles off. Everything in her house was clean and shining; the rooms smelt very sweet, and grandmamma was very kind, and let the children do whatever they liked; and her two maids were so good-natured, and petted them; and there were always such nice cakes, oranges, and jellies. Then, in the evenings there was sure to be a magic lantern, or a man to play the fiddle; in short, going to grandmamma's was a very great pleasure.

Mary now asked her papa to come down to the pond, and give her another lesson in sliding. He came out, and as they ran along they found numbers of things to admire. Every blade of grass was fringed with the white frost-work, and the leaves of all the weeds that grew near the hedges looked quite pretty with their new trimming. But, above all, the mosses in the little wood that skirted the field were most lovely. When winter strips the trees of their leaves, then the little bright green mosses come and clothe the roots and stems, as if to do all they can to comfort them; and to-day they were sparkling all over, and seemed to be dressed out for some festival. Mary and her papa stopped before a weeping birch-tree, with the green moss growing on its silvery white stem. After admiring it for some time, they looked up at its branches that hung drooping over their heads. "How light and feathery they look," said Mary. "I think they are quite as pretty as in summer."

"I think so too," said her papa. "I even think the birch more beautiful in winter than in summer; and all the trees show us the grandeur and beauty of their forms more when the leaves are gone. Look at their great sweeping branches."

"Yes," said Mary, "and then all the little twigs look so pretty, and like lace-work."

"And more than ever we must admire them," said her papa, "when we think that in every little bud at their tips lie the young leaves folded in, and safely shielded by this brown covering from the cold; but all ready to burst forth when the soft spring air and sunshine tell them it is time."

Mary was delighted at this thought, and they spent a little while looking at the different buds, particularly those of the chestnut-trees, with their shining brown coats. Mary took great care not to break one off; she said, "It would be such a pity the little leaves should not feel the spring air, and come out in the sunshine."

"But, O Chrissy, what a lovely bunch of jewelled leaves you have collected!" cried she. "O, yes, that branch in the middle will look pretty; it has managed to go on looking like coral, and to keep its diamonds, because it was so shaded. Now you will put the brown oak leaves, all shining. Here are some more; do put these; and then the pretty little brown beech leaves glittering all over. It looks beautiful!"

"How pretty the form of the oak leaves is," said Chrissy.

"Now let us take it in to mamma," cried Mary.

"But, remember," said Chrissy, "if we take it in all its charm will vanish. Here in the frosty air it looks as if it had been dressed up by the fairies, but in the warm room we should soon have nothing but a bare twig and a few withered leaves."

Mary looked rather sad.

"See," said Chrissy, "let us fasten it to the top of your mamma's favorite seat under the beech-tree; it will make a pretty ornament there."

Now the sliding began. Mary's papa took hold of her hand and ran with her along the field, till they came to the edge of the pond; then away they went, sliding side by side. He kept tight hold of her hand; for she could not help tumbling down very often, because this was only the second time she had tried. Once they both very nearly had a tumble, for Bouncer came out, and ran bounding and barking by their side, and rushed on the ice with them; but he suddenly stopped short and barked, as if to say, "How is this? What makes the water so hard this morning?" and when he stopped they nearly tumbled over him, but they managed to keep up. After sliding till Mary's face looked like a rosy-cheeked apple, it was time to go in to lessons; and afterwards they took a walk, and saw some gentlemen and boys skating on the large pond on the Common.

Just as Mary's mamma said they must go home, the London coach with its four horses came gayly along the hard frosty road along the Common. A boy on the top waved a red handkerchief, and Mary cried out, "That's Thomas; I know it is!" She was quite right, for the coach stopped, and aunt Mary and Willie got out, while Thomas slid down from the roof. They were soon shaking hands, giving kisses and kind welcomes, and all walked merrily up the lane, and had a very happy dinner.

Then came what Mary called "happy time." This was the time when it grew dark, candles were brought, shutters and curtains closed, and they all collected round the tea-table, while the fire blazed, the kettle boiled, and everything looked bright and pleasant. This evening it seemed happier than ever; and next morning it was delightful to awake and remember who had come to the cottage, and to see the party at breakfast; and then to have Thomas and Willie to slide on the pond. Mary grew quite a brave slider before they were called in to dinner.

When dinner was over, she asked her mamma whether they should not go on with nice work this evening? and her mamma said, "O, yes, they must, or they should not be ready." This "nice work" was preparing a number of presents, which were to be given away at Christmas. None of their friends had been forgotten. Mary was busy hemming, knitting, dressing dolls, and making pincushions; her mamma was also hard at work, and besides, was often cutting out and fixing, and had a village girl, who came almost every day for work, making frocks and different things; Chrissy was also busy making all kinds of pretty things.

When aunt Mary heard of it, she said, "We are all at work in the same way. Thomas has brought his turning lathe, and a few tools that he has, and he and Willie are very busy about something." Thomas put his finger on his lips to show her that she must not tell what that something was, and Willie put his arms round her neck, and whispered something very mysteriously.

"Chrissy and Mary have some secret too," said Mary's mamma, "they go into a room by themselves every day, and nobody must disturb them."

At this they both laughed.

"Well, we shall know about it all on Christmas Eve," said Mary, "and then, besides, we shall see somebody, mamma says; somebody that is coming here that we shall like very much, and that we know, and yet have never seen."

"Is it a gentleman or lady?" asked Thomas.

"A gentleman," said Mary; "I have guessed everybody I can think of, but I cannot find out."

"Somebody we know, and yet have never seen," said Thomas; "who can it be?"

<eob>

The Coming Of The White Men: Stories Of How Our Country Was Discovered

By

Mary Hazelton Wade



Chapter I

The Norsemen


His name wasn't Sam and he wasn't their real uncle, but everybody else called him Uncle Sam, so Joe and Lucy followed their example.

He was tall and thin and had a sharp face. A funny little tuft of hair grew on his chin and when he was thinking deeply he was fond of stroking this tuft with his big bony hand.

His clothes always seemed to be old-fashioned. When the neighbors were speaking of him they would sometimes say, "How much he looks like the newspaper pictures of 'Uncle Sam.'"

"Whenever I meet him, he somehow makes me think of America," said Joe's father. "I never knew anyone who loved his country as dearly as he does. He is perfectly happy whenever he can get anyone to listen to stories of our great men and the things that happened here long ago."

It was for these reasons that people began calling him Uncle Sam before Joe and Lucy were born.

His real name was Ebenezer Wilkins, but the children had to stop and think before they could remember it. He lived in a cosy little cottage at the end of the village and kept house there all alone from one year's end to another.

Everybody loved him. His kind blue eyes looked tenderly upon each child in the place. If measles or chicken-pox shut a boy or girl away from playmates, Uncle Sam was sure to hear of it. Then, when his day's work was done and he had eaten his supper of bread and milk, he would visit the sick child and make him forget his troubles as he told stories of boys and girls who lived in the early days of the white people in America.

Joe and Lucy were twins. Somehow or other Uncle Sam had grown to love them more than any other children in the country round. When they were babies he used to dandle them on his knees. He taught them to take their first steps alone. He bought a book of "Mother Goose's Melodies" on purpose to learn the rhymes and afterwards repeat them to the listening babies.

Sometimes he even stayed home from church on Sunday mornings so as to take care of these twins and give their father and mother a chance to go away together.

"Twins are a great care, a great care," he would say slowly. But he would add with a twinkle in his eyes, "They are never too much of a care for Uncle Sam."

"He is better than any real uncle in the world," said Joe, as he and Lucy opened the gate leading into the old man's garden.

It was a summer evening and the sun was just setting. The rows of hollyhocks and marigolds looked prettier than ever in the sunset light.

"Uncle Sam loves bright things," said Lucy, looking at the flowers. "He is always finding something new to admire. That is why I like to walk in the woods with him."

"He shows me many things I should never see myself," answered Joe.

By this time the children had reached the door of the house, and stepped inside. They never stopped to knock; Uncle Sam would not have liked it.

"I've brought you some cookies, Uncle Sam," said Lucy, handing a covered dish to the old man. "Mother made them this morning. She put raisins in them because she knew you are fond of fruit cookies."

Uncle Sam was pleased when he lifted the napkin and looked at his present.

"I can make bread and cook meat and potatoes, but cake is beyond my skill. It takes women-folks to do such work." The old man laughed softly as he put the cookies away in the cupboard.

"It is a lovely evening. Won't you come out on the porch and tell us stories in the twilight?"

As Lucy spoke, she reached up and put her arms around Uncle Sam's neck. He was so tall he had to bend down to let her do so.

"I suppose you want me to tell you about Cinderella for the fiftieth time, or maybe you would rather hear about Aladdin and his Wonderful Lamp?"

"No, Uncle Sam," said Joe before Lucy had a chance to answer. "We are getting too big for fairy stories. We have just begun to study geography at school. We like it better than anything we've ever had. So Lucy and I have been talking it over. We said we would ask you to tell us true stories now about America, and the Indians, and the brave white people who first dared to come here, you know, and all such things."

Uncle Sam fairly beamed with delight.

"I've been thinking of that very thing, children. I have been longing for the time when you would like to hear some of the history of this glorious country. You will like it, too. Why, it is better than any fairy stories that ever were told."

In five minutes more the old man was sitting in his big easy chair on the porch. Lucy was perched on one of the broad arms of the chair, and Joe on the other.

"We are all ready, so please begin," said Lucy, coaxingly.

"Very well. Shut your eyes for a minute so you cannot look at those rows of hollyhocks in front of you. I want you to see a different picture. You must take a peep at this country of ours before a white man ever set foot on it."

"All right; I am ready, for my eyes are shut tight," cried Joe with a laugh.

"Now, then. First you must notice the great forests that stretch over a large part of the land. Wild beasts are roaming about in the darkness of those woods. Wolves and foxes, bears and wildcats live a free and happy life, for the sound of a gun has never yet been heard.

"Turn your thoughts next to the great plains of the west. Thousands of buffaloes are wandering about. The herds are so vast that in some places the earth is fairly black with them.

"Here and there, over the country, stand the villages of the Red Men. They are usually built near the shores of streams or ponds so that fresh water may be plentiful.

"There are no stores, no factories, no churches, no roads, from one shore of America to the other.

"At first, it may seem strange to you that the Indians made no roads, for they were traveling a good deal of the time. They moved their homes whenever the game became scarce where they happened to be living. Besides that, they delighted in war and one tribe was continually taking some other one by surprise.

"They did not, however, go about in the way white people do. They journeyed on foot in single file and the narrow paths they trod through the forests can be seen to this day. Some of those paths are hundreds of years old. They are many miles in length. Such paths are called trails.

"I have traveled over one of the Indian trails. It was in the state of New York. It made me feel queer as I thought of the painted Red Men who so long ago made that path through the dark woods.

"The clothing and houses of these people were quite different in the different parts of this country. The games and festivals of one tribe were often unlike those of any other.

"Some Indians lived in tents covered with the skins of wild animals. Others had houses of birch bark. Then again, there were tribes who braided grasses into pretty mats with which they covered the framework of their houses.

"The food was also different. In the south, where the air is warm and pleasant almost all the year, the Red Men ate a great deal of fruit. Up here in the north they lived largely on the corn that the women planted and tended, while out on the great plains they ate quantities of buffalo meat."

Lucy's eyes opened wider and wider as the old man talked.

"I didn't need to close them at all," she said. "I can always see the pictures you paint with words. You make them so bright, Uncle Sam."

"Some other time, my dear, we will talk more about the Red Children, but now we will turn to the first white men who visited America.

"The first visitors from Europe were bold Norsemen. Their homes were in the far north. There were many deep, narrow bays along the shores of their own country and they loved the ocean from the time they were born. While they were still children, they learned to sail over its rough waves, and by the time they were young men they were quite fearless. The worst storms and the fiercest winds did not make them tremble.

"From year to year they kept sailing farther and farther westward in their queer boats."

"Why were they queer, Uncle Sam?" asked Lucy.

"They would seem queer to us because they had such high prows and sterns and because large figures of dragons and other strange creatures were often carved on the ends of the boats. The sails, too, were of a different shape from any you ever saw.

"But let me go on with my story. It happened one time that some Vikings, as these brave Norse seamen were called, sailed so far into the west that they came to an island they had never seen before. This was Iceland. You have heard the name, haven't you, children?"

"Yes, Uncle Sam."

"Iceland lies about half-way between Europe and America, but it is much farther north than we are. The Norsemen who came upon it by accident, called it Snowland."

"I think that is a pretty name. I wish it were called Snowland, now," said Lucy, half to herself.

"Yes, it is a pretty name," said Uncle Sam. Then he went on.

"The one who first saw Iceland did not remain there. He went back to Norway. Four years later, another Norseman was driven to the coast of Iceland by a storm. Before he left it, he sailed all around its shores and found it was an island.

"When he got home again, he said it was such a pleasant place that another daring Viking decided to go to Iceland to live. He carried seeds for planting and cattle to furnish milk and meat. He stayed there all one winter. It was so cold that the poor cattle died.

"When spring came, the Norseman made ready to plant his seeds, but the land was still covered with ice. 'This is not a fit place for anyone to live,' he cried. He once more packed his goods on his ship and sailed for Norway.

"That, however, was not the end of the white men's life in Iceland. Ten years after that another band of Norsemen went there and settled. They lived in peace and comfort. Children were born and grew up in that cold island of the north. They were carefully taught by their parents and became wise men and women. This settlement in Iceland lasted for hundreds of years.

"You children may wonder why I tell you so much about the Norsemen coming to Iceland, but it is like the first step of a ladder. Perhaps you are getting tired, though, and do not wish to hear any more to-night."

"O no, we are not a bit tired, Uncle Sam," said both Lucy and her brother.

"Well, then, if Iceland was the first step toward America, Greenland was the second one.

"Some of the early settlers in Iceland were driven westward in a storm while they were out sailing. It was then that they first saw the rocky shores of Greenland.

"A good many years after this there was a certain man living in Iceland named Eric the Red. He did not get along very well with his neighbors and had many quarrels with them. He said to himself:

"'I will seek that land west of us and will make a home for myself there.'

"He sailed away from Iceland and was not heard of again for three years. When he came back on a visit, he spoke of the place where he had been living as 'Greenland.' He thought:

"'If I give it a good name, others will like to go there and settle.'"

"Now I know why it was called Greenland," said Lucy, laughing. "Whenever we sing 'From Greenland's Icy Mountains,' I always wonder about the name. I knew it must be a cold and icy land, because of the words of the hymn."

"Yes, that was the way of it. The name Greenland sounded very pleasant to the people of Iceland and a large company of them went back with Eric to settle among the icy mountains you sing about.

"We come now to the third accident and the third step that brought the Norsemen to our own land.

"Eric the Red had sons. They were bold and daring sailors, like their father. During the long winter evenings they used to listen to the stories of the older people. There was one that they liked best of all. It was the tale of a young man named Biarne who was trying to find the way from Iceland to Greenland. His father had gone there with Eric, and Biarne wished to follow him.

"He started off in the right direction. When he had sailed out of sight of land, a thick fog settled down. Then a north wind began to blow. Day after day, the ship was driven by the strong north wind. Biarne could do nothing but wonder, 'Where are we going? Surely, this wind will never carry us to Greenland.'

"At last the fog cleared away and not long after that the Norseman and his crew found they were sailing near a shore on which trees were growing. Low hills rose behind it. It could not be Greenland, truly, for Biarne had been told that the hills there were high and that they were covered with ice.

"When Biarne refused to land, his men were quite angry. 'I must go on with my search for my father,' he told them. 'I only care now to find him.'

"Again they set sail and after two more days they saw land again. It was low and wooded, so Biarne knew that this could not be the country he was seeking.

"'I will not stop here,' he told his men. Of course they grumbled, but they were obliged to do as he wished.

"Three more days passed, and a land with high and snowy mountains came into sight.

"'I am sure this is not Greenland, either,' said Biarne, and he would not stop. He sailed along its shores, however, long enough to find it was an island.

"In three days from that time, he reached the shores of Greenland. When Biarne at last cast anchor he was very near that part of the country where his father was living.

"Whenever Eric's sons heard this story of Biarne, they thought, 'When we grow up, we will go to sea. Then we will try to find the country with green hills and many trees. Who knows what else we shall see in such a pleasant land?"

"The time came at last when the eldest son of Eric was old enough to start on a long voyage. It was in the year 1000. Biarne went with him.

"The first shore that met their eyes was Newfoundland. They landed and found it was a plain covered with stones. They returned to the ships and soon Nova Scotia came in sight.

"After they had looked over that land, they started once more and sailed southward. They came to our own New England. I believe they were not a hundred miles away from where we are this very minute.

"They were much pleased with the place. They found plenty of large salmon in the waters. Trees grew everywhere about them. The air was much warmer and pleasanter than in Greenland.

"There was one thing which delighted them more than anything else. They found vines with great bunches of grapes growing upon them. This is how it happened. One night one of their party was missing. He had gone with a few men to look around and see what they could discover. This man was a German and his name was Tyrker. His friends came back without him. He had wandered away from them. They believed he was lost.

"Everyone felt bad. They thought they should never see him again. Some of them went to hunt for the missing man. They had not gone far when they met him. He seemed wild with joy. He could hardly speak, he was so glad. At first, his friends thought he had lost his mind.

"After a while he was able to say that he had found vines with grapes upon them. He knew what they were, for he had seen grapes growing in his own country of Germany.

"It seemed too good to be true. They all knew that the wine they liked so well was made from grapes. They followed Tyrker and found the vines he had described.

"What a treasure they had discovered! Stores of grapes were gathered day after day and carried on board the ship. Trees were also cut down, for the people in Greenland would be glad to have all the lumber their friends could bring them.

"The Vikings said, 'We will call this place Vinland because of the grape vines we have found.'

"As soon as the ship had been loaded with all it could carry, the joyful party left our shores and turned northward once more. During their short visit here they saw no other people.

"When they reached home they told such bright stories of their visit that others wished to go to Vinland.

"Another party of Norsemen soon started. When they got here, they met some people who must have been Eskimos. These savages were quite short and had broad faces. They had skin boats such as the Eskimos use to this day."

"I never heard of Eskimos around here!" said Joe in surprise.

"I don't know how to explain it except in this way," replied Uncle Sam. "In those days the Eskimos, or some of them, must have lived along these shores, for the Norsemen certainly found them here. The Indians may have driven them away afterwards. We can only guess about it.

"The last Norsemen who came here did not stay long. Many things happened to prevent it. I will tell you of one of these, because it is really funny.

"A bull which the Norsemen had brought among their cattle rushed out of the woods one day. It frightened some Eskimos who had come to trade with the white men. They managed to reach their boats and paddled away as fast as they could go. They thought the bull was some dreadful creature the Norsemen would use against them in war.

"They went away, as I said, but they returned with great numbers of their own people. The Vikings said that they were now like a rushing torrent. They came to fight and to drive the white men from their shores.

"It would have been a sad day for the Norsemen if it had not been for one brave woman. They were fleeing from the Eskimos when she rushed out and faced the savages. She did not try to attack them, but began to strike at herself with a sword. They were so startled that they turned and fled to their boats.

"This was only one of the many adventures the Vikings had in Vinland. They had so many troubles that after a few years they made up their minds to remain in Greenland."

"How do you know all these things are true, Uncle Sam? Did the Norse people write books about them?"

"Those are good questions, Joe. The Norsemen did not write any history of themselves at that time. They did not know how to write. They were great story-tellers, however, and during the long winter evenings they used to tell, over and over again, the things that had happened to them. They made songs about their adventures. Their children learned these songs and when they grew up they taught them to their children. Hundreds of years afterwards Roman priests came among them and told them of the Christian God. At the same time the priests taught them to read and write. They now began to write down the history of their people.

"But, dear me, children, I have been so busy talking I never thought how late it is growing. There is your father at the gate. He must be coming for you."

"Thank you, Uncle Sam," said Lucy, as she kissed the old man good-night, "I enjoyed what you told us ever so much."

"I am glad you started with the Norsemen," said Joe. "I always like to hear the first part of anything. So, of course, as you are going to tell us the story of America, we ought to know the very beginning of it."

"My dear boy," said Uncle Sam, "no one knows the real beginning. All I could do was to start with the coming of the white men to this country."




Chapter II

The Genoese Sailor


"Here we are, Uncle Sam. We came early so there would be time for a good long story."

The old man sat reading his newspaper in the soft light of the setting sun. He looked up with a pleasant smile to greet the twins as they came arm in arm down the path.

"So you did not get too tired last night, Joe?" he replied. "I didn't know but that you would beg me to go back to fairy stories and leave true ones till you get older."

"Fairy stories indeed!" exclaimed the boy with a look of scorn. "Lucy and I both want to hear about real people. Don't we Lucy?"

"Of course; we said so last night, and we think so more than ever now. Have you made up your mind what to tell us next, Uncle Sam? But perhaps you want to finish your newspaper."

"Newspapers can wait till little folk are asleep in their beds, my darlings. Besides, I have a story all ready and waiting. It is knocking at the door of my mind this very moment and saying, 'Please let me out, please let me out.' So out it must come. There, Joe, stretch yourself comfortably in that hammock; and Lucy, take the steamer chair and draw it up close by my side. Now I hope you are both ready for a visit to another part of the world.

"We won't take any trunks, and there will be no sea-sickness, nor trouble of any kind. So let us start at once on a voyage across the Atlantic Ocean.

"Whew! Here we are safe and sound on the shores of Italy. The waves are rolling gently and the air is sweet and pleasant.

"A dark-skinned boy is sitting on the edge of the wharf and looking out to sea. He is watching the ships coming into port. He can see a tiny speck in the distance but he knows it is the top of some mast. As he watches it a sail comes into view under it. It comes nearer and nearer until the whole of a ship can be seen.

"The name of the boy who sat looking out to sea was Christopher Columbus.

"He loved the sea better than anything else. He longed to live on it and make long voyages. He did not know what it was to be afraid.

"As he grew up, he read all he could about the earth. He found that some wise men believed it was not flat, as many supposed, but was round. They also thought it much smaller than it really is.

"The young Columbus said to himself: 'If the world is really round, we can reach India by sailing west, instead of making such a long and tiresome journey to the east."

"Why did he care so much about getting to India?" asked Lucy.

"The people of Europe thought India was the richest land in the world. It had great stores of gold and silver. Beautiful silks and satins, wonderful pearls and emeralds, fragrant spices, -- all these things were brought from that glorious land. It is no wonder that Columbus, as well as everyone else, was interested in such a rich country.

"There was another reason, however, why Columbus thought so much about India and wished to find a shorter way of reaching it. He loved the Lord with all his heart. He had been told that the people of the East were heathens and that they worshiped idols.

"He thought: 'I would like to tell these people of the One God and of Jesus, the Friend of all men.'

"I believe he cared more about that than for the silks and spices.

"As soon as Columbus was old enough, he went to sea with some of his relations. He learned how to steer a ship and how to manage it in storms. He proved himself brave and daring in sea-fights. He studied the winds and tides.

"The time came at last when he spoke to the people of his own town in Italy. He told them he believed he could find India by sailing to the west. They did not listen to him. He himself could not fit up ships to make a long voyage, for he had no money. So he could not try his experiment.

"Years passed by and Columbus went to Portugal. He still had one great desire in his heart. You know what that was.

"He lost no time in speaking to the King of Portugal. The king listened to the plan. He thought it was a wise one. But he did not offer to send Columbus on a voyage of discovery. O, no! He preferred to send some of his own sailors. If the plan succeeded, he thought he would gain more by so doing.

"He sent the Italian away. Then he took the maps and charts Columbus had made and showed them to the wisest men of the country. He thought: 'I will make use of what Columbus knows, but he shall get no reward.'

"He was not honest. That is what I think. Don't you agree with me?"

"Of course we do," both children exclaimed.

"Some ships were fitted out and sailed into the west. They had not gone far, however, before the sailors became afraid and turned back. The king of Portugal did not try again."

"I am glad he didn't," said Lucy.

"It served him right," cried Joe.

"We must not leave Columbus," Uncle Sam went on. "The brave sailor left Portugal, but he was not discouraged. He kept thinking, thinking where he should try next. After a while, he thought of Spain. He knew that country was eager for wealth and new lands. He would go there. He started for the Spanish court. His little son went with him.

"The journey through the country was very tiresome. They went slowly, for the roads were rough. The little boy sat in front of his father on the horse's back.

"At last, one evening, they stopped to rest at a convent. Columbus told the good monks of the plan that was so dear to him. He showed them his charts of the world.

"They were much interested. They said: 'Our king and queen must see your charts. We believe they will give you the money to fit out the ships that you need. It will be a great thing for our country if you find a short way to India.'

"Columbus felt happy when he heard the monks' words. He left his little son in their care and went on his way to the court of Ferdinand and Isabella.

"The king and queen listened kindly, but they could see no way of giving money to Columbus. A war was going on at this very time and they needed all their money to carry it on.

"Columbus stayed in Spain for seven long years. He tried to get some of the rich men of the country to listen to his plans and furnish money. It was all in vain.

"At last, just as he was leaving the country, some messengers came to him. They said: 'Queen Isabella wishes to talk with you once more. She would like to help you.'

"How gladly Columbus turned back! He found the queen had such faith in him that she was even willing to sell her beautiful jewels, if necessary, for the sake of giving him money.

"He set to work at once to get a fleet ready. Three ships were chosen. Their bows and sterns were built high up out of the water. They were very different from the ships of to-day. Provisions to last a whole year were stowed away in them.

"It was not as easy to find sailors as it was to get the ships."

"I don't see why," interrupted Joe. "I should think there would have been plenty of men eager to go."

"Not so, my lad," replied Uncle Sam. "Only the boldest men would dare to sail far into the west at that time. The people of those days were full of queer fancies. They thought they would come to enchanted islands and great dragons and all sorts of fearful things if they went far away from home.

"At last, however, enough sailors promised to go and the great day came for the ships to set sail. How excited everyone was! Would these men ever come back to the shores of Spain? Would they really find India, or was it only the dream of a very bold man?

"The wharves were covered with people who had gathered to see the ships start on their daring voyage.

"They sailed farther and farther into the west; now the lower parts could be but dimly seen; then only the tops of the masts; then they faded altogether from sight.

"Now let us leave the onlookers of the shores and join the brave Columbus on the deck of the Santa Maria, his flag-ship.

"Day after day he guided the ships onward and ever westward. After they had passed the Canary Islands, the men were always on the watch for signs of some new land. After days, and then weeks, on the great ocean the sailors became afraid. They begged their leader to turn back, but they begged in vain. He would not listen.

"At first he tried to keep up their courage by telling them of the riches they would gain, or the honors their church would give them if they carried the teachings of Christ to the heathens. When such words lost their power Columbus became stern. He told the men how angry the king would be if they did not obey their captain.

"The time came when they began to plot against Columbus. They said: 'We will destroy him. Then, when we get home, we will say that he fell overboard.'

"Could they ever reach home, now they were so far away? The men became afraid of what might happen to them if Columbus were dead and no one left to pilot them home again. So they did not kill him.

"He knew they did not feel kindly to him and he thought it would be best to make some bargain with them. So he said: 'If we do not see land in a certain number of days I will promise to turn back toward Spain.'

"How eagerly he now watched from the deck of his vessel! It seemed as though his hopes and beliefs would not prove true. The last day came, -- the day on which he had promised to turn back if they found no signs of land.

"Lo! a stick carved by some person's hand came floating along by the ship's side. This was not all, for a branch with berries on it was picked up out of the water. Land must be near!

"'I will give a large reward to the man who first sees it,' cried Columbus. As he watched that very night he saw a light in the distance. It moved. He called two of his men to look at it.

"Their hearts leaped for joy at the sight.

"Before morning came, a sailor saw the shore in the distance by the light of the moon.

"Children," said Uncle Sam solemnly, "never forget that it was the 12th of October of the year 1492 that Columbus first stepped upon the shores of the New World. He was dressed in a full suit of steel armor and he held the royal banner of Spain as he landed on the island which he named San Salvador.

"He planted the cross of the Christians and, with his officers and men around him, knelt down to thank God for His great goodness in bringing them so far in safety.

"'How beautiful, how beautiful!' Columbus exclaimed as he looked about him. Tall palm trees were moving gently in the warm breeze; strange and lovely flowers were growing all around; birds of bright colors flew overhead.

"But these were not the only things to fill the brave sailor with wonder. He and his men were soon surrounded by strange-looking people. They had straight black hair and dark red skins. They wore little or no clothing.

"'This is India, without a doubt,' said Columbus, 'and these people are Indians.'

"He noticed the gold ornaments in their ears and he thought with delight of the treasures he would carry back to Spain to good Queen Isabella.

"The Red Men were as much surprised as the Spaniards. They whispered to each other, 'These white beings must be gods come from the heavens to visit us.'

"Then they pointed to the ships and said, 'The great birds that have brought them to us are now floating on the water.'

"The Indians wished to show honor to their visitors. They hurried to their simple homes and gathered grains and fruits. They brought them as presents to the Spaniards.

"The white men were glad to receive the corn, cotton, and fruits. They feasted on the delicious cocoanuts and bananas, yet they were not satisfied. Gold was what they most wanted. When they asked the Indians where to find it, the savages pointed towards the south."

"I am glad Columbus wasn't a Spaniard," said Joe, who had kept still a long time for a lively boy. "I just hate the Spaniards. I believe all they care for is riches. It's a good thing we beat them in the last war."

"My dear child," replied Uncle Sam, "You should hate no one. We may thank the Spaniards for one thing at least. If it had not been for them, Columbus might never have been able to cross the ocean and discover America. You must remember they gave him the ships and money he needed."

"It was the good Queen Isabella," said Joe, "and she didn't seem at all like the rest of her people. But please excuse me for interrupting you, Uncle Sam."

"That is all right, Joe. It shows you are a good listener. Now we will go back to Columbus resting among the palm trees.

"I am sure you children would have loved him. He had bright, keen eyes, yet they were kind and loving; and he moved about with the air of a king."

"He had the right to do so," said Lucy, thoughtfully. "He couldn't help feeling how great he was."

"You are quite right," answered Uncle Sam, as he patted the little girl's head. "Even the steps of a brave man must be different from those of a coward. The bravery gets into them without the man's thinking about it.

"But dear me! It is getting late, and I am only half through my story. We have turned our backs on Columbus and left him alone with the Red Men quite as long as is polite. He enjoyed himself very much with them, however, and stayed several days on the island.

"Then he took to his ships once more and sailed about among the different islands which he called the Indies. He thought that the right name for them, as he still believed he was near the mainland of India.

"Each time they landed, his men kept asking the natives where gold could be found. Each time they were disappointed. But Columbus thought it must be near at hand. He never dreamed that he was still far from the land of spices and precious stones.

"At the end of twelve weeks he said, 'We ought to go back to Spain and tell what we have discovered.'

"He gathered stores of the strange fruits and grains and rich woods and packed them safely away in the ships. He also took some of the brightly-feathered birds.

"He left a part of the sailors on one of the islands. They were to make a settlement. Then they would have a home ready for Columbus when he should come again with more of their people.

"When he had chosen some of the Indians to go back with him, all was ready and he began to cross the great ocean once more."

"He must have been almost bursting with pride and joy," cried Joe. "And the voyage home must have seemed long, because he had so much to tell."

"It came to an end at last, although there were terrible storms and the ships came very near being wrecked," Uncle Sam went on. "At length, however, they reached Spain.

"The news of their return spread quickly. As soon as Columbus landed crowds gathered to hear about his voyage and the whole country was filled with joy.

"When Columbus went to court to tell his story to the king and queen they would not let him stand before them. 'He is too great a man,' they thought. 'He has gained the right to sit in our presence.'"

"O, my!" said Joe, "I thought everybody had to stand before kings and queens."

"Columbus wasn't a king, but he was certainly as great, only in another way. Ferdinand was quite right in thinking so. He and his good wife listened with delight to the story of the greatest voyage any man ever made.

"They believed as Columbus did that a short way to India had been found. They eagerly examined the curious things brought to them from the west. They ate of the delicious fruits and admired the bright birds and beautiful woods.

"They said: 'We will have a grand procession through the streets of our city. Columbus shall wear beautiful garments and shall ride in the midst.'

"The Indians, bright with paint and feathers, went first of all in the procession. Crowds of people lined the streets to see the Red Men, the curious fruits and flowers, the parrots, and the stuffed bodies of animals they had never heard of before.

"They wished, most of all, to look upon the great man who had dared to sail so far into the west and who had brought India with all its riches to Spain. For everyone believed this was what Columbus had done.

"Many entertainments were prepared for the great sailor. Nearly everyone wished to give him honor. A few, however, were jealous.

"One day while Columbus was at a dinner party given in his honor one of the king's courtiers said:

"'It was not a hard thing to do what this Italian has done. Anyone else might have done the same thing.'

"Of course the man said this because he was jealous and did not like to see so much attention given to a poor sailor from Italy.

"Columbus did not seem troubled at this man's words. He took an egg from the table and handed it to the speaker. Then he said:

"'Can you make that egg stand on end?'

"The man tried, but could not do it. It was passed from one person to another. Everyone failed. At last it came back to Columbus. He took it in his hand and struck it gently on the table so that the shell was slightly cracked. Then, taking away his hand, he left it standing on end.

"'It is easy enough for anyone to do that,' cried the courtier.

"'It is also easy for anyone to find the Indies after I have shown the way,' was the reply of Columbus.

"Not long after this the great man made ready for another voyage across the ocean.

"How different everything was now! There was no trouble now to find sailors willing to go with him. Indeed, it was almost too easy. Everyone was anxious to visit the Indies. They believed it was the quickest way to gain riches and comfort.

"When the second fleet was ready to sail there were seventeen ships and fifteen hundred men. Only think of it! It was almost like a traveling city.

"They had no trouble in crossing the ocean, but when they came to the island where Columbus had before left a part of his men, there was no sign of them nor of the homes they had made.

"'This time I will choose a different place to settle,' said Columbus.

"He sailed into a fine harbor about forty miles away. The men landed and began to build the first city of the New World for white people to live in. They called it Isabella after the good queen of Spain.

"Columbus spent some time as governor of the settlement. Then he went back to Spain with news of the white men's city in the west. He did not stay long, however. He was soon restless for a third voyage across the great ocean.

"He sailed farther to the southward than he had before. For the first time he saw the shores of South America. Then he went back to the settlement in the West Indies, but the people were not glad to see him."

Uncle Sam stopped for a moment and looked quite sad.

"Children," he said, "I must tell the truth and say that Columbus was not as good a governor as he was a sailor. It would have been hard work for anyone to rule his people, for they had to work hard and they were not satisfied because gold was not plentiful.

"'It is not what we expected,' they cried angrily. 'We thought you would bring us to a land filled with gold and diamonds.'

"Some of them even whispered among themselves, 'Columbus is not what he pretends to be. He has cheated us badly.'

"At last they declared they would not let him stay there any longer. They put chains upon him and sent him back to Spain."

Uncle Sam took a picture from the table drawer.

"Look at Columbus now," said the old man. "There he sits on the deck of the ship with heavy chains bound on his arms like one who has done a great wrong. Yet he gave a whole continent to the people who put them on him.

"'I will take off your chains,' said the kind-hearted captain of the ship. It is a shame for you to wear them.'

"'No, no. Let them remain,' answered Columbus. I will wear them as a token of the kindness of princes.'

"How different was his third landing in Spain! This time there were no crowds waiting to show him honor. He was carried before the queen, who wept in pity at the sight of her old friend in chains. The brave man now broke down. As he tried to tell his story his words were choked with sobs.

"Isabella did not desert him, however. She helped him to fit out another fleet and he started on his last voyage. He sailed among other islands of the West Indies and returned to Spain after a great deal of suffering. He was sick and poor. There were many who once could not do too much for him but who now mocked him.

"He died with the belief that he had found a short way to India. He had no thought of what he had really discovered. It is a shame he did not get the honor he deserved."

Uncle Sam rose suddenly from his arm chair and began to walk up and down the room. "Yes, it is a shame. A burning shame. Children, let us sing 'Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean.'"

The old man turned to the little organ at one side of the room. In a moment the house was filled with the voices of Uncle Sam and his two young friends. When the song was over, the children kissed him good-night and started for home.




Chapter III

John Cabot And The Codfish


That same night after the children had gone to bed Lucy was just falling asleep when Joe called out:

"I say, Lucy, I wonder why our country isn't always called Columbia instead of America."

"Do keep still, Joe. I was so nice and sleepy and now you have waked me up," answered his sister. "You can ask Uncle Sam the next time you see him."

Two or three evenings afterward the old man was on his knees weeding his pansy bed when he heard steps near by.

"Uncle Sam! Uncle Sam! where are you?" called a girl's voice.

"Here I am, my little pink of a Lucy," and he straightened himself up by the side of the apple tree around which the pansies were growing.

"That is a lovely place for them. They don't have too much sunshine. How large the blossoms are! May I have that big purple one? It looks at me like a loving face."

"Of course you may, Lucy. But where is Joe?"

"He has gone on an errand for mother. After that, he's coming here. But we can't stay very long this evening. Mother said we must go to bed early to-night so as to be fresh for the picnic to-morrow. You are going, aren't you, Uncle Sam?"

"Certainly I am. I wouldn't miss it for the world."

"I'm so glad. Mother said I must be sure to tell you not to take any lunch. We shall carry enough for you. It is a lovely lunch. Roast chicken and nut cake and apple jelly. I can hardly wait for to-morrow. Now aren't you glad you are going?"

"It makes me hungry to think of it, so you and I will have to eat some cherries I picked this afternoon."

"Aren't they beauties! How juicy they are. Red cherries are prettier, but I think I like these blackhearts the best. Here comes Joe now."

"You are just in time," called Uncle Sam, as Joe came hurrying along.

"Cherries are ripe, cherries are ripe," sang Lucy, as her brother sat down on the steps, quite out of breath.

"Christopher!" exclaimed Joe as soon as he could speak. "I've had an awful long walk and I'm as tired as anything."

"You shouldn't say 'Christopher,' nor 'awful,' either, Joe. They are as bad as slang."

"You needn't preach, Lucy. I should like to know a better word than 'Christopher' in the whole language. Wasn't Columbus's name Christopher?"

"I know that. It is all the more reason for not making the word so common. He was too great a man. But, Uncle Sam, that makes me think of what Joe was saying the other night. He and I both think Columbia is a better name for our country than America."

"Let us see about that, children. I must tell you how it all happened.

"You remember, of course, that Columbus never knew what he had discovered. He thought he had visited the shores of Asia. Some years after his first great voyage another man from his own country of Italy sailed out into the west. His name was Americus Vespucius. A little hard to say, isn't it?

"He was a merchant who had made several long voyages already. He went farther south than Columbus and sailed along the shores of South America.

"'It is a vast country,' he said to himself, and he was the first one to call it the 'New World.' He wrote long letters telling of what he had seen. The man who printed these letters called the New World America in his honor. And it has been called America ever since. But I like Columbia best myself, children. The name is very dear to me."

While Joe and Lucy finished eating the cherries, Uncle Sam sat thinking.

"What shall I next tell them about our glorious land?" he said to himself. "Oh, now I know. I am sure they would like to hear about John Cabot and the codfish. It isn't a very long story and there is just time enough before they should go home."

The twins were quite willing to listen. They had already found that true stories were quite as interesting as make-believe ones.

As they sat on the steps in the twilight this is what they heard:

Once upon a time there was a little boy who lived in Italy. It was about the time that Columbus lived there, too. The boy's name was John Cabot. He loved the sea as Columbus did. He liked to listen to stories of strange lands.

When he grew up he was not satisfied to stay at home. He began to travel and made longer and longer journeys. After a while he went to England and made his home in that country. He did not stay there, however, for he wished to learn all he could about the world.

On one of his journeys he traveled to Arabia. He met some men there who were leading camels loaded with spices. People used a great deal of spice in their food and drink, so it was very precious to them.

John Cabot began to talk with the men. He asked them where they got all those spices. They pointed still farther to the east and explained to him that it was a long, long way off.

He thought a good deal about what the men told him. He said to himself:

"If I should go west far enough I should surely come to the east. The wise men must be right when they tell us the earth is round."

After he went back to England he heard the great news from Spain. A man named Columbus had done just what Cabot thought possible. He had reached the east by sailing west.

"It is truly wonderful," said the people. It was the talk of the whole country. John Cabot was as much excited as everyone else. He asked the king of England to send him on a voyage to the newly-found country. The king thought:

"The Spaniards should not be the only ones to bring back the riches of India. We must have a share of their good fortune."

He was quite willing, therefore, to send John Cabot, who was a wise man and a good sailor. Cabot's son went with him on the voyage.

They came to the mainland of North America, but they were much farther north than Columbus had ever been. It was quite cold and the place looked bare and lonesome.

They saw no Indians, but there were some fishnets lying about near the shore. These nets being there showed that probably people were not far away.

"What great numbers of fish there are in these waters," exclaimed Cabot. "I never in my life before saw so many. 'The Land of the Codfish' is a good name for this country."

He did not stay long, for food was becoming scarce. So the ship soon started on the homeward voyage. When they reached England the sailors told wonderful stories about the "Land of the Codfish." They said:

"The waters were so thick with fish that the ship sometimes could not move as fast as it otherwise would. One thing amused us very much. It was the strange sight of bears fishing! The great creatures swam out into the water and caught the fish in their paws. Sometimes the fish were so large that they fought hard to get away, but the bears nearly always won the battle."

John Cabot told the king he had discovered the country of China. He was treated with the highest honor and called "The Great Admiral." He was dressed in rich silks. The king promised he should have a sum of money given him every year for the rest of his life.

After a while the king began to say to himself:

"It is all very well to make a voyage to the west and find the east, but that is not enough. I should like some of the gold and gems and delicious spices found there."

So it came about that John Cabot and his son started out on a second voyage. When they reached North America this time they sailed along its shores for a long distance. They saw Indians dressed in skins and wearing ornaments of copper. But they found no gold nor spices.

Cabot still thought he had visited Asia. The king of England did not care about him any longer, however. He was of no use if he could not bring to England the treasures of India. This is probably the reason we know nothing more about John Cabot.

We do not even know how long he lived nor when he died. His son Sebastian lived to be a bright and lively old man and was always glad to hear of the voyages of others to far-away places.

When Uncle Sam had finished the story of John Cabot he told the children why he wished them to remember it.

"Columbus made his voyages with the help of Spain," said he. "That country claimed the right to hold the lands he discovered. That is why the people who settled in the West Indies and in almost all of South America came from Spain and spoke the Spanish language.

"But John Cabot sailed for the English king and that is why the English said:

"'We claim the eastern part of North America.'

"Years after the time of John Cabot they sent people to settle here. They spoke our language and planted English ways and English thoughts with their corn and potatoes."

Uncle Sam laughed as he added, "Maybe you and I would have been Spaniards if it had not been for John Cabot. I wonder how you would have liked that, Joe. I know you are not too fond of your Spanish cousins."

"Cousins! Ugh! I don't like to think of their being relations of mine."

"My dear boy, this world isn't so very large after all, and one great Father loves us and cares for all. Of course, we think America could teach Spain one or two things, but I don't doubt she could help us in some ways, too. No one is perfect, Joe, or else we shouldn't need to live in this world. Come, children, give me a kiss and run off to your little beds."

"Good-night, sleep tight, and don't let the mosquitos bite," Lucy called to her old friend as she followed Joe down the path.




Chapter IV

The Fountain Of Youth


A finer day could not have been chosen for the picnic. When the party started for the pine grove four miles from home there were six carriages full of people. It was a lovely place for a picnic party and Joe and Lucy played hard all day with their little friends. Six o'clock came all too soon.

"Please stay a little longer and eat the rest of our lunch for supper," begged the children. The older people were quite willing.

"It is a good thing we can get plenty of good water from that spring," said Lucy's father. "It is nearly as cold as ice water and certainly as cold as anyone ever ought to drink. I should like to come here every day for the sake of a drink of it."

"I love to hear the water as it makes its way down over the rocks. They say the spring never dries up, even in the hottest days of summer," said Uncle Sam, who was standing near.

"Uncle Sam! A story, a story!" cried some one, as they settled themselves on the grass to eat chicken sandwiches and apple turnovers.

"That spring makes me think of something you might like to hear. It is true, though it is nearly as strange as a fairy story. I suppose the older ones all know it."

"Do tell it, Uncle Sam," cried the children, and their parents seemed as willing to listen as the little ones.

As the evening clouds changed from silver to gold and crimson, and the young moon peeped shyly out in the evening sky, Uncle Sam told the story of


The Fountain Of Everlasting Youth

A long time ago there was a young knight in Spain named Ponce de Leon. He was gay and handsome, fond of dress and of good times. Columbus had made his voyages to America and come back to Spain to die.

The men whom he had left in the West Indies needed a governor. The king looked around his court. At last he chose Ponce de Leon as the best man to send to the New World. The knight was quite willing, so he went to live in the island of Porto Rico, one of the West Indies.

His life was an easy one. He did very little himself but was a cruel master over the poor Indians who had to work hard at his bidding. Before the white men came among them they had easy times, swinging in their hammocks, bathing in the clear waters, and eating the wild fruits which were so plentiful.

Everything was changed after the arrival of the cruel Spaniards.

"These white men are great and wise," the Indians had thought at first. "We must serve them and give them all we can. They wish gold. We will show them where they can find it in the earth and the beds of the rivers."

These poor savages of Porto Rico were gentle creatures. They knew little about war. When they found the Spaniards had no love for them and cared for nothing except gold, it was too late to save themselves. They were forced to wait upon their white masters. They had to work in the gold mines as they had never worked before. They missed the pleasant sunlight. They became weak and sick. Great numbers of them died.

All this time Ponce de Leon was storing away great piles of the gold the Indians brought him. He made a poor governor. The king of Spain at last sent word he should no longer rule over the island of Porto Rico.

He was now growing old. He had been sick many times. He began to think of what the Indians had told him. They said:

"Much gold can be found in the land north of us. Something better than gold can also be found there. It is a wonderful fountain. If anyone tastes of its waters he shall never be sick again but shall be young forever."

The heart of the Spaniard leaped for joy. "That is what I want," he said. "Such a fountain is indeed better than all the gold in the world."

He might very easily say this, for he already had all the gold he needed.

He started out with a gay company of his friends. They sailed about among the islands, stopping here and there to feast and make merry.

Still they sailed on toward the north till at last they came in sight of a land beautiful with flowers. It was a glorious Easter Sunday. The air was sweet with delicious odors.

"I will call this place Florida," said Ponce de Leon, "because it is the Flowery Easter."

He and his men spent some time wandering about through the country, always looking for the wonderful fountain.

"It may be here," he would think as he picked his way through a forest.

"Listen!" one of his friends would cry as he heard the sound of running water and thought it might be the Fountain of Youth they were seeking.

They were disappointed again and again. At last they went back to the ships and sailed for Spain. They had found plenty of fruits and flowers. They had met many Indians, some of whom were friendly and gentle, but others were fierce and warlike. Their eager eyes never beheld the Fountain of Youth.

Ponce de Leon did not give up his hope of finding it, however. He told the king of Spain of the beautiful country of Florida and that he hoped to find gold there. The king said:

"You may be the governor of this new land if you will take others with you and settle there."

The old man went back to Florida. Alas! he only went to pain and trouble. As he was about to land, a party of Indians came out to meet him. They were not willing to let the white men come on shore. A fight took place. Ponce de Leon was shot. A poisoned arrow entered his body and made a frightful wound. He went back to the ship and set sail for Cuba. His wound did not heal, for the poison from the arrow was still working.

He never again tried to find the Fountain of Youth, for he died in a few days.

"Nobody else ever found it, either," said Uncle Sam as he finished the story.

"People used to have such silly notions," said one of the party, as they packed up to go home.

"The more they traveled, the wiser they became," replied Uncle Sam. "There is nothing like travel to make our minds grow. Some time I may go round the world myself. I'm not too old yet."

"I hope you will let Joe and me go with you," said Lucy, as she took hold of his hand and pointed to the waiting carriage.




Chapter V

The Good Knight And The Lost Baby


Joe and Lucy were sitting on Uncle Sam's steps. They were busy making daisy wreaths.

"We will put a double crown on Uncle Sam's head," Lucy whispered. "Then we will play he is the king of Spain sending Ponce de Leon to Florida."

The old man heard her. "I shall look quite royal with such a grand crown," he said with a laugh. "But to-night you had better pretend I am England's good Queen Bess. She lived long after John Cabot. Let me see! It was about seventy-five years from then to the time Walter Raleigh first met her."

"There! I've finished my wreath, so please let me put it on your head. Then I'll be very still while you talk to us," said Lucy.

"Mine is done, too," cried Joe.

"Oh, Uncle Sam, you look just lovely," exclaimed the little girl, standing up to admire her friend.

Then she and Joe settled themselves at his feet to hear the story of Queen Elizabeth and her brave knight:

A long time ago there was a little boy in England named Walter Raleigh. He was a very beautiful child and as brave as he was handsome.

While he was still very young he left his quiet home in the country and went to war in other lands. In a few years he came back to England. Now, however, he was a tall, strong man, as brave and handsome as ever.

One afternoon he dressed himself in rich and beautiful clothes and went out to walk. He wore a white satin vest, a brown doublet embroidered with pearls, yellow shoes tied with white satin ribbons and sparkling with precious stones, and a wide hat trimmed with a long black plume. His dark hair fell in curls over his shoulders. He was a grand sight, indeed.

He had not walked far when lo! he saw Queen Elizabeth coming that way. The ladies of her court were with her. Suddenly the queen stopped. A pool of muddy water stood in her pathway, for a shower had fallen only a short time before.

What should she do? The queen stopped to think how she could keep from wetting her dainty shoes.

No sooner had she done this than Walter Raleigh stepped forward, threw off his rich cloak, and spread it over the pool. A dry way was thus made for the queen to pass over.

She turned to the young man and, thanking him, gave him a sweet smile. Then she went on her way, but she did not forget him. She asked her ladies his name. When he afterwards appeared at court she was ready to show him kindness.

She found that Walter Raleigh was not only a true gentleman, but that he was also brave and wise.

He went to sea in the queen's ships and showed that he was a good sailor. He fought in battles for his country and proved that he was a fine soldier. He read many books and wrote beautiful poems. In those times, or any other times, it would be hard to find a better, braver, finer gentleman than Walter Raleigh.

For many years the English people had given little thought to America. When they found John Cabot did not discover a short way to India, they lost interest in the New World.

Walter Raleigh, however, did not think like the rest of his people.

"O Queen," he said to Elizabeth, "you are a great ruler. But you could become more powerful still. Why do you not claim some of that land across the great ocean before Spain seizes all of it? We have learned from sea captains who have been there lately that it is rich in beautiful woods and many other good things."

Raleigh hated the Spaniards and had already fought against them in the wars. He knew they were settled in Mexico, Florida, and the West Indies. He did not wish them to get hold of the rest of America. Neither he nor Elizabeth, however, dreamed of the great size of the country.

"I will fit out some ships," the queen answered, "and you may send people to settle on the land which I will give you in America."

Two ships were made ready. The men who sailed in them did not plan to settle in America. They went only to look around and find a good place where settlers could come afterward.

They landed on different islands near the shores of the mainland. It was farther north than Florida. The air was warm and pleasant. The explorers found many fine trees of oak and cedar. Grapes and melons, corn and peas, were plentiful.

The Indians whom they met seemed willing to be friends. They admired the white skins of their visitors and brought presents to them. The white men gave them beads and other cheap ornaments.

The Englishmen stayed among them for several weeks. The Indian women made feasts for their visitors and bathed their feet and washed their clothes. The time came at last when the white men said:

"We must go back to England and tell about this beautiful country. We will take home some furs and skins and we will carry a bracelet of pearls to Walter Raleigh."

How his eyes must have sparkled at the sight of the pearls! They were as large as peas.

"The Indian women wear such pearls as ornaments," the sailors said. "The men often go about with reeds in their mouths. Bowls of walnut shell are fastened to these reeds and filled with the dried leaves of a strange plant. Then the Indians set the leaves on fire. They suck the smoke through the reeds and blow it out of their mouths. They seem to take great pleasure in doing this."

The sailors were speaking of the tobacco plant and the smoking of its leaves. They had never seen either before.

Elizabeth was much pleased with what she heard. She said:

"This beautiful country shall be called Virginia in honor of myself."

The queen was not married. She sometimes said: "I am wedded to my country, and that is enough." It was because of this that she was often spoken of as the "Virgin Queen." She always liked to be called by this name.

At this time she made Walter Raleigh a knight and that is why he has always since been called Sir Walter Raleigh.

The next year he sent out one hundred people to settle in Virginia. They must have been very brave to seek a new home among the Red Men across the great ocean. They landed on one of the islands which their people had visited the year before. They set to work at once to make a home for themselves.

It was not long before some rough houses were built and English housekeeping was begun in America.

The Indians were not as kind as they were the year before. They were jealous of the white men. They thought:

"It was well enough for them to visit us, but we do not wish them to live here."

They had good reasons for not liking the strangers, for the white men did not treat them wisely.

I will tell you of one thing that happened to make the Indians angry. When the Englishmen were on an exploring expedition a silver cup was stolen.

"The Indians have taken it," they cried.

They were so angry they marched to an Indian town near by and burned it to the ground. The red people of the town fled into the woods, so no harm was done to them. They were very angry, however, because their homes were destroyed. They said to one another:

"Let us drive the white strangers from our land. They do us nothing but harm."

From this time the settlers were not safe. They never knew when the Indians might attack them. Many of them were sick and longed to go back to England.

When summer came and an English ship sailed into the harbor, most of them were glad to get on board and bid good-bye to America.

They carried back with them three things which did not grow in England. These were Indian corn, white potatoes, and tobacco.

Sir Walter Raleigh planted the potatoes at his home in Ireland. The people there liked them so much that potatoes were soon growing in every part of the country. That is why they were afterwards called "Irish potatoes."

As for the tobacco, Sir Walter became so fond of smoking it that he was often seen with a pipe in his mouth. Of course, this was then a strange sight in Europe. The first time the knight's servant saw his master smoking, he was frightened. He thought Raleigh was on fire. He rushed forward with a pitcher of water and dashed it over his head. The sudden bath must have been a surprise, but it probably made the good knight laugh heartily.

Though the first settlers came back from America, Raleigh thought:

"I will not give up so easily. Virginia is a beautiful country. It will make a good home. I will try again to make a settlement there."

The very next year he sent out a still larger number of people. There were men, women and children. When they reached the island where the first settlers had lived, they found the English fort had been destroyed. Deer were roaming freely through the deserted village.

They did not lose heart. They set to work and new houses were soon built. They tried to make friends with the Indians.

At this time a dear little baby was born. She was named Virginia in honor of the queen and of her parents' new home. She was the first white child of English people born in this great land of America.

Poor little Virginia Dare! You shall now hear her sad story. Her grandfather was the governor of the English settlement. After a while he said to his people:

"I will sail back to England to get help, for the Indians are not friendly to us."

He was gone a long time -- much longer than he expected to be. When he reached England he found that war was going on, and Raleigh was busy fighting for his country.

Two ships, however, were loaded with supplies and started to America. Alas! they had not gone far before they had a fight with the Spaniards and were obliged to go back to England.

It was three years before Virginia's grandfather was able to cross the ocean again. What long, anxious years they must have been!

When he reached Virginia there was not one of his people to greet him; no daughter to meet him with smiles and kisses; no little grandchild to sit on his knee and put her arms around his neck.

All were gone -- the fort, the village, men, women, and children. He looked about for a sign of what had happened. This only met his eyes: It was a tree into which these letters had been hurriedly cut:

C-R-O-A-T-A-N

What was the meaning of these letters? Was it to let him know that the white people could be found among the Croatan Indians? Had they been made prisoners by that tribe of Red Men? He went to them and to other tribes in the country around, but he was not able to learn anything about his lost dear ones. At last he went back to England with a sad heart.

No one knows to this day whether Virginia Dare was killed by the Red Men or whether she lived to grow up among their children and learn their ways and language. She and her people are spoken of to-day as "The Lost Colony."

When Sir Walter Raleigh heard the sad news he was discouraged. He had spent all his money and still had no colony. Queen Elizabeth died a few years after this. King James, who now ruled over England, was not his friend.

The king kept the brave knight in prison for twelve long years. At last he ordered the good Sir Walter Raleigh's head to be cut off.

This was the end of that brave Englishman, after a life of good and noble deeds.




Chapter VI

The Story Of A Daring Man


"What a pity no one knows what became of little Virginia Dare," said Lucy, sadly. "I hope she wasn't killed by the Indians. I'd rather think she died of the measles or scarlet fever."

"Poor little child," said Uncle Sam softly. "It must have been a rough life for her in the wild woods of the New World at that time, even if the cruel savages had let her alone. My heart goes out also to Sir Walter Raleigh, for he worked so hard to have English people settle here. The saddest part of it is that he did not succeed.

"He lived long enough, however, to hear of other people going to Virginia and making a home there. They would surely have failed, too, if it had not been for Captain John Smith."

"What a common name that is," said Joe. "I know two boys named John Smith."

"A common enough name, to be sure," answered Uncle Sam. "But the John Smith I am thinking of was very different from any other. If you children can stay long enough this evening, I will tell you about him."

"Mother said we needn't come home till eight o'clock unless you got tired of us before that time."

"The idea of my getting tired of you and Joe, Lucy! I would be a lonely old man if it were not for you children. You help to keep me young. I can't think what I should do, either, if I had no one to listen to the stories that keep running through my head. Just now it is fairly bursting with the brave deeds of John Smith."

"Dear me! Don't let it burst, Uncle Sam. Do begin the story this very minute," cried Lucy, trying to look frightened.

A moment afterward the little sitting-room was so still that anyone could have heard the big clock ticking in the corner. Then Uncle Sam began to tell of the strange life of


Captain John Smith

Once upon a time there was a little boy who lived on a farm in England.

When he was born his father and mother said, "We will call our son John."

As soon as he was old enough he was set to work at a trade. His parents were poor and they thought, "It is a good thing to have a trade, for then a man can always get his own living."

The young John Smith could not agree with them. He did not like his work, so he did what other boys sometimes do. He ran away. Then his troubles began, for he had a hard life. He tried all sorts of things.

He became a soldier and later he went to sea and was out in such a terrible storm that his ship was wrecked. Again he was out in a ship when another storm came up.

"John Smith carries bad luck wherever he goes," the men whispered to each other. "He has brought this storm upon us."

They threw him overboard. As he was a good swimmer and not far from land, he managed to reach the shore in safety.

This is only one of the stories John Smith told of his strange life when he was a young man.

Not long after that adventure he took part in a war against the Turks. He was as brave as ever, for at one time he killed three Turks and cut off their heads. He had no one to help him do it, either.

He did not succeed as well afterwards, for the Turks caught him and made him a slave. His cruel master fastened an iron collar around his neck and made him work very hard. He had to thresh wheat.

One day when he was working in the wheat field his Turkish master rode up on horseback and began to whip him. How angry he was! He seized his heavy flail and killed the Turk with one blow.

He must lose no time in getting away now. He lifted a bag of wheat to the back of the horse, jumped up behind it, and off he rode as fast as he could go.

He wandered through the wilderness for a long time. At last he reached the seashore and got on board an English ship. When he reached England there were many people ready to listen to his wonderful adventures.

On the other hand, John Smith heard many stories about the land across the great ocean -- of little Virginia Dare and her lost people, and of the Red Men who lived such a free life in the forests of America. This was not all, however, for people were saying:

"Why not try again to settle in Virginia? It is a beautiful country. The weather is warm and pleasant there. It must be easy enough to live in such a place, if we can only get along with the Indians."

John Smith eagerly listened to all this talk. England was too quiet for him. He did not enjoy his life there, he liked excitement too well. He said:

"If a party sails to Virginia I should like to join it."

He soon had a chance, for a number of men were at that time getting ready to start. They were not the best kind of people to make a new home in a strange land. Very few of them knew how to do any kind of work. They had heard that the Spaniards found gold in America. They thought they themselves might pick it up on the ground in Virginia. They said to each other:

"We will get rich in the easiest way in the world."

They did not know how hard work it would be to make themselves safe, as well as comfortable.

They settled at a place they called Jamestown, in honor of James, the king of England.

When the Red Men saw these newcomers, they were not pleased. They were not willing to have the Englishmen settle in their country. They said:

"We will kill these white men before they have a chance to save themselves."

The English were taken by surprise. They did not have their guns with them when the Indians drew near with their bows and arrows. It would have been a sad day for John Smith and his party if the Indians had not been frightened off.

Something came whizzing over their heads. The next moment the branch of a tree came tumbling down in the midst of them.

"It is thunder," they thought. "The Great Spirit is angry with us."

They fled from the place as fast as their legs would carry them. They did not stop to look around to see what had happened. If they had seen, they would not have understood.

But the white men knew. Some of their friends on board of the ship had seen their danger. They had fired a cross-bar shot from a cannon. That was a bar of iron with a cannon-ball at each end. Such shot are not allowed to be used now-a-days.

Although John Smith and his friends were saved at this time, many other troubles were waiting for them.

They made some houses to live in, but made them so poorly that they leaked and were very damp. They had brought food with them, but there was not enough to last long. It is not strange that many of the party became sick and died.

Those who still lived looked at the gardens of the Indians with a great longing. They watched the fields of corn waving in the breeze, and when it was ripe they tried to buy the grain.

They could not get it by offering money to the Red Men, for the savages had no use for money -- that is, for our kind of money. John Smith said to his people:

"I will tell you what I will do. I will take some beads and other cheap trinkets and will go up the river in a boat. I can surely get some corn if I am willing to give the trinkets in return."

When the Indians saw the beads, bits of looking-glass, and other ornaments, they longed to have them. They wanted them so much that they gladly gave Smith a boatload of corn. In this way he saved his people from sickness and death.

These white men called themselves "gentlemen." They had never done any work in England. John Smith showed them they could only save their lives by work. It must be hard work, too.

If it had not been for him they would not have known enough even to build their houses. He taught them how to plough the ground and plant corn so as to raise a crop for themselves. He said to them:

"We ought to protect our settlement by setting up a wall of stakes around it."

Such a wall is called a palisade. It would have been helpful in keeping their enemies away. The wall was not built, however. The men were lazy and they thought:

"Captain Smith cannot be right. We are able to defend ourselves without any palisade."

King James very much wished the settlers to look for three things. They were to search for Virginia Dare and her people; they must find gold, and they were also to look for some waterway through the land leading to the Pacific Ocean, or the South Sea, as it was then called.

It was more than a hundred years since Columbus discovered America. Yet still no one dreamed of the size of this country. How surprised John Smith and his people would have been to learn that they would have to travel three thousand miles westward before they reached another ocean.

As soon as Captain Smith had a chance he sailed along the shores and up the rivers. He was looking for a way to reach the South Sea. One day he went up the James River in a boat with two of his friends. They came to another and smaller river flowing into the James.

"Let us see where this will carry us," said Smith.

They went on and on. The river became narrower and narrower. At last Smith jumped ashore and left the other two men in charge of the boat. He told them to guard it and on no account to leave it for a minute. He would go inland to see what he could find.

He had not gone far when some Indians crept out of the woods. They took the two men by surprise and killed them. Then the savages hurried after Smith. He fought hard and managed to make a prisoner of one of the Indians.

Quick as a flash, he bound his prisoner in front of him. In this way he made a shield for himself. The Indians could not shoot at the white man without running the risk of killing one of their own people.

By this time they had driven Smith into a swamp. The brave man was sinking deeper and deeper into the mud. It was not long before he sank up to his waist in it. He could no longer run nor fight. He would have to give himself up.

He made a sign to his enemies that he would let them take him.

Even after they had taken him ashore he had hope. With quick thought he drew a small compass from his pocket and offered it to the leader of the party. He told the Indian to look at the needle. He showed how it pointed. He explained that anyone who carried it could tell in what direction he was going.

The savage was so pleased that he would not let the others do Smith any harm. They started for their home with their prisoner. They did not travel like white men. They walked in single file and made no noise.

They carried Smith to several Indian villages. Everyone was curious to see him. Many of their people had never looked at a white man before. They said to each other:

"Is he a friend or an enemy to us? He is certainly very wise and brave."

They looked at the compass and saw that it would really tell directions. They thought:

"No common man could have such a wonderful thing as that."

Smith wrote a letter to his friends in Jamestown and asked the Indians to send it to them. When the Red Men had done this and found that those queer marks on a piece of paper told a story to the white men, they were even more surprised. They said:

"We do not dare to kill our prisoner, he is too powerful."

What should they do with him? While they were trying to make up their minds about this, they kept Smith shut up in a hut. They were not cruel to him, however. O, no. They brought him quantities of food to eat. There were bread made of corn, roasted deer meat, and all the dainties which they themselves liked best. Smith thought:

"They are trying to make me fat before they kill me."

This thought took away all wish for food. The poor man could scarcely eat.

Day after day went by until at last the Red Men said:

"We will take our prisoner to the great chief, Powhatan, and he will tell us what to do."

Smith was brought out and carried in a strange procession to the village in which the chief was then living. He was kept there for some time before the chief would receive him.

When the day came at last, Powhatan was dressed in the grandest Indian fashion. He wore a long robe made of feathers. His face and arms were painted. His people stood around him. He wished Smith to think he was great and powerful.

The white man was brought before him. Smith eagerly watched to see if there were any signs of mercy in the stern face.

Powhatan talked for some time with his warriors. Then two of them got up and went to the side of their white prisoner.

They led him off a short distance and stretched him out on the ground. They placed his head on a stone.

"They are going to kill me," Smith said to himself. "I am bound so tightly I cannot possibly get away. There is no help for me now."

Then a strange thing happened. Just as one of the Indians raised his club to end the white man's life, a young girl rushed to his side. She was Powhatan's favorite daughter. She threw her arms around Smith's neck. Then, turning toward her father, she cried:

"Spare this man's life for my sake."

The beautiful girl had grown to love Smith during his stay in the village. While he was shut up as a prisoner he had made whistles and strings of beads for her. His kindness pleased her and her gentle heart was filled with pity for the white man.

Powhatan could not refuse the daughter he loved so dearly. He said:

"I will spare the man's life for the sake of my child. He shall stay among us and spend his time making ornaments for Pocahontas."

This is the story Smith afterwards told of the time when he was in the hands of the Indians. Some people, however, do not believe it is quite all true.

At any rate, his life was saved and Pocahontas was the friend of the white people ever after.

In a few weeks Powhatan said to John Smith:

"You may go back to Jamestown if you will promise to send me two cannons and a grindstone as soon as you arrive."

Smith was quite willing to make the promise.

When he was once more safe among his own people he found they were in great trouble. Some of them were planning to run away in the only large boat. The others would then be left to the mercy of the Red Men. They were all much in need of their wise leader.

The promise to Powhatan was not forgotten. The Indians, however, who had come back with Smith to get the cannons and the grindstone could not carry them home. They were too heavy. So the men were quite willing to take some trinkets instead.

Many times after that the people of Jamestown suffered because they did not have enough to eat. They were saved again and again by Pocahontas, who filled her boat with baskets of corn and paddled down the river to her white friends.

One evening she heard her people making a plan. They said:

"We will creep upon the Englishmen and take them by surprise. Then we will kill them."

She was brave as well as good. She did not lose a moment, but hurried away through the dark woods. She did not stop till she reached Jamestown. Then she told of the Indians' plot. She warned Smith to be on his guard. Then she hurried away into the darkness once more.

The white men tried again and again to make friends with Powhatan. They gave him a bedstead, a red cloak, and a wash-basin. They thought he would now be willing to sell them corn.

Not so, however. After he received these presents, the great chief became so proud he would not think of trading with the Englishmen.

They were almost starving when Smith thought of a new plan. He took a box of blue glass beads and showed them to Powhatan. He said:

"These beads are made of the same stuff as the sky itself."

When the chief heard this he longed to have some for his own. What precious things they must be!

"I will sell you a boatload of corn for those beads," he promised.

"You will see by this that Captain Smith did not always tell the truth. It was because of just such deceits as this that the white men afterwards had so much trouble with the Indians," said Uncle Sam.

The corn was just what Smith wanted, but he would not let the savages know how glad he was. His boat was quickly filled with the precious grain and he set out for Jamestown with a happy heart.

His troubles were not yet at an end. One day while he was at work, a bag of gunpowder exploded near him. Poor Captain Smith was badly burned and in great pain. Worse still, the burned flesh did not heal after many days.

"I cannot get well here. I must go back to England," he told his friends.

With a sad heart he bade them good-bye and left them to get along as well as they could by themselves.

When Captain John Smith had gone, one trouble after another fell upon the people of Jamestown. They came near starving to death. They were glad to eat anything which would keep them alive. Dogs, snakes, and even toads were killed for food.

Most of the men had already died when some ships came sailing into the harbor. They brought some more settlers, as well as food and clothing from England. The worst was now over.

Pocahontas was still the friend of the white men. She grew up to be a beautiful young woman and married an Englishman named John Rolfe. The wedding took place in a little church at Jamestown.

From that time the great chief Powhatan was the friend of the white men.

The rest of the story of Pocahontas is soon told. She was a good wife to John Rolfe, and a year after they were married they had a lovely baby boy. John Rolfe went to England on business and took his wife and baby with him. The beautiful Pocahontas was invited to court by the king. She was treated with great honor as an Indian princess, but it did not make her vain or silly.

While she was in England she met her old friend John Smith. She had been told that he was dead and she was much moved at seeing him.

Alas! Pocahontas did not live to see her own home again. Just as she was about to sail to America a dreadful sickness came up her. It was the smallpox. She died in a few days, but her baby son went back with his father to Jamestown and lived to be a noble man.

John Smith is often called the father of Virginia. After his burns had healed, he left England in search of new adventures.

He sailed again to the shores of America. He came to a place much farther north than Jamestown. He looked upon a land with rocky shores. It was not like Virginia. He called this part of America "New England" and so it has been called ever since.

Smith sailed all along the shores of New England. He went in and out of its bays and harbors. He made a good map of what he saw. Then he went back to his own country to show his map to the king.

The next year he sailed on his last voyage. This time he wished to settle in New England. He met with many troubles. There was a dreadful storm and he was chased by pirates. Last of all, he was overtaken by a fleet of French ships and made a prisoner. After a while he managed to escape and get back to England.

This brave and daring man lived long enough to hear of other people settling in New England. That is another story, however.

As Uncle Sam stopped speaking, Joe jumped up, crying:

"Hurrah for Captain John Smith! Next to Columbus he was the bravest man I ever heard of. I wish I could have seen him kill that Turk."

"I should have liked to have been there when he offered those blue beads to Powhatan," said Lucy. "He must have been laughing inside when he did it."

"As for me, I like to think of his making those lazy Englishmen do some work," said Uncle Sam, stroking his chin.

The neighbors all said there was no laziness about Uncle Sam, so it is no wonder he spoke as he did.

"Uncle Sam is like John Smith in some ways," the children's father said not long afterwards.

He had come into the back yard where Joe was stretched on the ground with Lucy's arms around his neck.

"We are playing that I am John Smith and Lucy is Pocahontas. She is trying to save my life. Uncle Sam told us all about them." Joe sat up to explain.

"Yes, Uncle Sam is a good deal like John Smith. He is afraid of nothing. He is always busy, and he can turn his hand to anything. One time when he was a boy he was out sailing. The sail was an old one and a sudden gust of wind caught it and tore it badly. Uncle Sam was a long way from home and the sun was already setting. Quick as a thought he took off his shirt, tore it open, and patched the sail with it. That was the very thing John Smith did when he was away from Jamestown on one of his excursions."




Chapter VII

Henry Hudson


"Listen! That is thunder, Uncle Sam. I'm afraid we are going to have a storm. I wish I had covers to my ears so I couldn't hear that dreadful rumbling."

"Nonsense, Lucy. There is no use in being afraid of anything. You should have lived long ago among the Dutchmen in New York. They would have told you it wasn't thunder, but was the sound made by Henry Hudson and his men as they played ninepins with the dwarfs in the caves of the Catskill mountains.

"But there! You don't know anything about Henry Hudson. Sit down, dear, in that little chair close to me and turn your back to the window. Then you will not see the lightning. I will tell you such a nice story you will not listen to the thunder, either."

"I ought not to be afraid with you, Uncle Sam. I wish Joe were here, though. He would like to hear the story."

"I will tell it to him some other time, Lucy. Or you may tell him yourself. But here he comes now, just in time."

Uncle Sam leaned back in his armchair, pulled the beard on his chin, and began the story of


Henry Hudson And The Dutchmen

It is nearly three hundred years since John Smith went to Jamestown. He left a dear friend in England who was also a great sea captain. His name was Henry Hudson.

At that time England was jealous of Spain because of her riches. The Spaniards had found many gold and silver mines in America.

England was also jealous of Portugal, a small country joining Spain. The Portuguese had found a way of reaching India by sailing southward around Africa and then eastward. They brought home shiploads of gums, spices, precious stones and rare woods. So the Englishmen thought:

"We must get rich, too. Why cannot we reach India by sailing to the northeast or the northwest?"

They looked about for a brave and able captain who should find out if this could be done. They chose Henry Hudson.

He sailed into the northern seas. He met with icebergs that made the air very cold when they were still a long way off. He saw many whales.

Henry Hudson and his men killed some of the whales. They boiled the fat and made many barrels of oil. This was the best oil known at that time for burning in lamps. It was also useful in other ways.

The brave captain sailed far into the northern seas. It was now so cold that great masses of ice almost stopped the ship.

"We must turn back," Henry Hudson said to his men. "It is of no use to sail any farther northward in hopes of finding a passage to India."

When he got back to England, the people were pleased to learn about the whales. They sent more ships to capture the great monsters and bring home the oil.

Once more they sent Henry Hudson to look for a short way to India by a northern passage.

Again he failed because of the ice in the waters, and again he came home disappointed.

About this time the people of Holland heard of Henry Hudson and what he was trying to do. People who live in that country are called Dutch or Dutchmen. It was a rich country for so few people. They said:

"We had better send for this English captain. We will get him to sail in our ships. We do not wish the Englishmen to find a shorter way to India than we know now. If they do, they will become richer than we are."

So they sent for Hudson. They offered him such good pay that he went to Holland and made ready to take one of their ships into the north. As he was about to sail he received a letter from his old friend John Smith.

The letter told him he should sail to the westward if he wished to find the best way of reaching India. Just north of Virginia there was a narrow strait. If a ship passed through that strait, it would enter the ocean that washes the shores of India.

We all know now that Captain John Smith was wrong about this. But Henry Hudson thought it must be true.

He turned his ship, the Half Moon, towards the west. He sailed in that direction till he reached the shores of Newfoundland. Then he went southward as far as Virginia, keeping near the coast. He now turned his ship about and slowly sailed to the north. He entered many of the bays and coves that reached into the land. He was always on the lookout for the strait of which Smith had written.

At last he sailed into a fine harbor which no white men had ever seen before. We call it to-day the harbor of New York and know it is one of the best in the world.

Indians came down to the shore in crowds. They were curious to see the strange-looking boat and the people with the white faces and hands. The Red Men wore feather cloaks and necklaces of copper. They wished to make friends with their visitors and offered them beans, oysters, and tobacco.

"What a beautiful country this is!" the white men thought.

There were sweet smells in the air and the open places along the shore were covered with grass and flowers. The ship did not remain long in the harbor. Hudson found he was at the mouth of a river. He thought:

"Who knows but that if I follow this river I may reach the Pacific Ocean?"

So the ship sailed farther and farther up the river. It stopped at several places where friendly Indians came out to meet the white men. Hudson landed at one of these places and visited an Indian chief.

In the village he saw great piles of corn and beans. He noticed the bark houses. The Red Men asked him to stay all night with them and placed a mat on the ground for him to sit on. They brought him food in a red wooden bowl.

They wished to show that they were truly his friends, so they took some arrows and threw them into the fire. This told him more than the Indian words he could not understand.

When he sailed again, Hudson noticed that the river was getting narrower. At last it was so shallow that his ship could go no farther. He sent some men in a small boat to see what they could find.

"This is no way to the Pacific," they said when they came back. "The river comes to an end just beyond us."

The ship was turned about, and Hudson sailed down the river and out into the harbor again. He gave his own name to the river he had discovered, and it is still called the Hudson River. He never saw it again.

Now came the long voyage across the ocean. The Dutch people were sorry that Hudson had not found what he was looking for. They were pleased, however, to learn of the lovely country and the wild animals covered with fur that were to be found in its forests.

"The Indians are pleasant and willing to be friends. They kill great numbers of the wild animals with their bows and arrows and they tan the skins." So the sailors said.

"Why not send some of our people to live on the shores of the Hudson River?" thought the thrifty Dutch. "They can carry with them shiploads of knives, axes, beads, and other things the Red Men like. They can trade those things for the furs that bring high prices here in Europe."

This is how it happened that the Dutch people came to settle in America.

They brought chests full of linen, as well as the shining pewter dishes they used in housekeeping. In fact, they packed in their ships everything they needed to make themselves comfortable and happy.

When they built their houses in America they made them look as much as possible like the homes they left behind them. They made their fireplaces large enough to hold logs of great size. In the cold winter evenings these logs crackled and burned brightly while the Dutchmen with their wives and children sat before the fire and told stories.

Every house had a porch. As the sun set and the moon came out in the summer time, the men sat in the porches telling stories and smoking their pipes while their wives sat knitting beside them and the children romped and played around the dooryards.

They still dressed in the fashions of their country. The men had hats with broad brims and coats with wide skirts. The women wore so many short skirts they looked like opened umbrellas.

These Dutch people were honest and they had kind hearts, so they got along pretty well with their Indian neighbors. They hated idleness and they were very neat.

All of them worked during the day, but when evening came it was a time for rest and pleasure. Then were told the stories of the old days in Holland, of fairies, and of the gnomes who lived underground digging copper and gold.

When the thunder rolled in the sky, they would nod to each other and say: "It is only Henry Hudson and his men playing ninepins with the dwarfs in the caves of the Catskill mountains."

You shall now hear how this queer fancy came into their heads.

After the brave captain had discovered the Hudson River and gone back to Europe, he tried once more to find a short way to India. He thought it best to cross the ocean again, but to sail farther north than he had done on his first voyage to this country.

After he had reached the shores of America, he came into a large bay. The land around him was bare and dreary. The ship was kept all winter in this bay on account of the ice. The sailors suffered very much from the bitter cold. Many of them became sick and died before the spring opened and the ice broke up enough to let the ship move on.

By this time the food was almost gone. The day came when Hudson took the last of the bread and divided it among his crew. He was so sad and hopeless that tears filled his eyes.

The sailors blamed him for bringing them there and were very angry with him. They thought, "We shall all lose our lives through him."

They were not even moved by his tears. When they had eaten the bread, they seized him and put him and some sick sailors into a small boat. Then they sent them adrift in the cold, dreary waters of the great bay.

They were never heard of again. This is all we know of the last days of that very brave Englishman, Captain Henry Hudson.

As for the wicked sailors, some of them met with better fortune than they deserved. Soon after they had treated their captain so badly, birds came flying by. The men shot some of these and saved themselves from starving. After that they had a fight with Indians on the shore and several of the sailors were killed. The others managed to gather a small supply of food with which they started for home.

Even then they suffered a great deal from hunger. They were so weak they had to sit down to sail the vessel. All of them would have died if they had not met another ship, which took them aboard and carried them home.

Long before Uncle Sam had finished the story, the thunder-storm had passed by.

"I hardly noticed it. I was thinking all the time about Henry Hudson," declared Lucy.

"I suppose Hudson never met his old friend John Smith after he got the letter," said Uncle Sam, thoughtfully. Then he went on, "They were both Englishmen, yet those who settled in Virginia with John Smith made a very different home for themselves from those made by the Dutch who followed Henry Hudson.

"The Dutch had their own ways; the English had theirs. The Dutch planted gardens. They raised flocks of sheep, which furnished wool for the women to card and spin. They gave beads and blankets of red wool to their Indian neighbors. They took in return game and beautiful furs. They sent the furs to Holland.

"They got up in the morning at sunrise, and went to bed at sunset. They ate dinner at eleven o'clock in the morning, and tea parties were often given at three in the afternoon.

"They had grand times at Christmas and New Year's, when feasts were spread and everyone dressed in his best clothes.

"It was the Dutchmen who gave Santa Claus to American children. They brought the dear old fellow from Holland along with their chests of linen and pewter dishes."

"Hurrah for the Dutchmen! I say," exclaimed Joe. "Christmas wouldn't be half the fun it is without Santa Claus. Do you know, Uncle Sam, last year was the first time Lucy and I knew he was not a real man. Why, we used to think he came down our chimney every Christmas Eve with his pack of presents. We talked up the chimney to him when we went to bed and told him what we wanted. I know now that you and father and mother are the only Santa Claus."

"Now I think of it, the pictures of Santa Claus make him look like a fat and jolly old Dutchman," said Lucy.

"After their people were well settled, the children of Virginia enjoyed Christmas," Uncle Sam went on. "They lived on big plantations where their fathers raised tobacco. The houses were large and pleasant. Beautiful trees grew near and gave plenty of shade in the hot summer time.

"At Christmas, wild turkeys were roasted in the big fireplaces. The rooms were trimmed with holly and evergreens. There were dinner parties, and dances that lasted all night. The ladies wore flowered silk dresses with long trains. Their hair was powdered and 'done up' on the head so it looked like a tower. The men wore knee-breeches and shoes with bright buckles. Their coats were of silk or velvet and trimmed with much gold and silver lace.

"The white people in Virginia did not work hard. They made their black slaves care for the great fields of tobacco.

"'Where did the black men come from?' I see the question in Lucy's eyes."

Uncle Sam stopped for a moment to stroke his chin and slyly pull Joe's hair, for the boy had turned his head to look at his sister.

"Ouch! That isn't fair, Uncle Sam," cried Joe. "I will try to forgive you, though, if you don't do it again and go on with your story."

"The Dutch were the first ones to bring slaves to Virginia. They sailed to Africa and caught the poor savages in their homes. Then they carried them on board ship and afterwards sold them to the white planters in America. That is one way the Dutch became rich.

"You may praise the Dutch for giving you Santa Claus, Joe. You may blame them, however, for being the first to bring the dreadful curse of slavery to this beautiful land."

Uncle Sam was getting excited.

"We may thank the Lord for sending us a good helper. It is because of that helper that the people of America are now free."

The old man got up and made a deep bow before a picture hanging above the organ.

"There is the face of one who loved his fellow men," he said, pointing to the picture.

"When you children know a little more about your country, you shall hear the story of Abraham Lincoln."




Chapter VIII

The Pilgrims


"I think mother cooks the best Thanksgiving dinners in the world," said Joe, with a sleepy yawn. "It seems as though I could never be hungry again."

"It is no wonder you feel as you do. I don't see where in that small body of yours you were able to stow away so much turkey and mince pie, to say nothing of the squash and mashed potatoes, the cranberry sauce, nuts and raisins," said Uncle Sam. "I wonder if you ever thought why we celebrate Thanksgiving Day. The people of other countries do not have this holiday. If you are not too sleepy I will tell you about it."

Uncle Sam had been spending the day with the parents of Joe and Lucy. The children's mother had said, "Thanksgiving wouldn't be Thanksgiving without Uncle Sam to share it with us. Even if my sister Mary comes with her whole family, we can make room at the table for our dear old friend."

The great dinner had been eaten and cleared away. The short day was coming to an end when Uncle Sam spoke of a reason for Thanksgiving Day.

"Sleepy! I guess not. A story is just the thing before the lamps are lighted and we play games," said Lucy.

"Just the thing," repeated her cousin Mabel. She was a year younger than Lucy and copied everything the older girl said and did.

"We all like stories," added Arthur, a tall boy of ten years. He was quiet and fond of books -- very different from noisy Joe, who loved him the best of all his cousins.

"Once upon a time," began Uncle Sam, "there were some people who lived in England. They were good and honest, but they could not do just as they wished. The king said everyone in the country must worship God in a certain way. That way must be the same in every church.

"It happened that some of his people did not agree with the king. They said: 'Everyone ought to worship God, but all should be free to worship in the way they like best.'

"These people gathered together, and every Sunday they met in their own little churches. This did not please the king and he made their lives very unpleasant.

"Of course they were not happy. They thought: 'Why should we stay here in England where we are treated so badly? Holland is not far away and the Dutch people are kind and friendly. They are willing that everyone in their country should worship as he likes. Let us go to Holland where we can be free.'

"The plan seemed good. A small company of men, women and children left England for a home among the Dutch.

"At first, they were happy and contented in Holland. The boys and girls became men and women. The babies grew up into boys and girls. One thing grieved their parents. Their children were fast forgetting the English language. There were no English schools where they could learn their lessons.

"'This is not right,' said the older ones. 'No people could be kinder than our Dutch friends, but we do not wish our own children to grow up and forget their own country and the beautiful English language.'

"'I will tell you what we can do,' said one. 'We have heard a good deal about America. Some of our people have settled in Virginia. They write that it is a fine place and that the air is soft and pleasant all the year. Let us go to America. We will seek a home not far from Virginia.'

"The others thought these were wise words. They left their Dutch friends and went back to England. They wished to visit it once more before they bade it good-bye forever.

"Two ships were soon ready and one hundred pilgrims sailed for America in the year 1620.

"'We are like pilgrims,' they had said to each other, 'for we travel from place to place.' From that day to this they have been called by the name of the 'Pilgrims.'

"They had not sailed far before one of the ships began to leak. Its captain said: 'It is not safe to cross the ocean in such a poor boat.' So he turned back to England.

"All the Pilgrims now crowded into the second ship. It was called the 'Mayflower.'

"A long voyage was before the travelers. They were tossed about by storm and wind. Almost all of them were seasick. A hundred people in the small cabin of the Mayflower must surely have had a hard time.

"Land was sighted at last. It was their first view of their future home, America. How happy the children must have felt when they thought of running and playing on dry land once more!

"It was in November when they sailed around the end of Cape Cod. The Pilgrims had not meant to come so far north of Virginia.

"Some of the men left the ship and went on shore. They found a place where the earth looked as though it had been lately dug up. Perhaps something was buried in this spot. Sure enough! It was some dried corn which the Indians had put there for safe keeping.

"The men were pleased at the goodly sight. They carried the corn to the ship. 'We may have need of it,' they said. They were honest people, so when they afterwards found out what Indians had stored the corn there, they paid for it quite willingly.

"A brave man named Miles Standish had come with the Pilgrims. He was English, like themselves. They first met him while they were living in Holland. He had gone there to help the Dutch in a war against Spain.

"Miles Standish did not belong to the same church as the Pilgrims, yet the more he knew them, the better he liked them. When they spoke of coming to America he said:

"'I will go with you to your new home.'

"They were much pleased, for he was a brave and able soldier. He could help them if they had trouble with the Indians.

"After they found the corn, some one proposed to go along the coast in a small boat. It would be the best way of finding a place to settle. As they moved along, they saw some huts covered with mats. They thought these must be the homes of Indians.

"They went back to the ship without finding a place to settle. Some days after that they started out again. It was a very cold day in December. The spray froze as it fell on their clothing.

"When they were several miles from the ship they landed and made ready to spend the night out of doors. They built a wall of logs. They said:

"'We can sleep behind this wall. Then if the Indians should creep upon us, we can defend ourselves.'

"They had no trouble during the night, but in the morning there was a terrible sound. It was not like anything they had ever heard before. It was the warwhoop of the Indians.

"'The guns!' They were in the boat where the men had just carried them. There was a quick rush to the shore, while arrows came whizzing about their heads. Then 'Bang! bang!' went the guns, and the frightened Indians ran back into the woods.

"The Indians thought the white men carried thunder and lightning in the iron tubes. Although brave, they could not stand against such fearful weapons.

"The explorers hastened away. After a while they came into a small harbor. The land along the shore had been cleared of woods. Brooks flowed through it into the sea.

"'This would be a good place for our people to live,' Miles Standish thought. The others thought so too.

"John Smith had visited this very place before and had marked it on his map. As soon as the men came back, the ship set sail and brought the pilgrims to the chosen spot.

"'God's will has led us here,' thought the good people. 'It must be the best place for our new home.'

"One hundred persons had left England, but one hundred and two landed on Plymouth Rock. How was that?"

Uncle Sam smiled as he looked at the faces of the wondering children.

"This was the way of it. Two babies had come to the Pilgrims on their way to America. One was born in mid-ocean, so they called him Oceanus. The other was a little girl who first saw the daylight when her people were near the shores of their new home.

"'We will name her Peregrine,' said her parents. 'Peregrine means wanderer, and she is a little wanderer, without doubt.'

"How good it must have seemed to the women and children when they left the small, close cabin and the dirty ship. They had to live on board, however, until the men had built a long, rough house on the hillside. The whole party would have to live in this till better homes could be made for each family.

"Not long after the big house was done, the captain of the ship said:

"'I cannot wait around here any longer. I must go back to England. Take all your goods from my ship as quickly as possible.'"

"I should think the Pilgrims would have hated to see the ship leave," said Joe. "If they got homesick they couldn't go back to England, no matter how bad they felt."

"They were not the kind of people to give up," replied Uncle Sam. "Before they went on shore they had a meeting in the cabin of the Mayflower. They made some good laws for themselves. They all promised to obey them. Those promises were very helpful when troubles came.

"And troubles did come, too! The first winter at Plymouth, which was the name they gave their new town, seemed to them long and very cold. It was not really a very hard winter for New England, but the climate from which they had come was much milder. In Old England they were not used to so much cold, snow and ice as they now had, and they did not know how to protect themselves properly.

"The food was poor and scarce. The one big house was not made tight enough. The freezing air, snow and rain came though the many cracks. One brave Pilgrim after another was seized with fever or other illness. Before the warm days of spring came to cheer them one-half of them had died. Alas! little baby Oceanus was one of these.

"They did not sit still and think over their troubles. Everyone who was able kept at work. The men cut down trees in the forest with which to build houses and a little church. They caught fish and lobsters. They dug clams.

"The women washed and cooked and spun, and made everything as homelike as they could for their husbands and children. The men carried their muskets with them wherever they went. Miles Standish had told them:

"'We do not know when the Indians may take us by surprise. We must be always ready.'

"The very day when the Pilgrims first stepped on Plymouth Rock they saw Indians peeking at them from over the hilltop. That was all, however. In a few minutes the Red Men were out of sight. It was a long time before any of them were seen again.

"One day early in the spring the white men were having a meeting to talk over some plans. Suddenly an Indian came into their midst. He was painted in the best style of his people. He wore a bear-skin over his shoulders.

"The men hastily seized their muskets. The Indian calmly looked from one face to another. He seemed in no hurry. Then he slowly said:

"'Welcome, welcome, Englishmen!'

"How good those words sounded! All were filled with wonder and delight. They were puzzled to think where this savage had learned English words.

"'Welcome, welcome, Indian.'

"Then they led him to their house and gave him a good dinner. Samoset, for that was his name, seemed in no hurry to leave. He stayed hour after hour. When night came the Pilgrims made up a warm bed by the side of the fireplace. He slept there all night, while the white men kept watch. They were not yet sure whether he meant to be their true friend. When morning came they gave him some presents and he went away proud and happy.

"He soon came back, bringing with him his friend Squanto and some other Indians.

"Squanto could talk more English than Samoset. He told the Pilgrims he had seen white men before and had lived with them. He had crossed the great ocean with a white captain who came to Plymouth with John Smith.

"The white people had treated him kindly and had afterwards brought him back to his old home. It was the very place where the Pilgrims were now living. When Squanto got back he found that his family had all died of a dreadful sickness. Many of his tribe had died from it at the same time. That was why the others had burned their homes and moved away from Plymouth.

"Squanto was a good friend to the white men. He came to live with them. He showed them how to plant corn so it would grow well. He put a dead fish in each hill to make the ground rich. He taught them the Indian ways of hunting and fishing. If it had not been for his kindness and knowledge the rest of the Pilgrims might have died for want of food.

"'God has sent us this friend,' thought the good people of Plymouth.

"Not far away from them lived an Indian chief named Massasoit. Squanto belonged to his tribe. 'We would like to see Massasoit,' said the chief men of the Pilgrims. They thought they would be much safer from attack if they made peace with the Indian chief who lived nearest them.

"One day the great chief came to Plymouth. He liked the white men. Before he went away he promised to be friendly to them. Massasoit kept his word and was a good and true friend to the Pilgrims until he died.

"One time news came to Plymouth that Massasoit was very sick. Some of his white friends went to see him. They found him stretched on a rough bed in his little hut. He had a fever. The hut was almost filled with Indians. The medicine men were there. They were making a fearful noise. They thought an evil spirit had taken hold of Massasoit. They were trying to drive it away with the noise. Then the chief would get well.

"The Indians have great faith in their medicine men. They are their priests, as well as their doctors.

"'That noise is enough to make anyone ill,' said the white men. 'The air in the hut is heavy and very bad because there are so many people in it. Massasoit can never get well at this rate.'

"They got the crowd to leave the wigwam. Then they gave the sick chief the proper medicine for his illness. The fever soon left the chief and he believed that his white friends had saved his life.

"One day an Indian who did not belong to Massasoit's tribe came into Plymouth. He brought a snake-skin filled with arrows and laid it on the ground.

"'What is the meaning of this?' thought the chief men.

"'It means war,' said Squanto. 'The Indians who sent it are not your friends.'

"The arrows were taken out of the snake-skin. Then it was filled with bullets and sent back to the unfriendly Indians.

"This said as plainly as any words: 'If you come to attack us with your arrows, we will shoot you with our bullets.'

"When the savages saw the bullets they were afraid. They said, 'Ugh! Ugh!' but they did not dare to touch them. They at once sent the fearful things back to Plymouth. They changed their minds about fighting white people who used firearms."

Uncle Sam stopped and looked around.

"There's nothing like being brave," he said slowly. "The Pilgrims would not even think of giving up, and that is why they held out against all dangers. You remember I told you that only half of them lived through that first winter. They were very careful not to let the savages know how many of them had died. They were even careful not to make mounds to mark the places where their friends were buried. They thought the Red Men might count the mounds. They would know by that how few of the settlers were left.

"As soon as the spring came, corn was planted over the graveyard. The tall stalks were soon waving to and fro, hiding it from sight."

"Now the people were very busy. Gardens were planted; fish and lobsters were caught in plenty, and everyone was happy. In the summer wild berries were to be had for the picking, and the gardens which had been planted began to yield nice vegetables.

"Then came the beautiful days of the New England autumn. The harvests ripened and fields of corn seemed to cry:

"'Come, gather the golden grain and store it away for the cold days of winter.'

"Squashes and pumpkins and other good things were ready for the picking. Men, women, and children were busy and joyous.

"When the governor looked on the glad sight, he said:

"'The Lord has blessed us. We should praise Him for His mercy to us in this strange land.'

"He set aside a day for prayer and thanksgiving. Feasts should be spread and all work given up. His orders were followed.

"That was the first Thanksgiving Day in America.

"What numbers of pies and puddings were made for that day! What quantities of fish and wild turkeys were brought by the men and cooked by the women!

"Thanksgiving morning came at last, and after a good breakfast everyone went to church. In those days not even the babies were left at home, but were carried to church in their mothers' arms.

"There was a long service in the church. A very long one it must have seemed to the children, who kept thinking of the great dinner to come soon. The last hymn was sung, the last prayer made, and all turned their steps to the tables loaded with good things to eat and drink.

"The Pilgrims had invited Massasoit and some of his people to share their feast. The Red Men were pleased when they received the invitation.

"'We will do our part,' they said.

"They took their bows and arrows and went out into the forest. They shot some red deer. Early on Thanksgiving morning they arrived in Plymouth, bringing the game they had killed.

"When the great dinner was ready at last, one hundred Indians with hungry stomachs were ready to share it with the white people.

"It must have been hard to entertain the visitors. They could speak and understand only a few words of English. Now and then they would give a deep grunt to show they were well pleased.

"They stayed not only to dinner, but to supper, also. Even then they were in no hurry to go home. Many of them spent the night with their white friends. They seemed to think Plymouth was a very pleasant place."

It was quite dark outside before Uncle Sam finished the story of the first Thanksgiving Day. But big logs were burning in the fireplace and giving a soft light all over the room. The old man could see the children's happy faces. He knew they were having a good time, though they had kept so quiet.

"I am ready for blind-man's-buff," he said, suddenly jumping up "I'll be the blind man. Come, we have been still long enough."

Lamps were quickly lighted. In a minute the room was filled with the laughter of the Young folks as Uncle Sam dashed right and left trying to catch them in his long arms.

"The little Pilgrims though they had a good time on Thanksgiving Day. But their parents would no let them make much noise. Dear me! If children are not allowed to make a noise, they can't be happy." Uncle Sam was talking to himself as he walked home after the party.

Just then his big black cat rubbed against his legs. "Hullo, Buzz, is that you. And did you think I was speaking to you? Here, smell of this turkey bone. I brought it home so you could have a feast, too."

Uncle Sam bent down and rubbed the cat's soft fur. The he went into the house, leaving Buzz outside to enjoy his Thanksgiving supper.




Chapter IX

Little Pilgrims Of Long Ago


"Pop! pop! pop!" went the corn as Joe shook the popper over Uncle Sam's fire.

"It is the very evening for roasted apples and pop-corn," the old man said soon after his young friends arrived. "Joe, you run down cellar and get some of the biggest apples you can find. Lucy, dear, take these ears of corn and shell them. We will put the apples in the hot ashes and pop the corn over those lovely red coals."

"Oh, what fun!" cried Lucy. "You are always thinking of the nicest things to do. I never knew anyone like you."

"I hope the Pilgrims had a few Uncle Sams with them," said Joe, coming back with the apples.

"They popped corn sometimes, but not in our way," the old man said. "I don't believe anyone of them ever saw a corn-popper. They used to hide the kernels in the hot ashes and then watch for them to come shooting out over the room.

"Then what fun there was as the children scrambled to get them! They enjoyed it, and I am glad they did. Poor little children, they did not have too much fun at any time. You must not blame their parents, though. They had been brought up that way themselves. They thought they must be very strict or their children might grow up to be bad men and women.

"'Spare the rod and spoil the child,' they said over and over again. And they also often repeated these words: 'Children should be seen and not heard.'

"Now I believe children should look forward to Sunday with pleasure," Uncle Sam went on. "It ought to be the best day in the week for everybody, young and old. But, dear me! the poor little Pilgrims had to keep so still and sober from Saturday evening to Sunday evening, it must have been painful. Not a loud word must be spoken, not a laugh must be heard. Then there was the long sermon Sunday morning. Hours long! Just think of it!

"Rain or shine, heat or cold, everyone went to church. That is, unless he was too sick to sit up. They went in a sort of procession. The women and children walked in the middle. Some of the men marched ahead and the rest at the end of the line. They carried their guns, for they must be ready for an attack by the savages at any moment.

"There was no fire in the church on the coldest day of winter. Some of the people carried foot-stoves to keep themselves warm. These were iron pans or cups in which live coals were carried. The children sat in one part of the church and their parents in another."

Joe smiled.

"I know what you are thinking," said Uncle Sam, who noticed the smile. "You are thinking that the children could whisper together during the long sermon. That is a great mistake, Joe. There was always a man in the church who looked out for such things. He stood where he could see everything that was going on. He had a long stick with a squirrel tail on one end and a hard knob on the other.

"If he saw one of the older people nodding, softly and quickly the 'tithing man', as he was called, would be at the side of the erring one. Then the furry end of the stick would dance over the sleepy one's face and the eyes would open with a start.

"But if a child began to whisper, he was not treated so gently. The hard knob at the other end of the stick would suddenly come down on his head and make it ache in a very unpleasant way.

"The Pilgrims had no clocks. They used hour-glasses instead.

"The tithing-man watched the hour-glass on the pulpit. The moment the last grain of sand had fallen through, he walked softly up the aisle and tipped the glass over.

"The hours in church must have passed very slowly for the children. The sermon was very, very long, and they could understand little of what the minister said.

"The poor children had no Santa Claus. Worse even than that, they had no Christmas! Thanksgiving was the only great holiday of the year."

"No Christmas!" cried Joe and Lucy together.

"Why, Uncle Sam," Joe went on, "Christmas is the Christ Day. You know what I mean. And the Pilgrims thought so much of the Bible and going to church, and all that! Why, I don't understand."

"They thought it was wrong to make a pleasure of religious things," replied Uncle Sam. "It was many, many years before the fashion of the Dutch people spread over America. It is a grand fashion, too. Well, well, we cannot help it if the Pilgrims didn't celebrate Christmas, so we will turn from that to the brave man whom the children admired so much.

"I shouldn't wonder if they were a little afraid of Miles Standish. He had a wonderful sword which he prized above everything else. A Turk had given it to him. It was marked with strange figures which the Pilgrims did not understand.

"'That sword will save you from harm so long as you keep it with you,' the Turk had told the brave captain.

"Miles Standish was a little man and at first the Indians made fun of him. They thought he was too small to be much of a warrior. But they found they had made a mistake in this and learned to fear him.

"I think you children have never been to Plymouth. Next summer I will take you there, if your mother is willing. You shall stand on the rock where people say the Pilgrims landed. Then we will go up to the Memorial Hall and look at Baby Peregrine's cradle and the chair of the first governor. Dear me! I can't think of all the things saved from those first days of Plymouth. We will see them all, though, and have a good time."

"That will be jolly fun," said Joe, jumping up and dancing around the room. "I wish it were next summer now."

"Don't be noisy Joe," said his sister. "Uncle Sam won't tell us anything more, if you are."

"I have told more now than you will remember, my dear," said her old friend. "Before we leave the Pilgrims, however, I must say one thing. After they were well settled, friends from England came to join them. This made them very happy.

"A few years afterwards, still other people came from England to live in this part of the country. Their religion was not exactly the same as that of the Pilgrims. They were called the Puritans. They said:

"'We do not wish to go out of the English church. Yet we would like to make it pure. Some things have grown up in it which we think are wrong.'

"There were many Puritans in England, but the king would not listen to them. That is why they made up their minds to come to America.

"They were not poor like the Pilgrims. They brought plenty of clothes and furniture, horses, cattle, and pigs, and everything they needed to make themselves comfortable. They did not have to suffer as the Pilgrims did.

"The first Puritans came to Salem. They said:

"'The word Salem means peace. It is a good name for our new home.'

"Hundreds of Puritans followed the first ones who came to America. They settled in Boston and other places near by. They built forts and schoolhouses, besides homes for themselves.

"They planted wheat and rye as well as Indian corn. They cut down the forests and caught fish and salted them. They bought furs from the Indians, and sent them, as well as lumber and salt fish, to England. The English people were glad to buy these things and sent in return books, tools, and other things the Puritans needed in their new home."

Uncle Sam stopped to rest a moment. Then he went on:

"Maybe you think the Pilgrims were strict."

Joe and Lucy nodded their heads.

"Well, I suppose they were. We call their ways old-fashioned, now-a-days. But if you had lived in their time, you would have been a good deal happier with them than with the Puritans.

"Strict! Why, the Puritans wanted to make everybody believe just as they did. They did not have any patience with those who did not agree with them.

"They had hard laws, too. They punished anyone who swore, or even scolded. A high frame called the stocks stood in the middle of every village. It had a number of holes in it. Many of those who did small wrongs had to sit all day with their legs and arms through these holes. That was the way they were held up to scorn.

"Then there were ducking-stools. If women became common scolds, they were bound to these stools and ducked in a river or pond.

"Once in a while a man was caught swearing. It was a sad day for him. A split stick was fastened on his tongue for hours together. If that did not cure him, his tongue was burned with a red-hot iron.

"The children had a hard time of it in school as well as at home. If they told wrong stories, they had to hold out their tongues to be burnt with a good dose of mustard."

Uncle Sam looked quite sad as he went on to tell of a little girl who took something which belonged to a playmate.

"Her teacher held her fingers over red-hot coals and burned them."

"I don't believe children dared to turn round or whisper in school very often," said Joe.

"I should say not. If they did, a sudden rap came upon their heads. It made them wish they had not broken the rules."

"I am glad I am alive now, and have such a lovely home, and father and mother, and -- "

"Uncle Sam," said Joe, ending the sentence for his sister.




Chapter X

Roger Williams


It was snowing hard outside and the wind howled around the little cottage.

Joe and Lucy had been taking supper with Uncle Sam. Lucy had made a big pile of buttered toast and her mother had sent over a plum cake. They were all eaten.

"You must go home pretty soon, children. The snow is drifting a good deal and it will be hard walking. It is well that you both wore rubber boots."

Uncle Sam got up and went to the window.

"It was in just such weather that Roger Williams made his way through the wilderness," he said as he looked out over the fields.

"I never heard of him before," said Joe.

"Then it is time you did. It is not a very long story. I don't believe it will do you any harm to stay long enough to hear it. So here it is:

"Roger Williams was one of the noblest men who lived among the Puritans of long ago. He was a young minister. He had fine thoughts of his own. He did not need to have anyone else do his thinking for him.

"When he first came to America with his young wife he settled in Boston. He afterwards went to Salem. He preached in a little church there. He said so many good things that people liked to hear him.

"After a while the Puritans began to open their ears and their eyes, too. The leading men said:

"'This man does not think just as we do. He must be wrong.'

"They were very angry. You remember what I told you the other day about the Puritans?"

"They wished everyone else to believe just as they did," answered Joe.

"And were very strict and solemn," added Lucy.

"You must remember another thing, too. The leading men of the church made all the laws for the town. Roger Williams did not think this was right. He was a minister himself, yet he believed the church should have nothing to do with governing the town.

"Besides that, he thought, 'the King of England has no right to give the land in America to the people who come here. The Indians hold the land. It is theirs. They are the only ones who should sell it or give it away.'

"'Dreadful! dreadful!' said the people of Salem. 'Roger Williams cannot be true to the king if he believes like that.'

"The leading men made it so unpleasant for the young minister that he left Salem. He went to Plymouth and stayed among the Pilgrims for two years. At the end of that time he went back to Salem. He preached good sermons and the people said:

"'He has grown more careful in the use of his tongue. He does not say unwise things any more.'

"Yet Roger Williams had not changed his mind. He believed just as he did before and he could not help showing it.

"'This man is not safe. He puts wrong thoughts into the minds of the people,' said some of the leaders. 'We must send him back to England.'

"Roger Williams heard what they intended to do. He fled into the forests. It was very cold and heavy snow had fallen. Who would be his friend and help him in his troubles now?

"Who indeed but his old friend Massasoit! The Indians loved Williams. He had always been kind and gentle with them. He had been honest in all his dealings.

"Massasoit was glad to give Williams a home. He stayed with the Indian chief for some time. He was busy thinking what he should do. Where should he make a home for himself and those who believed as he did?

"'I will give you some land on the shores of a river,' Massasoit told him.

"As soon as the spring came Williams went to this place. He set to work at once to build himself a log house. Five of his friends came from Salem to be with him.

"They had not worked very long before they found they would be safer to move to the other side of the river. Then they would be sure of a place where the white men could not trouble them.

"They came to a wild and beautiful spot. The trees of the forest grew all about it. The river flowed close by.

"The axes were soon swinging merrily and the tall trees came falling to the earth. It was the beginning of the city of Providence.

"Roger Williams gave it that name. He said: 'God has provided a home in the wilderness for me.'

"Not long after this a little son was born to him. He, too, was named Providence. And when a baby daughter came to the happy family, she was called Mercy. In this way the good minister showed that he did not forget the loving care of his Heavenly Father.

"Do not forget Roger Williams," Uncle Sam ended as the children began to put on their rubber boots. "He dared to say what he thought was right when almost everyone was against him.

"Be sure to remember this, too: He had no trouble with the Indians, because he treated them fairly. They lived in America before the white people came, so he thought they had a better right to the land than anyone else."




Chapter XI

The Father Of Waters


"Look, Uncle Sam! See my lovely new muff. I wanted one ever so much. My hands get cold, even in my woolen mittens. Father bought it for a birthday present. He got home from Canada to-day."

"What did he bring you, Joe?" Uncle Sam asked after he had admired Lucy's muff.

"A fur cap. It is a perfect beauty."

"Father says Canada is a great place for hunters, there are so many wild animals in the forests. He was dreadfully cold while he was there. He is glad to be home again."

"Yes, the weather is colder there than it is here, because it is farther north. Yet the cold did not keep the Frenchmen from going to live in Canada long ago. They were willing to suffer a little so long as they could get rich by hunting and trapping, and trading with the Indians.

"They were the first white people to settle in Canada. They called the country 'New France.'

"They built stations here and there along the shores of the St. Lawrence River. The Indians used to bring loads of furs to sell to them. The white men paid for the furs with hatchets, and beads, and pieces of cloth. That was the kind of money the Indians liked best.

"The savages of Canada were always friendly to the Frenchmen. They found that the settlers did not wish to harm them and that they were treated fairly. So there was no trouble.

"The Frenchmen loaded ships with the furs they bought and sent them home to France. They wrote to their friends in the old country about the gentle and friendly Indians. Some good French priests heard the news. They said:

"'We will cross the ocean and go to live among the Indians. We will teach them about God and about Christ, the Savior.'"

Uncle Sam was so busy talking, he did not notice Joe making signs to his sister. These signs said: "We had better take off our coats and spend the evening. I know Uncle Sam feels like telling a story."

Lucy understood her brother. In another minute she and Joe were sitting on either side of the old man as he began to tell of the good priest Father Marquette and what he found.

It was a long time ago that Father Marquette left France and came to Canada. Unlike the fur traders, he had no wish to get rich. He was a priest with a kind, loving heart. He cared only to teach and help the Indians.

As soon as he reached Canada, he asked many questions about the Red Men. The fur traders told him of some Indians who lived not far away. They said:

"These Indians are kind and honest. They will treat you well."

Marquette went to see them at once. They liked him because he was gentle and good. They took him into their homes. He lived with them for three years.

While he was there, he heard of a wonderful river. The Indians called it "The Father of Waters" because it was so long and wide. They said it was far, very far, to the west of them. Other Indians had told them about it. They thought it would not be safe to sail down this river. Tribes of fierce savages lived on its shores. They would kill anyone who came among them.

The good Marquette was not afraid. He only thought: "These savage Indians have all the more need of my teaching. I must go to them."

A fur trader named Joliet, and five other men, went with the priest. They traveled in canoes made of birch bark. On they went, and still on. Many days passed by. No Indians were seen as yet.

At last, they saw huts along the shore. These must be the homes of the Red Men. In another minute they heard cries of welcome. The Indians came hurrying to meet their visitors. They had heard of the good Marquette from their friends to the eastward.

They asked him to stay with them. They begged him to go no farther or he would surely come to harm. They repeated the stories he had already heard, -- the stories of fierce Red Men and of wicked demons which would destroy him. Still Marquette did not fear. He must not stop yet. He and Joliet started out once more.

They traveled for many days before they reached the great Father of Waters. At last it met their eyes. How different it was from the river on which they had been traveling! The waters rushed along, making a mighty noise. It was a wonder their little canoe could be kept upright.

The travelers now saw a path leading down to the shore. It must be an Indian trail. They left the canoe and followed the trail. They came to an Indian village. Its people were afraid of the white men and ran to hide behind the trees.

Some of their chiefs were braver than the others and came out to meet Marquette. They held out the pipe of peace to him and his friend. When the white men had smoked it and handed it back, they knew there was nothing to fear.

When the good priest asked about the great river, the Indians told the same old story he had heard so many times before.

"You must go no farther. There are very bad Red Men and many frightful monsters to the southward. They will kill you and eat you if you go among them."

Marquette and Joliet paid no heed to these words. Before they went on their journey, however, they sat down to a great feast which the women had prepared for them. A dish of mush came first. The Indians fed it to the white men with big wooden spoons. Broiled fish came next, but before it was offered to the visitors the bones were carefully taken out. After this a roasted dog was proudly set before them. It was a great dainty to the Red Men, but Marquette and Joliet would not taste it.

"It is very queer," thought the Indians. They could not understand how anyone should refuse to eat roast dog.

As soon as the feast was over, Marquette asked the Great Spirit to bless these kind Indians. Then he bade them good-bye and paddled away in his canoe.

The river grew wider and wider. Herds of buffaloes were feeding along its shores. Some of them stopped feeding long enough to look at the two white men as they paddled past them.

The daring travelers now came to a place where high rocks reached up from the banks. Strange figures were carved on the rocks. They were painted in fearful colors. They had red eyes and long beards. They had bodies like fishes. They were ugly to look at. These must be the monsters the white men had heard so much about.

They were only pictures of monsters, however, and not real ones. Yet the Indians all along the river were afraid of them. Whenever the Red Men had to pass the place, they offered prayers to these hideous figures.

On went the white men, and still on. The river was growing wider all the time.

At last they came to a place where the Indians were savage and unfriendly. The travelers learned that cruel Spaniards were not far away. After Ponce de Leon discovered Florida the Spaniards had claimed that country. They settled there as well as in other parts of the south. They had some villages near the lower part of the Mississippi. Savage Indians and cruel Spaniards together made the danger too great for the travelers.

"We should only be made prisoners. Then we could not go back and tell our friends about the wonderful river." That is what the good priest said to his friend.

It was too bad, for they were told it would take only five days more to reach the mouth of the river. They had made a wonderful voyage already, so they turned about and started homeward.

Storms and cold weather now troubled them. They were weak and half sick long before home was in sight. The gentle priest was at last too ill to travel any farther. He stopped with some friendly Indians while Joliet went on to Canada.

Everyone was filled with delight on hearing about the great river. "It will belong to France, because Frenchmen have discovered it," they said.

Cannons were fired and bells were rung in the city. It was a time of gladness.

Poor Father Marquette was sick for a whole year. Indeed, he was never entirely well afterwards. He stayed among his Indian friends and taught them till he died. They loved him very much and waited upon the sick priest with the most tender care.

"But this is not the whole story of 'The Father of Waters,'" said Uncle Sam when he came to the death of Marquette. "There was another brave Frenchman who followed in the path of the priest. I know you will like to hear about him."

The children nodded their heads and Uncle Sam began


The Story Of La Salle

Once upon a time there was a brave young man named Robert La Salle. He lived in France. He was always ready for some new adventure. While he was still young he thought:

"I will join my countrymen in Canada and see something of their strange life among the Indians."

He was soon busy among the fur traders along the St. Lawrence River and the great lakes. A piece of land was given to him and he began to build a fort. He was proud that the French people held Canada. He wished to do his part in making it strong so that all enemies could be kept out.

Joliet came back from his long journey. He told of the great Mississippi River. La Salle was much excited over the news.

La Salle said, "Our people must not only claim this river, but we must also build forts and stations along its shores. Then we can keep off the English and Spaniards."

His friends in Canada thought La Salle was the very one to go back to France and tell the king about Marquette's wonderful trip. He went to his own country as soon as possible and stood before his ruler.

He painted a fine word-picture of what could be done. The Englishmen and Spaniards had been satisfied to live near the eastern and southern shores of America. They might not always stay there. Now was the chance for the French to enter the heart of the country and make it their very own.

The king was delighted at what he heard. He praised La Salle and told the young Frenchman to go back to Canada and work out his plans.

La Salle lost no time in obeying the king. As soon as he arrived on the St. Lawrence he went to one of the lakes and began to build a boat. He thought:

"Canoes are not strong enough for the great work before me. I must sail as far as possible along the chain of great lakes. Then I shall not be far from 'The Father of Waters'."

He and his men worked hard. It was not long before the boat was ready to launch. It seemed very large to the Indians who came to see it start on its first voyage. Never before had such a large boat sailed on the lakes.

La Salle had to make his way very carefully, for he knew nothing about these strange waters. He sailed through one great lake and passed safely into the next one. Everything went well. Wherever La Salle stopped, he met friendly Indians. They were ready to trust their visitors, for Marquette had been among them. How good he had been! How tenderly they had loved him! All other white men must be good, too. This was what the Indians thought.

The vessel soon reached Green Bay, where Marquette had spent a year among the Red Men.

The Indians had many rich and beautiful furs which they were ready to sell. La Salle ordered his men to load the vessel with these furs as quickly as possible. Then they were to sail back to Canada and unload them. He and a few others would go on their way in canoes.

Alas! nothing happened as La Salle had hoped. A terrible storm arose soon after the vessel started back. The winds swept over the lake and the little canoes drifted now one way, and now another. Every moment it seemed as though people and boats must be destroyed.

After four days, however, the storm went down and the men reached the shore. They were faint from need of food and wet from head to foot. No Indians were to be seen and they could find nothing to eat. As soon as they had dried themselves, they started on again. They hoped to find a village not far away where they could get food.

The poor tired men paddled on for some time more but no signs of Red Men nor of their huts could be seen.

"We will land and look about us," they said at last. The canoes were hauled up on the shore while La Salle and his men searched around.

"Here are corn caves!" some one cried in delight.

Sure enough, stores of corn were hidden away among the rocks. The hungry men helped themselves to the grain and made their way back to their camp. They were careful to leave presents near the caves. They would not think of stealing the corn. The Red Men must be paid for it.

A fire was soon blazing. The corn was ground and cooked and they all sat down to eat. Suddenly they heard a noise and two Indians appeared. The Red Men held up the beads and cloth that the white men had left as pay for the corn. They were as happy over their presents as children are after Santa Claus has paid them a visit.

It was surely time now for the vessel to return. La Salle watched for it in vain. It was never heard of again. It must have been wrecked in the terrible storm.

After many days of waiting, the men begged to turn back toward home. They were such a small company! There were so many dangers around them, and the ship would never come to their help.

Go back! La Salle could not think of such a thing. He told his men they should set to work at once to build a fort. They had little courage, but they did as he ordered.

As soon as they had finished Fort Break-Heart, as they called it because they were so sad and discouraged, a few men were left to hold it. The rest of the party went on their way into the wild west.

When they came to another good stopping place, the men built another fort. It was hard work, for they were sick and lonely.

"It is of no use to go any further now," thought La Salle. "Ice and snow are around us. The food is scarce. Nothing can be done till spring comes again. I will divide our small party into two parts. Some of the men must stay here to hold the fort. The rest of us will make our way back to Canada to get provisions."

It was a hard journey. The lakes and rivers were caked with ice. The ground was covered with snow. The brave La Salle and his men suffered from cold and wet and hunger before they reached a place where white men were living.

They told their story, got fresh stores, and once more started off. La Salle did not know the word "Fail."

Sometimes he and his men paddled along in their birch canoes. Sometimes they lifted their boats upon their shoulders and made their way through the woods.

Danger was around them everywhere. Wild animals roamed through the forest. Unfriendly Indians might take them by surprise at any moment. There were no roads, -- no paths even. One thought filled the mind of La Salle:

"I must find the Mississippi. I must travel to its very mouth. That is the only way by which France can claim all the country on its shores."

When the returning party reached Fort Break-Heart, they found it torn down. Their friends were not there. They thought those left to guard it must have been killed or made prisoners by the Indians.

It was of no use to stop. They pushed on with sad hearts.

At last they had their reward. The great Mississippi lay before them. La Salle's heart was full of hope as the canoes were launched upon its waters.

On and on he paddled as Marquette had done before him. He passed tribes of friendly Indians. He came to others who were ready to kill the white men. Still he pushed onward till the waters became salt and rushed outward to the Gulf of Mexico. The Frenchmen had at last reached the mouth of the great river.

Now came the homeward journey and the joy of telling the good news to the people in Canada.

La Salle did not rest even now. The king of France must hear what he had done. He made haste to sail across the ocean to his own country.

The king said that ships must be made ready at once. A large party of people should go to the mouth of the river. They must build a fort and settle there and take the country in the name of France. La Salle was, of course, chosen to go with them.

They did not go by the way of Canada. They went as straight as possible to the Gulf of Mexico. La Salle thought it would not be hard to find the mouth of the river.

The voyage across the Atlantic was safely made. The ships entered the Gulf of Mexico and sailed along its shores. But La Salle could not find the entrance of the Mississippi. He searched long and carefully. Many times he thought it was in sight. Many times he was disappointed.

The food became scarce. One of the ships was wrecked. The men said:

"We had better give up the search and go back to France."

La Salle was left with a few men on the shore of Texas. He still had hopes of finding the mouth of the river.

He wandered about for some time. Even now he was not willing to give up.

One day a very sad thing happened. The brave leader, La Salle, was killed. And he was not killed by the savages, but by one of his own men. They were angry because he had brought them there. This was the only reason they had for doing such a mean and cruel deed.

Such was the end of Robert La Salle.

He did not do all he had hoped to do. Yet he led the way for other Frenchmen, who afterwards settled along the banks of the Mississippi.

"The story has a very sad ending," said Lucy, when Uncle Sam had finished. "I don't like to have a story stop at such a sad place."

"I think it is one of the very best you have told us," said Joe. "I wish I could have been with La Salle a part of the time. It must have been exciting, paddling through a strange country and sleeping at night by the side of a big camp-fire."

"I don't think you would have slept much at first, with wolves howling and wildcats screeching not far away," replied Uncle Sam. "Then how would you have enjoyed going without food for days together and having your clothes soaked through in the heavy rains?"

Even this unpleasant picture did not seem to frighten Joe. He was a "regular boy," as his mother said.

"If you are going to have adventures, you must take good and bad things together as they come," he said.

Uncle Sam was pleased with the answer.

"That is true, my dear, but remember one thing: No one should risk his life just for the sake of adventure alone. Yet, if he is trying to do some great and useful thing, as La Salle did, and cannot help meeting dangers, he should be praised for meeting them bravely and with a stout and trusting heart."




Chapter XII

The Story Of A Young Quaker


"I am so glad to see you again, Uncle Sam. It seems as though we had been away a whole year, yet it is not four weeks."

Lucy talked very fast. Her cheeks were red as roses and her lips were bright with excitement.

"Only four weeks! Yes, that is all, but it has been a long time to me," said Uncle Sam, as he bent down to take Lucy in his arms.

"You don't know how I have missed you children," he added. "I have been a lonesome old man without you."

"We have ever so much to tell you," said Joe, who had followed Lucy. "You know, this was our first visit to Philadelphia. We had never seen our great-aunt before, either. She has lived there ever since she was a young girl."

"She was so good, we began to love her at once," Lucy went on. "She has a soft voice and she wears a gray dress and a white kerchief around her neck all the time. When she spoke to me, she always said thee or thou instead of you."

"That was because she is a Quaker," Joe broke in.

"I used to know your Aunt Rachel," said Uncle Sam. "It was a long time ago, though. Now go on and tell me all about your visit."

The children had never heard that Uncle Sam had once loved their Aunt Rachel very dearly. Everyone thought they would be married. Then she went from home on a visit. While she was away she met a young Quaker who soon became her husband.

Perhaps Uncle Sam never got over his love for the children's aunt. Anyway, he never married.

"There are not very many Quakers in the country now," said the old man as the children finished telling him about their visit. "There was a time when they were glad to come to America. It was the only way they could have peace. Would you like to hear about it?"

"Of course, Uncle Sam. We are so tired from our long journey we can hardly move. Nothing would be nicer than to sit by your side and listen to a story," said Joe.

Lucy showed she thought so, too, by pressing Uncle Sam's hand and looking up at him with a pleased nod of her little head.

Uncle Sam smiled and began the story of


William Penn The Quaker

A long time ago there was a rich man who lived in England. He was an admiral in the English navy and a great friend of the king.

Admiral Penn had a son named William who was bright and handsome. The boy had kind parents, a lovely home, and plenty of money to spend. The family was a very happy one until William went away to college. It was then that he first went to a meeting of the Quakers. He liked what he heard, and he thought:

"I, too, would like to be a Quaker."

The Quakers believed quite differently from other people in England. They were like the Pilgrims in one thing, -- they would not go to the regular church of the country, but had a different service among themselves. They thought everyone should be free to worship God in his own manner. They were quite different from the Pilgrims in other ways, however. They thought it was wrong to fight, even to save their country.

"One man should not take up arms against another," they said. They believed it was not right to dress in gay colors. They said it makes people proud and vain.

They spoke to each other simply, and used the words thee and thou instead of you, after the manner of the Bible. They called themselves "Friends," not "Quakers." The word "Quaker" was at first a "nickname," but is what they are now generally called.

It seems strange that a rich young man, brought up as was William Penn, should care to join the Quakers.

He did care, however. He cared so much that he did not change his mind even when he was driven from his college because of what he believed.

His father was very angry when he learned that his loved son had joined with people who were despised by nearly everyone else. How Penn's mother must have wept and pleaded with him!

It made no difference, however. The young man had made up his mind what was right. He could not change his belief, even to please his parents.

When his father saw that words were of no use, he told William to leave England and travel about in Europe. He gave him plenty of money with which he could enjoy himself. Admiral Penn thought his son might forget the Quakers while visiting other cities and having a good time.

It was not so, however. Soon after William Penn came home, he was sent to Ireland on business. While he was there he went to several Quaker meetings. He was arrested and put in prison because he was found in these places. It was against the law for the Friends to hold meetings or to attend them.

When Penn was free once more, his father sent for him to come home. He said:

"I will forgive you everything if you will promise to do three things: Take off your hat to the King, the King's brother, and to myself, your father."

William Penn said he would think about it. He could not promise at once, for the Friends did not think it right to take off one's hat to certain people; all persons should be treated with the same honor.

After a while the young man came to his father and said:

"I cannot do as you wish."

His father was so angry that he turned his son out of doors. Young Penn would have had a sad time if his mother had not sent him money to keep him from want.

He began to preach in the streets of the city. He hoped other people would listen to him and also become Quakers. It was not long before he was arrested again. He was put in the Tower of London for breaking the law. His cell in the Tower was a dark and dreadful place.

The king's brother was a great friend of William Penn. He tried hard to have the young man set free. At last he brought it about.

Penn's father died soon after his son came out of prison. William was now a rich man. He went again and again to the king, begging that Quakers should not be whipped or put in prison.

At last he spoke of money which the king had owed his father. He said:

"You need not pay this money back to me if you will give me land in America where the Quakers can have a free and happy home."

The king was willing to do this, for he owed a good deal of money and found it hard to pay his debts.

The poor Quakers were allowed to come out of prison and seek a home across the ocean. They called the country that the king had given Penn, Pennsylvania, which means Penn's woods.

It could have had no better name. The country was covered with thick woods, and the settlers had gained it through the kindness of William Penn.

He came to Pennsylvania the year after the first settlers reached it. He did not try to rule over his people. He said they should make their own laws. He told them he wished the new home to be free to all. It did not matter what a person believed. He should live in Pennsylvania in peace and happiness.

He helped the Friends to lay out a city which they called Philadelphia. That meant the city of Brotherly Love.

They had no trouble with the Indians. Penn sent word to the near-by tribes that he wished to meet their chiefs. He said he meant no harm to them. He would punish anyone who did a wrong to an Indian. He was willing to pay them for the land where his people had settled.

One by one the chiefs arrived. They were all well armed and grand with paint and feathers. They sat in a half-moon under a large elm tree. Penn stood in their midst. He had no weapons whatever. The branches of the tall elm tree waved gently overhead while the Quaker talked with the Red Men and smoked the peace-pipe with them. He said:

"I will not call you my children, because fathers sometimes whip their children. I will not call you brothers, because brothers sometimes quarrel. But I will call you the same as we say of the white people, -- Friends."

He told them he and his people would treat them honestly. They wished for peace always, and would do nothing to break it.

Before the meeting was over, the Indians promised to keep that peace and to harm no Quaker. They gave Penn a belt of wampum. Wampum was very precious to the Indians. It was made of peculiar shells. Penn's belt was made of white ones. It had a picture in the middle made with purple shells. This picture showed a white man and an Indian shaking hands.

The Red Men kept their promise. When they became old and ready to die, they repeated it to their children, who also promised. Thus the Friends lived in peace with the Indians, and Pennsylvania was the happy home of many people.

Penn stayed a long time with his settlers. He often went to visit the Indians in their villages. He joined them in their feasts. He played with their children. The Red Men loved and trusted him.

When years passed by and the white men in other places had bloody wars with the Indians, the Quakers among them were not harmed. The white feather of peace was placed over the door of every house where Quakers were living. That was the Red Man's sign for these words:

"No one here must meet with any harm. The Red Man is his friend."




Chapter XIII

Lord Baltimore And The Catholics


"There are three churches in our village. Look, Uncle Sam, we can see the spires of all of them lighted by the sunset."

"The sun does not have any favorites," was the reply. "He treats all alike."

"Let me see. One is the Methodist, another the Congregational, and the third is the Catholic church," Joe went on.

"They have different names, yet they were all built for one use, -- the worship of God."

Uncle Sam spoke softly as he looked from Joe to his sister.

"The name of the church does not matter so much, so long as people seek it for the right reason," he went on. "There was a time when people were not free to choose their church. You remember the Pilgrims and the Quakers, and how much trouble they had.

"Then there were the Catholics. They could not be happy in England any more than the Pilgrims. They heard stories of the great land across the ocean. They envied the free life of the Pilgrims and they thought:

"'Why should not we, too, find such a home?'

"Lord Baltimore was one of their leading men. The king was very fond of him. When he asked that Catholics might seek a home in America with him, the king was quite willing. He told Lord Baltimore they might go with him to Newfoundland. More than that! Lord Baltimore should rule over them with as much power as a king. He should make the laws and punish people who did wrong. He need not ask the king about anything he wanted to do.

"'Newfoundland is a beautiful country,' said the Catholics. 'At least that is what we have been told by the sea-captains who have been there.'

"One of these captains had visited Newfoundland in the summer time. He wrote a book about the place. He told of the berries and roses, the birds, and the pleasant weather. He did not know that winters on the island are long and cold.

"Lord Baltimore and his party went to Newfoundland with hearts full of hope. Alas! at the end of the first winter they said:

"'We cannot make our home here. We suffer too much from the cold and bad weather.'

"It is no wonder they felt so. Ten of their people had died. Many others had been sick. Lord Baltimore himself was one of these last.

"He wrote a letter to the king telling of his troubles. He now asked for land in Virginia. Then he bade good-bye to Newfoundland and sailed south. He wished to find out if Virginia was as good a country as he had been told it was.

"He was not disappointed this time. It was all he had hoped.

"When the people of Virginia heard that Catholics wished to settle among them, they sent word to the king of England that they did not like the plan at all. Then the king said:

"'I will give the land north of Virginia to Lord Baltimore.'

"When the second party was ready to leave England, their good friend was dead. His son took his place as governor.

"'How beautiful this place is!' thought the travelers as they sailed up the Potomac River after a long and dangerous voyage.

"'You should call the country I have given you Maryland, or the Land of Mary,' the king had told them. This was in honor of the Queen Henrietta Maria.

"It was because of this that their new home was called Maryland.

"The party landed first on an island. A large cross was set up in the ground and the priests gave thanks to God for bringing them all safely across the ocean.

"As they sailed up the river, they saw Indians along the shores. The Red Men did not look kindly at the strangers. They seemed ready to make war. The governor thought:

"'This will never do. We must not fight if we can help it. We must show the savages that we wish to be friends.'

"He acted so wisely that fear and anger left the hearts of the savages. They put their bows and arrows aside and began to help the newcomers.

"One day as some of the settlers were out on an excursion, a stranger appeared among them. His skin was so dark, and he was dressed so strangely, they thought at first that he was an Indian.

"He spoke to them in English, however, and explained who he was. His name was Captain Henry Fleet. He had been living among the Red Men. He had once been their prisoner. He gave the strangers good advice. He said to them:

"'Do not settle on the island where you are now living. I know another place you would like much better. It is on the shore of the main land. Some Indians have a village there. They are kind and gentle. I think they will be willing to sell their home to you.'

"It was a good plan. The white people went to the place and were much pleased with it. It was in a lovely valley near the shore. Springs of cool water bubbled up here and there. Groves of nut and oak trees gave a pleasant shade. No fierce wild animals roamed through the forest near by. They must find out at once if the Indians would be willing to sell such a pleasant home.

"They brought cloth, tools, and beads to the Red Men. They said:

"'We will give you all these things in return for your village place.'

"The eyes of the Indians sparkled with delight. Cloth, tools, and beads were the very things they most wished for. They were quite ready to move away if they could have all these. They said to the strangers:

"'We will share our village with you till the harvest is ripe. Then we will gather it and go somewhere else and leave you here alone.'

"Everyone was pleased and the white people settled themselves in the huts of the Indians. All lived together in happiness till the season came to an end. Then the Indians moved away, but they showed themselves kind neighbors ever after.

"The white men built houses and planted gardens. They were more happy and comfortable than they had ever been before in their lives.

"They went back and forth among their savage neighbors without fear. Their priests taught the red children and baptized many of them. One of the Indian chiefs trusted the white people so much that he sent his little daughter to live with them. He said:

"'When I am dead she will rule over my people. She will be a wiser ruler if she is brought up by the white men. They will teach her many things she cannot learn in our village.'

"So it happened one bright morning that the little Indian maiden left her home in the forest. She sprang into her light canoe and paddled down the river. She soon came to the English village.

"The white people were very kind. Yet how strange their ways must have seemed to her!

"She took off the soft moccasins in which she could run so easily. She put on leather shoes such as the English children wore. They must have seemed very stiff and uncomfortable at first.

"Her dress of beaver-skin and the pretty feather mantle, of which she was so proud, were laid aside. She must now wear skirts and waists, like the other girls around her.

"Now, too, she must spend a large part of each day in the house, for she had to study lessons in books. She must also learn to cook and sew and knit.

"Poor little Indian girl! How different all this was from her old free life in the forest. Then the birds and bees, the rabbits and squirrels, were around her from morning until night. No hat of any kind kept the soft breezes from blowing through her hair."

"She must have been very homesick," said Lucy, when Uncle Sam reached this part of the story. "I shouldn't wonder if she cried herself to sleep every night."

"It is not Indian fashion to cry," replied Uncle Sam. "The Red Men are ashamed to let tears come to their eyes. Even the little children are taught not to show in their faces what they feel.

"This little girl may have been very unhappy at first. I really don't know about that. At any rate, she lived among the white people till she grew up. Then she married a white man, just as Pocahontas did."

Uncle Sam stopped for a moment and began to stroke his chin. That was the sign that he was thinking.

Lucy began to pet Buzz, who had just waked up from a nap at her feet. She was thinking, too. It seemed as though she could see that little Indian girl of long ago. The child was in a birch canoe and gliding down the river. Her bright black eyes were turned longingly toward her home in the forest. Those eyes seemed to say:

"Good-bye, dear, happy days of freedom. Good-bye."

Joe sat thinking, too. He was wondering if the Indian girl went back to her people with her white husband, and if she was a good ruler after her father died.

"A penny for your thoughts!" said Uncle Sam suddenly. He spoke to Joe.

"I can't imagine that Indian princess ruling her people after the white man's fashion. I do not believe it would have suited the Indians." The boy spoke slowly.

"I think you are right, Joe," Uncle Sam answered. "But I believe she did not have a chance to try. The Indians were not willing to let a woman take the old chief's place. They chose his brother, I believe.

"Now I will tell you what I was thinking of myself. When I spoke of Pocahontas, I went on to think of the people of Virginia. You might say they lived next door to Maryland. They had a great deal of trouble with the Indians, while their neighbors in Maryland did not have any.

"The people of Maryland lived in peace and let others come to settle among them. It did not matter whether these newcomers were Catholics like themselves, or Quakers, or Puritans. Anyone who wished was allowed to live with them and believe as he liked.

"The only trouble they did have was with Virginia. It was about an island in the river. Both colonies claimed that island. They even had battles with each other before the trouble was settled. Maryland was not much to blame, however. Her people always seemed to wish for peace.

"A happier colony never settled in America than the Catholics who came to Maryland because of their kind friend Lord Baltimore."




Chapter XIV

The Poor Debtors


"This is the last chance for a story for a long time and I am sorry," said Joe.

Lucy looked sad too. She was sorry to have Uncle Sam go away.

"We shall miss the nice stories, but we shall miss you even more than the stories," she said, putting her arms around her old friend's neck.

Uncle Sam had been called to New York on business. He might be gone two months. It might even be a longer time than that. He could not tell. He looked from one child to the other with a face beaming with love.

"One more story. Yes, that is all. Then you children will have time to think over what I have told you. And when I come back you will be ready to hear some more. It is a good thing, after all, for me to go away and give you a rest.

"You see, children, I get wound up just like a clock. If I once get to going, I can't stop unless something makes me."

"Give us a rest, indeed!" cried Joe. "Lucy and I are not babies. We like stories that mean something, now that we are nine years old. Besides, you could not tire us anyway, Uncle Sam."

The old man looked pleased.

"Well, well, I am glad to hear it. But it is almost dark already. I will begin at once with the story I promised for this evening.

"It is about some poor people in England who were shut up in prisons. They were not wicked. They had not stolen nor done any other dreadful deed. Yet the prison doors were tightly locked upon them and they were shut out from the beauty of this great world.

"You shall hear why these people were not free. They owed money and were not able to pay it back. In the old days in England there were many poor people. It was hard to earn a living. Some of those who tried the hardest, could get no work. Then, of course, they did not have money. Yet they needed food and clothing for their families the same as ever. They could not let them starve.

"It is no wonder they got into debt. If the debt was not soon paid, they were taken from their homes. 'Stay in prison till you pay what you owe.' This was the cruel law."

"But how could they earn any money while they were in prison?" cried Joe.

"It was impossible, of course. That is why the law was such a bad one. By and by a very good man went to visit the prisons. His name was James Oglethorpe.

"He saw the poor debtors and pitied their sad case. He wished to help them. He thought of America. It had already given homes to many unhappy people. He went to the king of England and said:

"'Will you let the debtors come out of prison and go with me to America? They can have a fresh start and make a new home for themselves there. You will then have no more trouble with them.'

"The king listened kindly to Oglethorpe's plan. It seemed a good one. He promised to give land in America to these people and said that Oglethorpe should be their governor.

"Not long afterwards, the debtors were set free. How glad they were to be with their own families once more! How thankful they must have been to James Oglethorpe who had done so much for them!

"When they left England for America, their good friend went too, so that he might give them his wise help. Their new home was farther south than that of any other English people in this country at that time. It lay next to Florida. The Spaniards were their neighbors.

"The new colony was given the name of Georgia, in honor of George, the king of England.

"The first day in the new home was given up to prayer. All gave thanks to God for bringing them here in safety. Then came weeks of good hard work. Houses were built, a wall was made around the village, and a fort stood ready in case of an attack by enemies, red or white.

"General Oglethorpe was a wise governor. He made just laws for his people. He drilled the men every day in order to make them good soldiers in case they needed to fight.

"He treated the Indians so kindly they did not wish to make war upon his people. There was one chief whose name was Tomachichi. He loved General Oglethorpe very dearly. One day he brought a present for the governor. It was the skin of a buffalo with the feathers of an eagle painted on it.

"Tomachichi said: 'The skin of the buffalo is warm. The feathers of the eagle are soft. These things therefore mean love and protection. The English are swift as the eagle and strong as the buffalo.'

"Tomachichi afterwards visited England with General Oglethorpe. His wife and nephew went with him. How strange the crowded streets and large buildings of London must have seemed to these savages!

"Soon after Oglethorpe settled in Georgia, he invited the chiefs of the near-by Indian tribes to meet together with him. At this meeting he asked them to keep peace with him and his people. They were quite willing to do as he asked.

"Then he gave each one of them a fine coat, a hat trimmed with lace, and a shirt. They must have felt grand indeed when they put on such elegant clothes.

"Oglethorpe noticed many mulberry trees growing in Georgia. He said:

"'Silkworms feed on mulberry leaves. It would be a good plan for the next ship that comes from England to bring some silkworms. Then we can make silk. We can sell it for a good price.'

"The silkworms were brought and silk was made. It was sent over to England and the queen herself had a dress made of American silk. She wore it on the king's birthday.

"After a while, however, the people gave up raising silkworms in Georgia. It did not pay. They found they could get more money by cutting lumber in the forests and trading for furs with the Indians. They sent these things to other countries and were paid well for them.

"As long as General Oglethorpe was in Georgia the settlers had two good laws. He would not allow rum or slaves to be brought into the country. He was a kind and wise governor in every way.

"And now, children," said Uncle Sam, "don't you know enough about your country to think the words of the old song are true? Can you see that it is really the 'Land of the Free and the home of the Brave?'"

"Indeed yes, Uncle Sam," cried Joe and Lucy together.

"There is no country in the wide world like ours," added Joe with a positive shake of his head.

"Very well, then. Let's sing 'America' with a heart and a will," said Uncle Sam. "We can sit right here on the porch while we sing it. We don't need the organ to help us out."

The birds had already gone to sleep. But several of them waked up in the tree-top near by and added a cheerful chirp to the voices of the three earnest singers.

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The Banner Boy Scouts Mystery

By

George A. Warren



Chapter I

Lost


"Ken! Ken Armstrong! Dinner is ready."

"I'm coming, Mother," he called from his room upstairs.

Hurriedly he finished brushing his hair and raced downstairs to the dining room. His father was already at the table and waiting for the children to take their places. Mrs. Armstrong in the meanwhile was adding the finishing touches in setting the table. "Before you sit down, Ken," his mother told him, "will you please go out and call Betty. She must be outside somewhere playing."

"Yes, Mother."

Ken obeyed and went outside to look for his younger sister, who was five years old. It was a day in the latter part of August, warm, clear. Stepping out on the porch, he called out, "Betty! Betty!"

There was no answer. Ken looked in the yard, then in the garage where she sometimes climbed into the back of the car and amused herself playing with her doll. But she was not there either. Ken walked across the street and rang the Smiths' doorbell. Mrs. Smith herself answered and Ken asked, "Is Betty here, Mrs. Smith?"

She shook her head. "No," she answered. "She was playing with my little Helen until about an hour ago, when she left."

"Thank you," Ken said and walked away. On the sidewalk, he paused to think of all the places where she might be. Ken walked further down the street and stopped at the Morrison home. Paul answered the doorbell. "Hello, Ken," he called.

"Hello, Paul. Is Betty here playing with your little brother?"

"Why, no, Ken. Pete has been at the park all day and has just returned."

"That's strange," muttered Ken.

"What's strange?"

"I can't seem to find her."

"Oh, you'll find her," Paul assured his friend. "She may be playing with little Karliner across the street."

"That's right. I didn't think of it. Thanks, Paul."

"So long, Ken. Don't forget the meeting tonight."

"I won't," Ken called back over his shoulder. He went across the street to the Karliner home and rang the doorbell. Mrs. Karliner opened the door. "Is Betty here?" he asked.

"No," answered the youthful woman. "Betty and Karl had a childish quarrel this morning and they quit playing together."

"Until tomorrow," remarked Ken, laughing.

"Yes, no matter how much they quarrel the children always come together again," she said, also laughing.

"And it is a good thing they do," added the boy.

"Yes. And in that respect, grown ups would do well to take after children."

"You are right, Mrs. Karliner." Ken edged away from the doorway. "You will excuse me, but I have to find Betty."

The woman smiled and closed the door. Ken walked back toward his own house. He was puzzled and couldn't think where else his younger sister might be. Usually she was somewhere in the neighborhood. If she wasn't in her own yard, she could always be found either at the Morrisons, the Smiths or the Karliners. But today she wasn't at any one of those places. As he entered his own yard, Ken thought of one other place where she might be. Around the corner was a small park where Mrs. Armstrong very often took the child to play. Perhaps she had gone there with some other child. Ken thought he better run over there in a hurry before his mother became worried. However, there were only a few children there because it was dinner time. And no Betty. He walked through the playground twice. No sign of his sister.

For the first time, Ken became anxious. Of course, she was not lost, he thought to himself. But where could she be? Slowly he walked home without coming to any definite opinion. Stepping onto the porch noiselessly, he hesitated to enter the house. If he told his mother he could not find Betty, she might become frightened. He conceived another idea. Walking around to the side of the house, he peeked through the window into the dining room. Seeing that his mother was not there, he knocked on the window and motioned for his father to come outside. Mr. Armstrong came out onto the porch. "What's the trouble, Ken?" he asked.

The boy tried hard not to look anxious. "Dad, I can't seem to find Betty," he whispered.

Mr. Armstrong was a tall, heavy set man. He tugged at his close cropped mustache and muttered, "You can't seem to find her, eh? Did you look everywhere?"

"I did."

"At the Morrisons?"

"Yes. I was also at the Smiths, the Karliners and at the park, Dad. She was not at any one of those places."

"Hmm!" mused Mr. Armstrong. "She must be somewhere around, Ken. Let us first search the yard thoroughly."

Together they looked over the yard and then the garage. But the child was not there. Finally they stopped their search. "You say that you were to the park, at the Morrisons, the Smiths, the Karliners?" asked Mr. Armstrong.

"Yes, Dad."

"Can you think of anywhere else she might be? Do you know of any other child she occasionally plays with?"

Just then Mrs. Armstrong came out onto the porch and called, "Ken, John, what are you doing out here when you are supposed to be at the dinner table? And where is Betty?"

Mr. Armstrong walked slowly over to his wife and said, "Now, Edna, don't you become upset. It seems that Betty is nowhere where she usually plays. Do you know of any other child she sometimes plays with and with whom she might be now?"

Mrs. Armstrong became very pale. "Were you to the Karliners, Ken?" she queried anxiously.

"Yes, mother."

"Now don't you become alarmed, Edna. The child is somewhere around. But she may have walked off alone somewhere or she might be playing at some house."

"Were you to the Johnsons?" Mrs. Armstrong asked. Ken shook his head. "Then run over and see. And if she is not there, stop in at the McKinlys."

Ken was off at a run. The Johnson home was at the end of the street. Junior himself opened the door and Ken bent down to question the child. "Is Betty here?" he asked.

The little boy shook his head and muttered, "Nah." Mrs. Johnson came to the door and he asked her the same question. "Why, no," she replied. "She never comes. I would like very much for her to come and play with Junior, but she never does. I guess it is a little too far away for her."

Ken was anxious to be off. "Yes, I guess so," he answered. "Excuse me." And he was off.

The McKinly home was across the street. But she was not there either. Ken walked away deeply concerned. Returning home he found his parents awaiting him, their faces drawn and worried. At the news that the child was neither at the Johnsons nor the McKinlys, Mrs. Armstrong clenched her fingers. Her husband stood up. "She must have walked off somewhere," he said. "I'll notify the police and have them search for her."

"Wait a minute, Dad," cried Ken. "Perhaps she is in her room."

Without losing a second, he dashed up the stairs. A minute later he was coming down slowly. By the expression on his face the parents could tell that she was not in her room. Mr. Armstrong walked to the foyer where the telephone was and they could hear him calling the police and giving a detailed description of the child. She was five years old, blonde hair and blue eyes, weighed between forty-five and fifty pounds and was about twenty-six or twenty-seven inches tall. His task completed, he returned to the dining room. He put an arm around his wife's shoulder and said, "Now, don't worry, Edna. The child most likely has walked off by herself and she will be found. You will have her again in half an hour."

Ken jumped out of his chair and dashed out of the house. He ran over to the Morrison home and called Paul. Drawing his friend aside, he whispered, "Paul, call the troop together. We cannot find Betty and we have to make a search for her."

"That's too bad," replied Paul. "I'm sure no harm has come to her and we will find her."

The two boys walked off to call the boys together. Some of the Boy Scouts lived in the immediate neighborhood while the others were reached by telephone. Practically every one of them knew Betty by sight, but just to make sure a description of her was passed around. Within ten minutes the entire Stanhope Troop No. 1 was out on the streets and searching for the child. In the meanwhile the police had also sent out an alarm and were combing the town to find Betty. The news had spread and many townspeople had joined in the search.

For the next half hour every nook and corner of the town was ransacked. Many a little girl was stopped and asked if her name was Betty Armstrong. But always it was a shake of the head and the word no. Suddenly the news spread that the search was off and that the child was safely home. Ken, who was with Paul, sprinted home. The two boys burst into the house and found Betty sitting very calmly at the table having her dinner. Quite innocently she shook a finger a her big brother and scolded him. "You're late," she told him. "Mama is angry if you come late for dinner."

The two boys, hot and out of breath as they were, couldn't resist laughing at the innocent humor of the child. "Where were you?" Ken demanded.

Just then Mr. Armstrong came in. Seeing his missing child at the table, he sighed with relief. Mrs. Armstrong came in from the kitchen and said, "You men better have your dinner right away, before it gets spoiled."

Paul moved away, saying, "I will wait for you upstairs, Ken, in your room."

"Jack is also upstairs," mentioned Mrs. Armstrong. "He found the child and brought her home."

Paul walked upstairs while Mr. Armstrong turned to his wife and asked, "Where did he find her?"

"On Leonard Street."

"So far away!" exclaimed Ken. "Leonard Street is at the edge of the town."

"Yes."

"What was she doing there?" asked Mr. Armstrong.

"Who knows?" his wife exclaimed.

Ken turned to his younger sister. "What were you doing so far away from home?" he demanded.

"Don't bother the child now," asserted his mother. "Let us eat now. You can ask her all the questions you want later or tomorrow."

"Yes, Mother."

The family settled down to their meal and for the present tried to forget the anxiety and worry the child had caused them.

As soon as he could get away from the table, Ken did so and raced upstairs. Dashing into his room, he called out, "Hello, Jack."

"Hello, Ken. I hear Betty gave you a bad scare."

"And how!" added Paul. "The only ones we did not have searching for her were the marines, and only because there are none in Stanhope."

"Yes, that is just what I want to ask you about, Jack. How did you come to find her?" asked Ken.

"I was out that way visiting Bud Menninger. You know him, don't you, Ken?"

"Yes, he is the fellow who wants to join our troop, isn't he?"

"That's right," answered Jack. "Well, I was riding home on my bicycle when I happened to notice Betty walking along, all by herself. I was so surprised, I wouldn't believe my eyes at first. I couldn't imagine what she would be doing so far away from home. At any rate, I jumped off my bike and approached her and then I saw that it was really her. She was sucking a large peppermint stick."

"Sucking a peppermint stick!" exclaimed Ken. "Who gave it to her?"

"That is just the point. I asked her and she replied that a man gave it to her."

"A man! -- "

Paul interrupted. "Don't interrupt, Ken," he said. "Listen to the rest of the story. It is mighty interesting."

"All right, I won't interrupt. Go on."

"Well, I questioned her a little more," continued Jack, "and she told me that she was walking home from the Smiths when a man stopped her and asked if she wanted some candy. Like a child, she couldn't refuse. So he took her by the hand and he bought her that peppermint stick she was sucking."

"Then what?" Ken asked eagerly.

"From further questioning, it seems that after he bought her the candy, they just kept on walking. I looked her over closely and saw that she was not all frightened or hurt in any way. So it seems that the man who took her walking, did not harm her in the least."

"But how come he left her at the edge of the town all by herself. A man must be crazy to do a thing like that."

"Now that is a clue," spoke up Paul. "An ordinary man would not do a thing like that."

"Clue!" exclaimed Ken, surprised. "What sort of clue? What are you talking about?"

"Let me finish," urged Jack. "As I was talking to her, I noticed that she kept one hand behind her back. I asked her why and she just shrugged her shoulders. I looked and I saw that she was clutching a card in her little fist. I asked where she got it and she told me that the man gave it to her before he left her. I asked her to give it to me and she did. Here it is."

Jack held up the white card, three inches by two inches. The boys huddled together, examining it. "Why, it is just a plain, blank, white card!" exclaimed Ken.

"That's right. But what is the meaning of it?" asked Jack.

There was no answer. The three boys were mystified. The whole story sounded very odd and the card made it all the more perplexing. "From all the evidence at hand," remarked Paul, "I am convinced that there must be something wrong with the man who walked off with the child."

"But that's just it," exploded Ken. "If there is something wrong with the man, he must be found out and put away into an asylum. He can't be permitted to roam the streets and walk away with children."

"And if Paul's suggestions are correct," added Jack, "God knows what other tricks he might be up to and what damage he may be doing."

"Now let's think this out calmly and logically," said Paul. "First did you ask Betty to describe the man?"

"I did," replied Jack. "But all she would say was that he was tall and very kind to her."

"There are many tall men in town. That is no clue," said Ken.

Paul rose. "We certainly have to look into the matter and see what we can do."

"What can we do?" asked Ken. "As far as I know there are no crazy people in Stanhope and only a lunatic would do a thing like that."

"We have about an hour before the meeting," suggested Jack. "Suppose we go down to Leonard Street and look around."

Just then Mr. Armstrong came in. "Hello, Jack," he greeted.

"Hello, Mr. Armstrong."

He saw that the boys seemed to be on the verge of leaving and he said, "I hope I am not keeping you boys from going on your way."

"Well, we were preparing to leave, but -- " that from Ken.

"I merely want to ask Jack about his finding Betty."

Jack repeated his story, leaving out the part about the white card. For a while there was silence. Mr. Armstrong mused. Finally he said, "It must have been some man who knows the family and bought her some candy."

"But why should he leave her at the end of the town to walk back alone," demanded Ken.

Mr. Armstrong shrugged his shoulders wearily. "I can't understand that myself," he said. "But the fact remains that the child was not harmed. Which leads us to the conclusion that the man must have been a friend."

The boys had no desire to argue with the older man and so they left it at that. In the street, Ken asked, "Why did you leave out that part about the white card, Jack?"

"I didn't think it mattered," was the answer. "I figured that if I told him about it, he would give it over to the police, and then it would get into the newspapers and then everybody would know about it. And the guilty man, even if he is crazy, would know better than to do anything to give himself away. As it is, nobody knows, except the three of us, and by a little quiet work we may track the culprit down."

"I think you did right," spoke up Paul.

"That is to be seen," added Ken skeptically.

The boys walked down to Leonard Street and Jack pointed out the exact spot where he came upon Betty. The neighborhood was one occupied mostly by the poorer people of the town. Of course, there was nothing to be found in the way of clues. They walked all around the neighborhood and noticed the various shacks and empty lots but did not come across any man that was tall and kindly looking. At last they decided to give up the search and go to a meeting of their boy scout troop, the Red Fox Patrol.

All the other boys -- Nuthin', The Carberry twins, William and Wallace, Bobolink, Bluff -- were already there when the three arrived. Pressed for information, Jack for the third time re-told his story.




Chapter II

Fire!


Several days passed and although the boys had not forgotten the incident, they did nothing to look for the culprit. The only evidence they had was the white card and the information that the man was tall.

It was about five-thirty and the boys were coming from the baseball field. Paul and William, walking ahead, turned into Water Street, and the rest of the boys followed them. At about the middle of the street, they suddenly heard the weird cry, "Fire! Help! Fire!"

The boys stopped in their tracks and looked around to find where the cry was coming from. Paul began to run and the boys followed him. They came upon a two story frame house. Dense clouds of smoke came billowing out of the doorway. Paul turned to the one nearest him, who happened to be William, and ordered, "Call the Fire Department! Hurry!"

William set off at a run. Paul, followed by the other boys, ran to the back of the house. He cried, "A couple of you try to find buckets and water. The others stick around and form a water brigade until the firemen come."

Pushing open the back door, he dashed into the house. He noticed that the smoke was dense at the front door. Just as he turned to run up the stairs, tongues of flames shot out of the smoke. The thought came to him that the fire had started at the front door. But how? Why? At the front door, of all places.

He raced upstairs and threw open the first door that he came upon. No one there. He dashed for the next room. An old man and woman, in their late seventies, if not older, were rushing back and forth, picking up things and dropping them. They were so bewildered, they did not know what to do. As Paul dashed in, they rushed at him and clung to his arms. They were absolutely speechless; they did nothing but tremble. Paul shook them off and rushed to the window, threw it open and cried to the boys below, "Get a ladder! Get a ladder!"

He looked for the firemen but they had not yet arrived. Every second seemed to him an hour. He saw the boys scatter in a frantic search for a ladder. The five minutes that elapsed to procure a ladder seemed like an age. At last Bobolink came running up with a ladder and he placed it under the window. But it was too short, and Paul cried, "Get something to stand it on. A box. Anything."

Bobolink scurried to find something upon which to stand the ladder. A minute later he returned with a soap box. The ladder was stood on the box and several of the boys supported it. Paul helped the old woman through the window onto the ladder. "One of you boys climb up and help her down."

He saw the boys hesitate. Evidently they thought that the ladder would not hold. In the meanwhile, the woman, trembling and bewildered, almost fell from the ladder. Bluff raced up and directed the woman's legs, rung by rung. The old woman at last descended and collapsed in Ken's arms. Paul turned to the old man. "Is there anybody else in the house?" he asked briskly.

The old man nodded his head vigorously. "Downstairs," his trembling lips mumbled. "A baby in a crib."

"Which room?"

The old man's teeth chattered so violently that he could not speak. Again Paul demanded to know which room the child was in but the old man could not talk. He almost hurled the man through the window as he helped him to gain a footing on the ladder. Without waiting another instant, Paul dashed out of the room and down the stairs which by now were crackling with flames. The last couple of steps were so badly burned that he had to jump. He scurried about wildly and at last found what he was searching for -- a pail of water. Dipping his handkerchief into it, he clasped the wet rag over his mouth and nostrils. Layers of heavy smoke whirled all about him. He walked along the wall and listened carefully. An infant's wailing came to his ears and he searched frantically for the door. Finding it at last, he threw it open and stepped in quickly. He brought in with him a dense cloud of smoke. He moved blindly about the room, directed only by the cries of the infant. He stumbled against the crib and clasped the child to him. Smoke entered his lungs and he began to cough. He felt choked and was sure he was going to collapse before he managed to get out. He heard a shattering crash. Someone had broken the window and he ran to it. He felt someone take the child from him and direct him to the broken window. Someone lifted him almost bodily through the window and the next moment he fainted.

About fifteen or twenty minutes after the alarm had been sent in, the Volunteer Fire Brigade came clanging down the street. Immediately they pulled out the hose and set to work. Captain Bob was there. It was he who had helped Paul through the window. About a minute after Paul had been taken out of the house, there was a terrible shattering and crackling. From all sides of the house streaks of flame spurted forth, until the whole building was enveloped in a sheet of flame.

Paul came to and opened his eyes to find his father bending over him. "Are you all right, fellow?" Dr. Morrison asked.

Paul sat up and blinked his eyes. He nodded. "I'm all right, Dad. What are you doing here?"

"Just happened to come along."

His father helped him to his feet and he found the boys crowding around him. "How do you feel?" asked William.

Paul nodded. Ken remarked, "Some fire eater you are."

He smiled and turned to watch the firemen fighting the blazing structure. "What happened to the old couple?" he asked.

"They are all right," answered Nuthin'. "They wouldn't have been, though, if it hadn't been for you."

Bobolink added, "The child would surely have perished if not for you, Paul."

Just then a policeman came and pushed them all back. Some moments later the front door fell in with a shattering thud. The firemen poured gallons of water into the blaze but it did not seem to help. The fire ate through the wooden house and ten minutes later one of the walls collapsed. A groan rose up from the watching crowd and some turned their heads away. As the wall collapsed tongues of flame and dense smoke came shooting out. Some of the firemen retreated and then returned to continue their struggle with the blaze.

Another wall caved in and eventually the roof of the house came crashing down. Captain Bob realized that further effort was futile and he ordered his firemen to just stand around and let the fire burn itself out. Soon the house was a heap of ashes and smoldering pieces of wood. The firemen left and the crowd dispersed.




Chapter III

Paul Looks Into The Matter


Jack was sitting on the Morrison porch. It was about eight o'clock in the evening of the same day. Ken came walking up through the yard. "Hello, Ken."

"Hello, Jack. What are you doing here?"

"Waiting for Paul."

Ken came onto the porch and sat down beside his friend. "Did Paul call you too?" he asked.

"That's right. He told me over the telephone that he had something important to talk over."

"He told me the same thing. I wonder what it is."

"Perhaps it is something about the fire."

"Well, let's not guess, but wait for Paul to tell us instead."

Several minutes later, Paul came out. "Hello, fellows," he called.

"Hello, Paul."

"Hello, Paul. What is it you have to tell us?" asked Jack.

"Let's go where we will have some privacy," answered Paul.

Paul led them into the garage and the three boys piled into the back of the car. "Now," said Ken, "you can tell us without anyone overhearing us. Don't keep us in suspense any longer or we will collapse of curiosity."

"First tell us how you feel," spoke up Jack. "Any after effects from the smoke?"

"I feel perfectly all right," was the answer. "Now, this is what I want to talk to you about."

"Yes, what is it all about?" -- that from Ken.

"Jack," began Paul, "do you still have that white card? You know the one I mean."

"Of course. I still have it, certainly. What about it?"

"Will you show it to me?"

Jack began to look through his pockets. Finally he confessed, "I guess I don't have it with me. I must have left it home, in my other coat pocket."

"What about the card?" asked Ken.

"Only this," replied Paul gravely. And he showed them the card. "Is it the same card?" he asked.

Jack examined it very closely. "To me it appears as though it is the very self-same card. How did you get it?"

"Now listen closely," whispered Paul. The other two boys leaned over. "I rushed down the burning stairs to find the room in which the child was. Well, I was groping along the wall with my hands because I couldn't see a thing. I came upon the door and I moved my hand up and down trying to find the knob when I came upon something sticking in the doorway. Without thinking any further, I grabbed it and shoved it into my pocket." Paul paused to add emphasis to his forthcoming statement. "And that thing was this card," he concluded.

The boys gasped. "This card!" exclaimed Jack.

"Are you sure?" asked Ken.

"Absolutely positive," asserted Paul.

"But how did it get there?"

"That is something I don't know and which I would very much like to know."

For about a minute the boys sat there in silence, overcome with amazement. Jack jumped out of the car. "Come on, fellows," he called.

"Where to?" asked Paul.

"To my house. I want to find that card."

Jack was so excited, he had difficulty in restraining himself from running. The other boys kept up with him, walking briskly. At the Stormways home, Jack rushed up the steps of the porch. "You wait here," he called over his shoulder to his companions.

Two minutes later he came rushing out of the doorway. "Here it is," he cried, waving the white card.

The two cards were compared; they were identical in every respect. "This is getting to be serious," whispered Ken.

"Terribly serious," added Ken. "We must do something about it. The man must be absolutely crazy."

"Crazy is not the word," said Paul. "Dangerous is more fitting. If he is permitted to roam the streets without being stopped, only God knows what damage he will do and what crimes he may commit."

"But what can we do?" Jack questioned anxiously. "Our suspicions are only a hunch. These cards may only be an accident."

"No," said Paul, shaking his head. "My opinion is that this is no accident but the work of a distorted mind."

The boys sat down on the porch. At a loss as to the meaning of it all, they remained silent. Paul whispered, "I'll tell you what we can do, though."

"What?"

"Let's go over and see Captain Bob."

"What for?" queried Ken.

"I want to ask his opinion on the origin of the fire."

"Well, that won't hurt any," remarked Jack.

The three boys set off. Captain Bob himself opened the door for them and led them into the living room. Turning to Paul, the Captain said, "You are the boy that dashed into the burning building this afternoon, aren't you?"

"Yes, but it was really nothing."

Captain Bob sat himself down and pointed the boys to seats. "Well," he drawled, "you are a modest boy. But if it hadn't been for you, the old folks and the child would have burned to cinders."

"If I had not entered, one of the other boys would have," he answered. "We were the first on the scene, you know."

"Yes, so I understand. But what is it I can do for you boys?"

Paul leaned forward in his chair. "Captain Bob," he said, "we came over to ask you your opinion on the origin of the fire."

"Just what do you want to know?"

Paul hesitated, not knowing exactly how to put his question. He said, "What I want to know, Captain, is whether you think the fire was -- er, -- an accident, or whether you think someone started the fire."

"You are asking very serious questions," replied Captain, knitting his brows.

"Yes, I know, but I am very much interested and -- "

"May I ask why you should be interested?" asked the old man shrewdly.

"It's only because, -- er, -- when I dashed into the building, I noticed something very odd about the fire."

"Just what do you mean?"

"Well, as we ran up to the house, we noticed smoke pouring out of the front door. I dashed inside by the back door and then I saw that most of the smoke and fire seemed to be at the threshold of the front door. Now that is very odd."

"Yes, you are quite right, my boy," answered Captain Bob. "As a matter of fact, the front door caved in first. However, I came to the fire a little too late to really judge the cause or origin of the fire. But it did seem to me that there was something odd about the whole thing."

"Was there anything about the fire that would lead you to believe that it was an accident or perhaps -- er, -- otherwise?" asked Paul, pressing his point.

Captain Bob scratched his chin thoughtfully and said, "My dear boy, you are asking some very serious questions that may get you into trouble."

Paul insisted. "Just the same, would you form an opinion?"

"No, I really couldn't because, as I said before, I came to the fire too late. I had no chance to look into the cause of the fire and now that the house is a heap of ashes, the chances of finding any clue is very slight. Suppose you tell me your opinion, my boy."

"To be quite frank, Captain, I think that the fire was started by some pyromaniac."

The Captain sat up in his chair. "What makes you think so?" he demanded suddenly.

Paul hesitated. He did not want to give himself away. "Just a hunch," he replied.

Captain Bob sank back into his chair. For what seemed a very long time there was absolute silence. The Captain seemed to be musing over something and the boys had nothing more to say. Paul rose and his friends did likewise. "Thank you, Captain Bob," said Paul. "I guess we will be going now."

Escorting them to the door, the Captain said, "Don't thank me. I am glad you came." He hesitated. "And, -- er, -- don't you go around talking about a pyromaniac, my boy. It may get you into trouble."

"I won't, Captain," promised Paul.

"Goodnight, boys."

"Goodnight, Captain Bob."

The boys walked along for some few steps in silence. Ken spoke up. "That talk with the captain didn't help much, did it, Paul?"

"No, very little. But I have now become more convinced than ever that the fire was the work of a mentally distorted person."

"You count me in on that," added Jack. "I certainly agree with you. But what can we do about it, that is the problem."

"Doesn't seem as if we can do anything for the present," muttered Ken.

"Guess you're right," answered Paul thoughtfully. A moment later he added, "Tomorrow let us try and obtain a better description of the man from your sister, Betty, Ken. If she can tell us a few things on how he looks and the sort of clothes he wears, that would help a lot."

"It certainly would," agreed Ken. "We will try it tomorrow."

"Yes. In the meanwhile there is nothing else we can do tonight. So I am for going home," announced Paul.

"Same here."

"Me too."

The boys separated and went home. The following morning, they met again at Ken's home. Taking Betty out into the yard, the boys tried to get some information from her about the man who had taken her for a walk and then deserted her at the end of the town. But the child had already forgotten him entirely and their efforts were in vain.




Chapter IV

Detectives


That afternoon, William went to the Stanhope Free Public Library to return a book. Walking in back of the room in search of a good novel, he came upon Paul hunched over a stack of newspapers. "What are you up to now, Paul?" he asked in a whisper.

"Tell you later."

"A mystery, huh?" William joked.

Paul smiled and waved his friend away. "Leave me alone now," he said, "I'll tell you all about it later."

"Very well."

William walked away and Paul returned to his stack of newspapers. He spent almost three hours going through the papers of the past two months. Tired, he decided to stop there. Besides, he was quite satisfied with the information he had obtained. He left the library and walked home. On the way he stopped to call for Ken but did not find him in. Crossing the street to his own home he found Jack, Ken and William on the porch waiting for him. "Well, what is the secret?" cried William. "Tell us."

Paul motioned to the boys to follow him and he led them to the garage where they would be assured of privacy. The boys found boxes on which to sit and they gathered around Paul. "Well, what is it?" asked Jack.

"I have spent about three hours in the library this afternoon," Paul informed them "and -- "

"William told us that already," interrupted Ken.

"I have been going through the newspapers for the past weeks," continued Paul.

"What for?" asked Jack.

"I was looking up the fire reports. In the past two months there have been four fires, one each two weeks or so."

"What about it?" Jack wanted to know.

"Can't you fellows see for yourselves?" asked Paul, irritated by their indifference. "Don't you think that in a small town such as this, a fire every two weeks is very much above the average?"

"Say," cried Ken, "you have hit upon something. Come to think of it, that is a pretty high average."

"But what has that to do with the story?" asked Jack.

"Simply this," answered Paul. "Under normal conditions, there would not be such frequent fires. In other words, all the fires of the past two months may or may not have been caused accidentally."

"You don't think yesterday's fire was an accident?" questioned William.

"No," was Paul's categorical answer.

William raised his eyebrows in surprise. He was not acquainted with the facts of the case as the other boys were. "What therefore is the conclusion?" asked Jack.

"It is evident," returned Paul. "For the past two months at least one fire, or more has been started by a maniac."

"This thing is becoming worse and worse," commented Ken.

"Yes," Paul said gravely, "the situation is very serious and it is up to us to do something."

"Why is it up to us?" asked William. But just as soon as the words were out of his mouth, he knew the answer.

"Because," was Paul's answer, "we are the only ones who seem to be acquainted with the situation and our suspicions are quite definite."

"Don't you think it might be wise to acquaint the police with our suspicions?" inquired Ken.

"I am against doing anything of the sort," stated Jack. "If we do that, there will be a public scandal. It will be in every newspaper in town and the culprit, whoever he is, will become wary. As it is, we may come upon him by surprise."

"I agree absolutely," commented Paul.

"What is our job going to be?" asked William, eager to do something as soon as possible.

"For the present there is only one thing we can do," said Paul. "We will talk the whole matter over with the boys of the patrol. We are all pretty close friends and we can act as a group. The thing we have to insist upon is secrecy on the part of all the boys and to be always on guard."

"That alone is not enough," added William. "I suggest that we also have the boys patrolling the streets, so that in case of anything, they will be Johnny-on-the-spot."

"That is something we will have to discuss with the rest of the boys," asserted Paul. "In the meanwhile, suppose we notify the fellows to come to a meeting tonight after supper. Do you think it is all right?"

"Yes, I think that is a very good idea," commented William. The other boys agreed and it was decided to meet in Ken's garage.

That evening at about seven, the boys began to congregate in Ken's garage. They came by one's and two's. Fifteen minutes later they were all there except Jack. The boys were curious as to the reason for the meeting and they wanted to start without waiting for the missing member but Paul refused. He suggested that someone run over to call Jack. Bluff volunteered. They waited about five minutes and the messenger returned saying that Jack was not home. Paul remarked, "I wonder where he could have gone?"

Nuthin' said, "He will most likely be here any minute. In the meanwhile let's get going."

"Yes, let's do that," echoed Wallace.

Urged on by the other boys, Paul finally consented and the meeting was called to order. Paul then outlined the situation for them, told them the pros and cons of the problem and in conclusion said, "There is one more thing I want to tell you. In going through the newspaper files for information on the fire reports, I noticed that there seemed to be about two weeks difference between fires. In other words, since the last fire was yesterday, we have about two weeks in which to act. The thing for us to do now is not to talk about it to anyone outside of this group and to be always on guard. If we don't track this maniac down, God knows what damage he is liable to do."

For a short while there was silence. Nuthin' grinned and remarked, "What you want us to do, Paul, is for us to become detectives."

Nuthin' meant it as a joke but Paul took it seriously. "That is just what I want you to do," he asserted gravely. "We must all become detectives and find this man."

"But the information we have is so slight. We really have no clues to work on," protested Bobolink.

"That is very true," replied Paul, "but we must do the best we can."

A little later, the meeting was officially adjourned, but no boy ventured to leave. Their curiosity was aroused by Jack's not coming to the meeting and they waited around. Paul felt anxious, though he had no reason to be. To Ken, who was sitting beside him, he whispered, "I wonder what happened to Jack!"

Ken shrugged his shoulders. "I can't imagine. He promised to be here. And he is not home either."

"That's just it," countered Paul. "The fact that he is not home implied that he was on the way over here. But something must have happened on the way to keep him from coming to the meeting."

"We can go over and see if he is home now."

"That is a good idea. Let's go."

Ken and Paul rose and the other boys did likewise. In a group they walked over to Jack's house. Ken went in while all the others remained outside. A minute later he emerged and motioned that the missing boy was not home. The boys were disappointed and a few of them became worried. Bobolink commented, "This is becoming serious. We ought to look for him."

Paul turned the idea down. "You fellows better go home," he said, "and don't worry. Jack has a right to go wherever he pleases and if he did not show up at the meeting, there must be a good reason for it."

"But where could he have gone," Nuthin' asked anxiously. "After all, something may have happened to him."

Paul, though he was anxious himself, made believe that there was nothing to worry about and laughed at the suggestion that something might have happened to Jack. "Most likely he went to see someone or something like that," he remarked casually. "Nothing serious could have happened to him."

"Besides, he is the sort of fellow who can take care of himself," added Ken.

"And what's more," argued Paul again, "we don't know where to look for him. And if we spread an alarm, his folks will become worried and that is something we certainly don't want."

"No, I guess you are right, Paul," agreed Nuthin'.

Several of the other boys nodded and showed willingness to agree with Paul's idea that they all go home. They walked along as a group until one by one the boys fell out to go home. Finally only Paul and Ken were left. The two boys walked side by side and Paul seemed exceedingly quiet and preoccupied with his thoughts. Ken hesitated to break in upon his friend, but finally he asked, "What are you so quiet and thoughtful about?"

"I wasn't really thinking of anything," the other replied.

"We may as well go home, like the others," suggested Ken.

"No, let's not do that. Suppose we walk down Main Street a bit. To tell you the truth, I am a bit worried about Jack."

"Worrying won't help any," Ken wisely remarked.

The boys walked down Main Street and then retraced their steps. At Paul's house, they silently sat down on the steps of the porch and remained like that, neither one uttering a sound.




Chapter V

A Suspicious Individual


Now let us see what really happened to Jack. He left his home with the intention of going to the meeting. As he walked along, deeply occupied with his thoughts, he suddenly became conscious of a certain individual that had just passed. Jack turned on his heel and stared at the retreating back of the individual. The man was tall and thin -- gaunt; he wore a cap and a jacket and pants that hung like sacks upon him. Jack tried to think what it was about the individual that attracted his attention and he concluded that it was something wild about his appearance, about his bearing. He began to follow the man, sorry that he did not get a good look at the man's face.

Jack went over the situation in his mind. He wanted to go to the meeting and if he did not come, the boys might feel badly. On the other hand, there was something very suspicious about the person he was following. The man appeared to be very excited, or anxious; he seemed to be very much on the alert, turning his head this way and that way, as though searching for something. Jack felt sorry that he could not get a good look at the man's face. Perhaps he could do it now, he thought, by walking ahead then walking back toward him; or possibly by hiding in some doorway and obtaining a close view of him as the man passed. But on second consideration, he thought it better not to do that. The man might get a good look at him and remember his face, which would put him at a disadvantage.

Jack decided merely to follow and see what would happen. Twice the man turned around and looked back; Jack decided to cross over to the other side of the street. His heart pounded and he became nervous and excited. He followed, keeping his eyes glued to the back of the suspicious character. The man kept shifting his head in all directions, staring at people, at houses, at everything; his eyes seemed to bore right into things.

The man turned into John Street, usually a deserted street with only several old houses on it. Jack quickly removed the light sweater he was wearing and formed it into a small package under his arm. If the man had noticed him, the fact that he now appeared in a white shirt, carrying a package under his arm, would make the man think him a different person. The man continued walking rapidly with Jack hot on his trail. The street was very poorly lit and Jack was forced to shorten the distance between the man and himself, though he still kept to the wrong side of the street. Coming to a lonely house set on a large plot, the man suddenly dashed behind the wall. Jack felt his excitement increase. He was only sorry that Paul or one of the boys were not with him; not that he felt afraid but for the sake of companionship. He had a weird, creepy feeling to be following a man on a deserted, dark street.

Jack kept on walking as though nothing happened. He made believe that he didn't see anything unusual. His head square on his shoulders, he kept a careful watch out of the corner of his eye. He saw a large rock on the lot he was passing and immediately he threw himself behind it. Looking from the side of his shelter, he watched the house across the street. Possibly five minutes passed and nothing happened. To him it seemed like hours. At last the man he had been following showed himself at the corner of the house. Warily, the man stuck his head out and looked in all directions. In spite of the distance between them, the man's wild appearance, his ghostly form outlined in the dark, made Jack shiver; a cold chill ran down his spine.

At last the man came forth and walked away in the direction from which he had come. Waiting until he thought it was safe for him to follow, Jack then rose and sprinted forward until he was within about five yards of his man, who no longer shifted his head back and forth wildly but, instead kept looking straight ahead of him. Jack was glad of that because it made it easier following.

At Main Street, the man turned right. Jack followed and became more convinced that his suspicions were well founded. Beyond any doubt there was either something wrong with the man or else he was a fugitive of some sort, trying to get away. The man turned into Water Street and Jack felt a cold chill break out. Instantly it flashed upon him that the suspicious fire of the previous day had occurred on Water Street. Was the man returning to the place of his crime? Or was he on his way to perpetrate another crime, perhaps set flames to another house in the same neighborhood?

His head turned straight ahead of him, the man walked on briskly. Jack followed. Closer and closer they came to the house that had burned down. When they were within about ten yards of it, the man suddenly stopped in his tracks and very slowly turned around. In the nick of time, Jack dashed into a shadow and was out of sight. The man hesitated and then very slowly approached the heap of ashes and sticks of wood that were once a house. Jack hid himself, watching him closely, wondering what he was up to. Seeing the man approach the heap of ashes, Jack's emotions got so strong that he could barely control himself. "Easy!" he mumbled to himself. "Take it easy now!"

He flattened himself out on the ground and watched his man who sat down on the bare earth as though in grief. The man's shoulders heaved and soon Jack heard sobs of genuine sorrow. Jack could not help feeling sorry for the poor chap. He wondered what was wrong with him, that might have caused him to set fire to the house. For by now, Jack was no longer in any doubt as to the man's guilt.

For some time the man sat there, hunched over, his body trembling and sobbing bitterly. At last he got on his knees and crept forward to the heap of ashes. Picking up a handful, he let the dust slide through his fingers. Five or six times he repeated this action. Finally he took out of his pocket a handkerchief, spread it out on the ground, and piled several handfuls of ashes on it; then gathering the ends together, he made a knot and put the package under his arm. Rising, he looked around and then walked off in the direction of Main Street.

Just as soon as he thought it was safe, Jack was up and following. What was the most reasonable thing to do, he tried to figure out. Should he notify the police? Should he run off and talk it over with Paul or Ken? Or should he do nothing and just follow. Unable to determine what would be his most reasonable action, he continued to follow the man and thought of nothing else.

A block before Main Street, he saw his man suddenly disappear into the side street. Becoming frantic at the thought of losing him, Jack sprinted up to the corner. He saw his man flattening out against the wall of the corner building. Jack hid behind a parked car. Was the man aware of being followed? Jack tried to think whether he had at any moment shown himself. His deliberations were cut short by the man stepping forth again and continuing on his way. Pursuer and pursued turned left on Main Street. The man increased his pace, stretching out his long legs. However, Jack had no difficulty in following. Clear across the town the two went, back to John Street into which the man turned. Jack hesitated for a second before crossing the street. There was something funny about being led back to this deserted street. Could it be possible that he was being led into a trap of some sort? Chucking his anxiety and doubt to the winds, he crossed the street to follow, but by then the man had disappeared. He walked up and down the street but the man did not return.

Jack returned to Main Street. "Whew!" He wiped the perspiration off his brow. That was some night, some chase, he thought to himself. The next moment he felt a pang of regret for having lost track of his man. However, it could not be helped and it would be useless to worry over it. Now that he had a pretty good picture of the individual -- even though he had not seen the face -- Jack felt certain that he would come upon him again. In the meanwhile he thought it best to go over and see Paul.

Paul and Ken were sitting on the steps of the porch. Side by side, in silence, each mused over his thoughts. Paul noticed someone approach the gate. The next moment he was on his feet and running to meet his chum. "Jack!" he cried, "where have you been?"

Ken also ran up. "Hey!" he spoke harshly, "you had us in stitches. What is the idea of disappearing like that and where have you been?"

Jack smiled. "I am sorry I had you fellows worried," he said. "But wait until I tell you what happened to me."

"What?" demanded Paul impatiently.

"Let's sit down first; I'm tired."

The boys sat down at the rear of the porch, so as not to be disturbed. Jack told his story and Paul and Ken listened gravely, interrupting every once in a while for some detailed information. They sat so closely together, listened so attentively to the narrative, that an outsider seeing them would have taken them for conspirators. In a sense they were that: they were conspiring on how to capture and rid the neighborhood of a maniac. When Jack had at last concluded, Ken let out a long whistle. Paul whispered, "That proves all my suspicions."

"Wait a minute," said Ken. "Let's re-consider the whole situation. Both of you seem to have the impression that the man is a maniac, crazy. But how do you know that he didn't contrive the whole thing just to put on a show for Jack's sake? How do you know what the man was up to? He might have realized that he was being followed and to mislead Jack, he performed a mighty interesting show. We don't know whether this man is guilty of burning down that house and before we are sure of it, let's not pass judgement."

There was silence. Those statements provided plenty of food for thought and all three of them knitted their brows. Paul said, "What you say is true, Ken. Of course, we must not pass judgement hastily. However, somehow I feel that my suspicions are correct."

Jack nodded. "I feel the same way about it," he offered as his opinion.

"At any rate," argued Ken, "let's wait and see. You say that you would recognize him if you saw him again -- "

"Absolutely," asserted Jack interrupting. "I could pick him out of a million men."

"Very well, then. In that case, we will watch out for him. In the meanwhile, I suggest that the first thing tomorrow morning we go over to Water Street and examine the place. Perhaps we will find some sort of clue, his footprints if nothing else."

"It's too bad we can't go there tonight," said Jack.

"No. For one thing, it is too late. And secondly if someone noticed us there tonight, we would be under suspicion. And that would make everything perfect."

"That's settled, then," remarked Ken as he rose. "I am going home. Coming, Jack?"

"Yes. Goodnight, Paul."

"Goodnight. See you fellows tomorrow morning."

"Righto!"




Chapter VI

The Spy


The following morning, immediately after breakfast, the three boys met and set off for Water Street. At the scene of the fire, Jack pointed out the approximate spot where the man had sat and wept. Searching for footprints, they found many, most of them indistinct and smudged. They continued their search for other possible clues but found none. In the midst of their searchings, however, Paul looking up thought he saw a flitting shadow duck behind a fence across the street. Making believe that he saw nothing, he bent over and continued his investigations; however, he had his eyes glued to the spot. And sure enough, he saw a head protrude. He was amazed. Was it possible that someone was spying on them? Was it possible that the person Jack had followed the evening before had now turned around and was following them?

He called the two boys over. Pretending that he was explaining to them the outline of a footprint, he told them in a few words, of his discovery. "Don't look now," he warned his friends; "and don't both look at the same time."

Ken joked, saying, "I hope this thing hasn't got you so that you are beginning to see things."

"Don't be funny," remarked Paul seriously. "Suppose you fellows move off now. Keep an eye on the spot I pointed out to you and don't give yourselves away."

The boys separated and pretended to be absorbed in their investigations. They kept this up for about five minutes and then Paul called them and they walked away. "Well?" he asked anxiously.

Jack nodded. "You are right," he whispered. "I also saw the head protruding from behind the fence watching us."

"What about you, Ken? Did you see anything?"

He shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said, "but I am not as eagle-eyed as you two. I saw nothing suspicious."

"But I saw him watching us several times," insisted Paul.

"I saw him only once," added Jack.

"Well, you two may be right and I wrong," commented the third companion.

"Who do you think it could be?" asked Jack. "And what do you think his purpose is?"

"How should I know?"

"Do you think it is that man I followed last night?"

Paul hesitated for a moment then shook his head. "No, and I will tell you why. The person you followed last night was tall and gaunt. This individual appeared to me to be about average height and robust. I could tell that from the shadow."

"Shall I turn around and see if we are being followed?" asked Ken.

"No, don't do that," warned Paul. "He might catch on that we know we are being followed. I have a better plan."

"What?"

"When we get to Main Street, you, Ken, will turn right, wave to us, make believe as though you are saying goodbye. Jack and I will turn left and pretend that we are going home. But instead of actually walking off, Ken, you will dash into a doorway and watch to see if anyone is following us."

"And if there is?" asked Ken.

"Then you will follow him, naturally," was Paul's answer.

"And if there is not?"

"Then you will take a roundabout route and meet us in my house in about half an hour."

"All right. I'll do that."

At Main Street, the group parted, one boy walking off in one direction, while the other two headed in the opposite direction. Ken, just as soon as he parted from his companions, walked to the second store from the corner, a haberdashery, and stared at the window display. Actually, however, his eyes were roaming elsewhere and he was carefully watching the corner. Some people came out of Water Street, but by the look on their faces, by their general appearance and by the fact that they seemed to know exactly which way their direction lay, Ken knew that it was not any one of them. Suddenly he caught his breath. A robust man of medium height emerged from the street and paused at the corner. He wore a light jacket and a Panama hat, the brim pulled down over his forehead.

After standing hesitantly on the corner, he turned left, seemingly bent on following Paul and Jack. Ken crossed the street and followed. The chase continued for several blocks, the man increasing his pace and Ken doing likewise. The two boys were just ahead, crossing Chestnut Street. As the man came to the corner, he turned. Ken stopped at a corner store and looked at the window display. He watched the man walk to the middle of the block and then turn into the yard of a private house. Ken scratched his head and wondered.

The two boys were awaiting him. As Ken came up the walk to the porch, Paul asked, "Well?"

Ken nodded meaningfully and the two boys were re-assured of their suspicions. Joining his companions, he muttered, "This man hunt is getting me. I'm afraid that before it is all over I am going to go crazy."

"Why? What's the matter?" inquired Jack.

"Do you know who was following us?" Ken put the question very gravely and looked from one boy to the other.

"Who?"

"Captain Bob."

The announcement came as a shock, almost overwhelming them. Each boy searched the face of the other for some meaning or understanding. But all of them were just as puzzled. Paul repeated the name, "Captain Bob! But why should he follow us?"

Ken shrugged his shoulders. "Are you sure it was he?" questioned Jack, his demeanor grave and serious.

"I am absolutely positive. After all, I know the man. It's true I didn't see his face -- "

Paul jumped. "You didn't see his face!" he exclaimed. "Then how do you know it was he? You might be mistaken."

Ken shrugged his shoulders. "Very possible," he said, "but I am pretty sure I am not mistaken. To begin with, I know the man and I can recognize him without seeing his face. And secondly, I watched him walk down Chestnut Street and enter a house at about the middle of the street. That is where he lives, isn't it?"

"Yes, but are you sure he walked into his own house -- that is, Captain Bob's house?" demanded Paul.

"Well, no, I didn't follow him all the way to his home; I watched from the corner. But just the same I am pretty sure that it was Captain Bob."

There was silence. The boys could not understand why the Captain should follow them. "Well, I'll be!" exclaimed Jack. "This thing is getting beyond me and I am losing my patience."

"Now don't get excited," cautioned Paul. "And keep quiet for a couple of minutes. I am trying to think of something."

"Think of what?" asked Ken.

"Of what he said to us when we were over to see him," was the answer.

"What about it?"

Paul leaned over toward his two companions. "Now look, fellows," he began. "There is one particular thing he told us that comes back to me now very distinctly. You remember how just as we were leaving, he said to us, 'Don't you go around talking about a pyromaniac; it may get you into trouble.' Remember him saying that?"

Jack nodded. "Yes, I remember."

"Same here," added Ken, "now that you call our attention to it. But what about it? He meant it for our own good."

"Of course," said Paul, "I am not doubting his sincerity. But, Captain Bob is much shrewder than we give him credit for, that's the point."

"How do you mean?" inquired Jack.

"We came over to talk over with him the fire, didn't we?" continued Paul. "Well, remember that he didn't seem to have a very definite opinion though he did feel that there was something odd about the cause or origin of the fire."

"Well, what's your point?" demanded Ken, his curiosity aroused.

"Only this," said Paul, "that since we told him of our own doubts about the fire and that since we told him we suspected a pyromaniac, he immediately came to the conclusion that we knew more than we were telling him. And in order to find out what we may know about the fire, he is following us."

"Sounds logical to me," muttered Jack.

Ken shook his head. "It may sound logical," he said, "but somehow I am not convinced. How should he know we were going out to Water Street this morning? And he would have to watch the house of any one of us three all morning to follow us. And why should he pick this morning to follow us?"

Paul smiled at his friend's naive questions. "To begin with," he said, "how do we know he has not been following us since that night we spoke to him? But I am under the impression that his following us is just an accident."

"An accident!" echoed Jack. "Explain yourself."

"I will if you don't interrupt. My impression is that he was coming to Water Street this morning also to search for some clues to the fire. But when he saw us there, he naturally watched us to see what we were up to and then followed us."

Ken shook his head in a gesture of disbelief. Jake, on the other hand mused quietly, trying to untangle the whole situation, but unable to find a starting point. Finally he asked, "Do you think he will continue to follow us, Paul?"

"Can't tell. He may and he may not."

After a short time of silence, Jack rose and suggested, "Well, let's go home for lunch."

"That's a bully idea," cried Ken. "I didn't realize how hungry I am."

"All right, I'll see you boys later," said Paul.

That evening, immediately after supper, Paul went across the street to call for Ken. As the two boys walked down the street, Paul whispered, "We are being followed."

Ken gasped. "Captain Bob!" he exclaimed in a hushed tone of voice.

"Don't know. But for the last half hour I noticed that someone was hovering about the house. And as we came out and walked away, I noticed a form slink out of the shadows and follow us."

"What do you think we ought to do?"

"I have an idea." And he whispered some instructions to his friend.

Ken nodded. "And then what?" he asked.

"Leave the rest to me."

When the two boys arrived in front of Jack's home, Paul spoke up rather loudly, "I guess I'll walk down the block and call Nuthin'. I'll be back in about five minutes."

"All right," answered Ken just as loudly. "Jack and I will wait for you."

Ken entered the yard while Paul walked off straight ahead. Turning in at the end of the street, he set off at a run around the block.

Returning to the same street at the other end, he hovered close to the wall of a building and looked everywhere to detect the hiding place of the spy. Suddenly he caught his breath. He detected a slight movement behind a fence at the other side of the street, several houses below. He crossed to the other side and walked ahead. Sure enough, a man stepped out and came toward him. As they met, Paul greeted, "Hello, Captain Bob."

The man grunted and was going to pass on, but Paul instantly got into his way. The man stopped, "Huh?" he muttered. "Did you speak to me?"

"I said hello, Captain Bob."

"Hello yourself. Now let me see, your face seems to be familiar, but I can't seem to remember your name."

"Paul Morrison."

"Oh, yes, yes. You are the boy who dashed into the burning house and -- "

Paul interrupted. "Yes, that's right; you know me." What a poor actor the man was, Paul thought. He certainly couldn't get away with pretending that he didn't know him. His heart pounded and perspiration gathered on his brow. He was debating with himself what his approach should be. Would it be best merely to imply that Captain Bob's spying was a known fact to them or should he put it frankly to the old man and see what he would say. Paul steeled himself. Very suddenly, trying to take the man off his guard, he said, "Captain Bob, I am very much surprised that you should be following us."

The old man straightened up. "What was that you said? Following you? What for? Why should I be following you, tell me that."

"That is something you should tell me," he replied respectfully. "But you spied on us this morning on Water Street and then followed us as far as Chestnut Street. And just now you were following us again."

It was really too dark to tell, but Paul felt that the old man had turned red and became confused. "My dear boy," he mumbled angrily, "You don't know what you are talking about."

"You shouldn't say that, Captain Bob. If I wasn't positive, I wouldn't accost you like this."

After a moment of tense silence, the captain laughed. "Well, my boy," he said, "you are right, but I promise not to do it any more."

"Thank you. But if you don't mind, I wish you would tell me why you are following us."

Captain Bob replied gravely, "You see, my boy, there have been too many fires in this town lately. And when you and your friends came and talked to me about the fire the other day, I became a little suspicious. I tried to, -- er, -- get as much information out of you as I could, but somehow I felt that you were not telling me everything. So I thought I would check up on you."

A feeling of relief swept over Paul. He wanted to jump into the air and shout for joy. Even though he was a modest boy, he had to pat himself on the back; thus far, all his suspicions and deductions had been correct. He would certainly make a good detective. The captain was waiting for him to say something and he commented, "But we really don't know any more than we told you, Captain Bob. If there is anything the boys and I can do to help you, such as help check up on your suspicions -- that is if you have any -- we would be glad to do so."

The old man chuckled. "You are a smart one, my boy. I know that you have something up your sleeve. But never mind."

Paul felt his face going red. He must not give anything away, he thought. Out loud, he said, "But really, Captain, we don't. We don't know as much as you do, if as much."

"Well, never mind. And, -- er, -- forget about my following you. I meant no harm."

"I'm sure of that," replied the boy. "And it is perfectly all right."

"Good night, my boy."

"Good night, Captain Bob."

Paul watched the man disappear around the corner. And just as he started to cross the street, two figures darted out toward him, "Well?" cried Ken.

Paul put a finger to his lips. "Sh!" he cautioned.

The boys retreated to Jack's garage where Paul told his companions the story. Just as soon as the narrative was completed, Ken cried, "The sly old fox! You know, I wouldn't be at all surprised if he continues to spy on us."

"That is just what I was going to say," agreed Paul. "He is a very shrewd man and I am positive that he suspects somehow."

"You don't mean to say that he suspects us of setting fire to that house?" inquired Jack seriously.

"No, not setting fire to the house," answered Paul smiling. "That is ridiculous and we must give him more credit than that. My impression is that he suspects us of knowing something about it which we are holding back from him. And that happens to be true."

"Providing, of course, that our suspicions are correct," argued Ken, still a bit doubtful.

"Well, of course, under those conditions."

"What do you think our next move should be?" questioned Jack.

"Let's go to the movies," suggested Ken.

"Oh, no!" exclaimed Jack.

"Why not?" reasoned Paul. "Captain Bob won't follow us tonight any more -- "

"Which makes it safe for us to go to the movies," joked Ken.

The boys laughed. "Seriously, though," said Paul, "there is nothing else for us to do tonight. That man was abroad last night, and it is reasonable to assume that he won't do any more prowling around tonight."

"I agree with that wholeheartedly," said Ken. "Let's go to the movies."




Chapter VII

The Robbery


The following morning, at the breakfast table, Paul happened to glance at the front page of the Stanhope Herald which Dr. Morrison was reading. At the bottom of the page, boxed off, was a story with the headline PROFESSOR LINK'S HOUSE ROBBED. Paul became quite upset and found it difficult to eat his cereal. However, he controlled himself and did not show any untoward interest in the newspaper. His father finished breakfast first, and he laid down the paper and left for his office. Paul gulped down his milk, picked up the paper and went out on the porch.

The story was that someone had broken into Professor Link's home and had stolen a valuable, early edition of "Colonial History." Nothing else was taken, except that the thief had strewn many of the books on the floor. The theory was that the thief had entered by an open window in the library.

Ken came dashing across the street and up to the porch. "Hey, Paul!" he cried, "did you read the story in the morning paper?" Paul held up the paper. "So you know already?"

Jack came. "Well, what do you think of the robbery?" he asked bluntly. "I had a feeling we should not have gone to the movies last night."

"What could we have done?" asked Ken.

"We might have come upon him and possibly frustrated his plan."

"So!" exclaimed Ken. "You think that 'he' did it? Pretty soon you will have every crime under the sun charged up against him."

"I don't think we could have done anything," commented Paul. "The paper says that the robbery occurred any time after about midnight, when the professor says he left his library to go to bed."

"But we might have come across him sometime before and followed him. Then we might about have judged what he was up to." Thus argued Jack.

"Maybe yes and maybe no," was Paul's pert statement.

"Paul," demanded Ken, "you don't mean to tell me that you really believe this man, this so-called maniac, committed the robbery, do you?"

"Yes, I do."

"Tell me, how do you figure it out?"

"It's very simple," was Paul's answer. "Only one book was stolen. Of course, the book was an old edition and valuable, but valuable only to a man like Professor Link. In actual money, the book is worth perhaps ten or fifteen dollars; but if the thief was going to sell it, he wouldn't get more than four or five dollars for it."

"Yes," added Jack, "there were more valuable things in the room, if the thief had been interested in stealing something valuable. That is in itself enough to show that the thief, whoever he was, was either a maniac or one who was interested in obtaining only that book and nothing else. But an ordinary, normal man, would not break into a house to steal something like that."

"Maybe," remarked Ken doubtfully, "but -- "

Paul interrupted, saying, "Let's go over to Bobolink and get him to go over to Professor Link. He is Bobolink's grandfather, isn't he?"

"Yes. Let's do that."

The boys wended their way to Bobolink's home and luckily found him still in. He was glad to see them, and commented, "I was just going to call you fellows."

"What for?"

"I thought that perhaps you might be interested in accompanying me to my grandfather's home."

"That's why we came for you," Jack informed him.

"Good. I'll be with you in a minute."

Professor Link who lived alone except for a woman who cooked and kept house for him, was a retired college professor and an authority in colonial history. He occupied a small, private house of his own and spent his time writing books on the history of the early pioneering days.

His three companions behind him, Bobolink rang the bell. The housekeeper opened the door. "Good morning, Mrs. Hix," greeted Bobolink. "Is my grandfather in?"

Mrs. Hix answered, "He is in the library."

The boys filed in and Bobolink knocked on the library door. "Come in," someone called.

The boys entered. Mr. Link was a gray haired man of about sixty with a warm smile, who was very friendly to young people. "Hello, Gramps," greeted Bobolink.

"Hello, fellows," returned the professor. "What are you doing here?" he asked curiously.

"Just thought we would pay you a visit," his grandson informed him.

"That's very nice of you, but I wonder what is behind it. Sit down, boys."

The walls of the room were lined with books. And it appeared that the mess that the thief had caused was all cleaned up. "What about that robbery, Gramps?" asked Bobolink.

Paul was walking around the room, pretending to be looking at the books. Actually he was searching for something. He paused to hear the professor's answer to the question. "Not much harm done."

"Was it a valuable book?" asked Jack.

"Not so particularly valuable; a book on colonial history."

"Isn't it rather odd that the thief should take that particular book and nothing else?" asked Paul casually.

Professor Link pursed his lips. "Rather," he answered. "If he had been out to steal, he could have found more valuable things to take. He might even have found some money in the drawer of my desk, if he had looked."

"But nothing else was touched?" Paul asked the question and was anxious to hear the answer. "No. Nothing else seems to have been taken." Bobolink and Ken discussed with the professor the state university to which they were going, entering as freshmen in September. Paul walked around the back of the desk. He glanced down into the waste-paper basket. His heart almost stopped still. He picked something out of the basket and said to the professor, "Do you mind if I use this to copy down the name of a book?" Professor Link looked at the card. "Not at all. Where did you get it?"

"In the waste basket." Paul turned the card to show that it was blank on both sides.

The boys stared at Paul and at the white card. "Here is some clean paper," the professor said, and pushed forward a white pad. "And here is a pencil," he added.

"This is perfectly all right," asserted Paul. Picking up the pencil, he pretended that he was copying down the title of a book.

The boys were eager to get out, yet they could not very well show haste without making the professor suspicious. So they lingered for an additional twenty minutes, discussing colleges and college life. At last they escaped. As soon as they were outside the door, Bobolink opened his mouth to ask a question. But Paul cautioned him. "Sh! Let's wait until we are further away from the house."

Some distance away, Bobolink finally asked his question. "What was that card you picked out of the basket?"

Paul took it out of his pocket and showed it to them -- a white card, blank on both sides, and three by two inches. "You have your card, Jack?" asked Paul. "Mine is home."

"Yes, here it is." And he produced it.

The cards were compared; they were identical. "Well, now what do you think of that!" exclaimed Bobolink.

"In every case," whispered Paul seriously, "the same person. This is becoming terrible."

"Yes," agreed Ken. "I'm coming to look at it from your point of view. And from now on we have to take it more seriously and do something."

"What can we do?" asked Bobolink.

"You know what?" remarked Paul. "If I didn't think we would be laughed at, I would tell the police."

"Aw, go on," said Ken. "If all the evidence you have is the white card and the fact that Jack followed a suspicious looking person, they would think that you were either crazy or trying to put something over."

"That's the trouble," asserted Paul. "In that case it is up to us to solve the mystery and put an end to it."

"Well said," commented Bobolink, "but how are we going to do it?"




Chapter VIII

Encounter


The boys did not know what to do nor how to do it. But they were determined to put an end to the mystery. And shortly, too. If the man was permitted to roam the streets of the town freely, God knows what damage he might eventually do and what crimes he might have up his sleeve. He might lead away another child, he might commit more robberies, he might put the torch to a house full of sleeping persons, he might do anything. He had to be caught; upon that the boys were firmly convinced.

That evening, Jack came to Paul and said, "Listen, I'm going to tell my mother that I am having supper at your house tonight. But instead, I am going down to Jones Street and nose around a bit."

"That's a good idea. But suppose I go with you."

"No, I would rather go down alone. It is too difficult for two people to be hiding together, darting in and out, and all that."

"You are right, Jack. Be careful, though. Don't get into any trouble. I feel guilty letting you go alone."

"Oh, don't talk like an old woman." The boys laughed at that. "I can take care of myself. I have done it before."

"Very well, go ahead. But I want you to come back and tell what happens."

"All right. But if nothing happens, I won't come. I will go home instead."

Thus it was agreed and the two boys parted. Half an hour later, Jack was at the corner of Main and Jones Streets. It was still daylight and Jack had the opportunity to look the neighborhood over. It was a poor and deserted neighborhood, not far from the edge of the town. The first building on the corner was an old wooden house. At the street level was a grocery store, and the floor above looked as though it were occupied by a family.

Alongside this building was an empty lot, as was true of the opposite corner. Further on, intermittently on both sides of the street were one or two family wooden homes. Jack walked up and down the block twice. There were some women on several of the porches and a number of children played on the empty lots. He decided to take up a position at the corner of Jones and Main Streets, but it was still light and he didn't want to arouse any suspicion. So it became a problem as to how to spend the hours until dark.

First he walked up and down the block several times, then went around the block twice until he was afraid that people in the neighborhood might become suspicious of him. Then he walked up Main Street and back again. It seemed to him that the day would never end. He crossed the street to the empty lot and walked to the farthest corner of it. Picking out a comfortable place to sit down, where he would not be noticed, he tried to watch the corner so as to see everyone who passed.

The minutes dragged on endlessly. What is the matter, Jack asked himself. Time usually passes so quickly; before you turn around the day is gone. And now -- He shifted in his seat and found the ground hard to sit on. Staring vaguely at the house on the corner, at the few people that passed up and down, many thoughts came to his mind. The uppermost thought in his mind was, what might be wrong with this man, the maniac? It was something he wished he knew, as he had always been interested in trying to figure out what made people do the things they did.

But that thought soon slipped his mind and was replaced by another one -- that of going to college. Another three weeks and the summer vacation would be over and Ken, Bobolink, Paul and he would be on their way to the state university. What was college life like, he wondered. There were sports, of course. Ken would make a swell swimmer and Paul would most likely join the football squad. As for himself, he would try basketball. Then there were the fraternities. He had heard a lot about Greek letter clubs. But he was not going to bother much with any outside activities; he was going to study to be a doctor. So was Paul. And it took a lot of study to become a doctor.

He was staring rather aimlessly. His dreaming helped to pass the time away. It was already almost dusk. Suddenly he was electrified. He jumped to his feet and then he dropped to the ground again. A tall individual had just then emerged from the door of the corner house. Bending low, he ran to the corner and caught sight of the retreating back of his man. A cold chill ran down his spine. He was certain of his man. There was the same height, the same baggy clothes and that wild appearance. The man kept shifting his head in all directions; his eyes seemed to be everywhere, staring at people, at houses, at everything.

Jack followed closely. It was still not quite dark and he hoped he would not be stopped by anyone. He was rather glad when the man turned into York Street. It was a quiet, residential street and instantly Jack feared what the man might be up to. Was he bent on starting a fire in one of the fine houses on the street? But his fears were in vain because the man kept on walking, almost reaching the tracks. Repeating his gestures of the day before, the man suddenly stopped and very slowly turned around on his heel. Jack had just enough time to dash behind a fence. The man entered the yard and then walked behind the house. Jack ran up and hid himself behind a tree almost directly across from the house. Looking closely, he noticed that the house appeared to be unoccupied. There were no lights in the windows and there was nothing to indicate that anyone lived there. The man reappeared and entered the house by the front door. He just walked in without using any key, or breaking in the lock. There was something suspicious about the house. If it were unoccupied, it should be locked. If a family did live there, there would be some light in the windows; and probably the maniac would not enter so assured of his safety.

It seemed to Jack that the man was in the house a long time. He decided on a dangerous tactic. Quickly, noiselessly, he sprinted across the street, jumped the fence and ran to the side of the house. Cautiously, he moved to see if there was a back door; he found it on the other side of the house. Putting his hand on the knob, he turned it and pushed, but the door wouldn't open; it was locked. He moved toward the front again, to watch for the exit of his man. Every second was an eternity. His heart pounded wildly and if he had not controlled himself, he would have trembled, not so much from fear as from anxiety and excitement.

He flattened himself out against the wall and remained stationary, not daring to make a noise. Suddenly he felt long, bony fingers grab him by the shoulder and wheel him around. His blood went cold and he could almost feel his hair standing on end. "So!" the man grunted under his breath. "What are you doing, following me, eh?" Jack cowered before the great height towering over him. He saw that the man had a rising forehead, bushy eyebrows and deep eye sockets. What impressed him most, however, were the man's sunken cheeks and his wild eyes, which were dark and brilliant.

For almost a minute, Jack was paralyzed and couldn't talk. Eventually he muttered, "No -- no -- I -- I'm not following you."

"Yes, you are," accused the man. "You have been following me for two weeks now and I want you to stop it."

Jack heaved a sigh of relief. The man was crazy. But was he dangerous, he wondered. Would he attack him. He was on guard against an attack. "Why, no, Mister, I'm not following you. Why should I? I don't even know you."

"You lie!" screamed the other. "You lie! You do know me and I know you."

Jack thought he had better be quiet and polite with his assailant. A good, sound argument might get him out of his predicament, he thought. "I am sorry, Mister," he said, "but I repeat that I don't know you. If you know me, as you say you do, then what is my name."

Still holding on to Jack's shoulder, the man scratched his chin. "Now let me see," he mumbled to himself. "What is your name?" He mused, then he snapped his fingers and announced, "I know. It's Jack."

The boy gasped. How could that man know him, know his name. What was he to do? He wished he had never known about this thing, had never followed this man and had never got into this situation. Controlling himself, he asked, "What is my family name?"

"Barrows!" the man snapped back. "Barrows, that's it."

"You are wrong," contradicted Jack. "My name is Ed Smith."

"No," insisted the man, "you are Jack Barrows. And I demand to know why you are following me."

"But I am not following you. You are mistaken."

"Then what are you doing here?" The man's voice now boomed. "Tell me that!"

"I used to live in this house," fabricated unhappy Jack. "I once used to live here," he repeated, "and I was just looking around."

"So you used to live here!"

The man lifted his free arm and swung. Jack ducked. The arm crashed against the wall, the man screamed with pain and Jack wrenched himself free. The man lunged for him. Jack side-stepped and stuck his foot out; his victim tripped and stretched himself out on the ground. Without waiting or looking back, Jack was off. He jumped the fence and dashed down the street. Rounding the corner, he stopped to consider why he was running. He stood nonchalantly and waited for his man to appear. But the mysterious individual was not forthcoming. He waited five more minutes and still he did not appear.

He came around the corner again and crossed to the other side of the street. Walking slowly and cautiously, he came to the tree opposite the house. Taking shelter, Jack looked across. A wave of pity swept through him at the scene he saw. On the very same spot, almost where he fell, the man was now sitting up and his shoulders were trembling. From all appearances, the man was sobbing bitterly, as though his heart were breaking.

Who is this man, Jack asked himself. And what is the matter with him? What had ever happened to him to cause him to become what he was. Jack asked himself all those questions but had no answers. He determined to find out. He must find out, he thought to himself.

Jack looked at his watch and saw that it was almost nine o'clock. He realized that he was terribly hungry. He decided not to wait around any more but to go home. On the way he remembered that he had promised Paul that he would come over and tell him if anything had happened. But he did not feel like it at the moment and he went straight home and called Paul on the telephone.




Chapter IX

Who Is Mr. Grey?


Paul and Ken were listening attentively to Jack's story of what had happened the night before. Paul commented, "It's really a pity. What we have to do is to catch him in the act as soon as possible and have him arrested. Then something might be done for him."

"What could be done for him?" asked Ken.

"Oh, I don't know. Most likely he would be put into an asylum. That would be best, too, I guess."

Jack showed his companions the house to which he followed his man the night before. There was nothing much to see there. The place was empty and unoccupied. But strangely, the front door was open. They entered and searched about. All the rooms were empty and dusty. In the hall again Paul noticed some scraps of paper in one corner. He looked at them but thought nothing suspicious of it. He sniffed the air and then shook his head.

Outside again, they walked calmly off. "No clues here, it seems," muttered Ken.

"No," asserted Paul. And again he thought of the scraps of paper but the next moment dismissed them from his mind. "What seems to bother me most," he added, "is how he came to suspect that he was being followed?"

"I don't think he really suspected," said Jack. "My opinion is that he came upon me by accident."

"A very unhappy accident," commented Ken.

"Yes, rather."

"I should think so," remarked Paul. He shook his head doubtfully. "Yet somehow I can't quite believe it. Of course, you're most likely right, but -- "

He broke off his sentence in the middle, not quite decided upon his opinion. Jack thought out loud. "I wonder who this man is and what is wrong with him?"

"You say there is a grocery store at the corner house, is that right?" The boys stopped and Jack nodded. "Then," continued Ken, "let's go down there and inquire in a roundabout way in the store. They might know him."

"That's a swell idea," cried Paul.

"Yes, I think so too," added Jack. "Let's do it."

They walked down to Jones Street. A very short distance before they arrived at their destination, they stopped to decide upon their plan of action. "Exactly how are we going to do it?" asked Jack.

"One of us will have to go inside and make a purchase, then ask about a tall dark-complexioned man."

"I guess one of you two better go in. They may have noticed me around here and they might get suspicious."

"I will go in," offered Ken. "But what am I to say?"

"Just ask if they know a tall, dark man living somewhere in the neighborhood," instructed Paul.

"But if they ask me what I want him for, what am I to say?"

"Make up some kind of story, anything. Say that you were told that he was a plumber, or something like that, and that you want him to do a job."

"All right, I'll go in. Where are you fellows going to be?"

"We will be right here. And when you come out, just keep walking straight ahead as if you don't know us."

"Okey, here goes."

Ken walked off and came to the store. He hesitated, looked around, pretending that he was not certain it was the right place. He entered. He noticed that a middle-aged woman was alone in the store. She came out from behind the counter and asked, "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Er -- excuse me," he said, "but I am looking for a tall, dark man. I was told that he lives in this neighborhood somewhere."

"I know a tall, dark man," she answered, speaking softly. "What is it you want him for, may I ask?"

"I was told he was a carpenter and looking for work and -- "

"It couldn't be Mr. Grey. He is not a carpenter. You couldn't mean him."

"No, I guess not. Thank you."

"It's quite all right."

Ken left the store much excited. He walked briskly till he came upon the boys. They fell in alongside of him. "Well?" asked Paul.

"His name is Mr. Grey," gasped Ken.

"What else?"

"That's all. The woman did not tell me any more."

"But the name alone is not enough," cried Jack. "What does he do? Where does he live?"

"I couldn't ask her such questions," Ken defended himself. "She would become suspicious and tell me nothing."

"Let's not argue," cautioned Paul. "At least we have his name, that's something. Did the woman in the store seem to know him?"

"Yes. I should imagine from the way she spoke that she knew him well."

"She didn't mention anything, else?" asked Jack.

"No."

The boys walked silently along for some while. Paul snapped his fingers. "You know what?" he cried. "Let's look him up in the town directory."

"Where will we get one?" inquired Ken.

"I have one home," said Paul.

The boys hurried to the Morrison home and Paul brought out the town directory. It didn't help them any. There were three Greys. One was a pharmacist, the second was a butcher and the third a lawyer. They put the book down and Jack muttered, "That's not much of a help."

"No. It's very possible that he has only recently moved into town," commented Paul.

"Now that is an idea," remarked Ken. "The reason he is so little known must be because he is a newcomer around here."

"But how does that help us any?" asked Jack.

"Well, it's good to keep it in mind," asserted Ken.

"What do you say we go down to that neighborhood again?" asked Jack, "and just look around. Perhaps we can find some person who knows something."

"It's all right with me," was Paul's comment.

The three boys shuffled off the porch and walked down Main Street again. At Jones Street, they could find no other stores in the immediate neighborhood where they might enter and obtain some information. They walked back and forth several times, but their searches were futile. One of them suggested that they quit and go home and the others assented. Passing on the other side of the street, the three of them kept their eyes on the store. A woman emerged. Ken grasped Paul by the arm. "Look," he said, "there's the woman leaving the store."

"Well, what about her?"

"Don't you understand?" demanded Ken. "She is the woman I spoke to when I entered the store."

"That's right," cried Jack. "If she is leaving, someone else must be in the store. I am going in. Perhaps I can obtain some information."

Paul held on to his chum who was on the point of walking off. "No," he said. "I'm going in. You may have been noticed around here before and it would look suspicious. Both of you just keep walking back and forth and don't attract attention. I am going in."

Jack and Ken continued walking along Main Street while Paul crossed over to the store and entered. A customer was at the counter and Paul pretended to be looking around. The customer left and the man, evidently the proprietor, remained behind the counter, waiting for Paul to give his order. "Is there anything I can do for you?" he asked.

Paul picked up a small box of chocolate crackers and deposited a nickel on the counter. The man picked up the coin and rang it up on the register. "Excuse me, Mister, but it seems that a certain Mr. Grey lives in this neighborhood and...."

Paul did not finish his sentence. He scrutinized the man's features and concluded that the proprietor of the grocery was a shrewd, hard, and unsympathetic individual. He must be careful of every word, he told himself. The man drawled, "Now let me think." He scratched his chin and pretended that he was trying to remember an individual by the name of Mr. Grey. "What is it you want of him?" he asked.

"Well, you see," Paul began, "my mother heard that he was a carpenter and she wants some work done." That was bad, he thought to himself. It was the same story that Ken had used and if his wife told him that some boy was in looking for a carpenter, the man was sure to become suspicious. But he was obliged now to stick to his story. He continued, "So she sent me around here to try and find him."

"Where do you live?" the grocery man asked him.

"Around the corner. The next street."

"I don't remember ever seeing you around in the neighborhood."

Paul realized that he was in a predicament and he had to get himself out of it. "We just moved in, two weeks ago," he answered.

The man scratched his chin again. "Isn't that strange?" he muttered. "I haven't heard of anyone moving in or out of the neighborhood within the past two weeks." He paused and eyed Paul who felt his face going red. "Well, at any rate, I am sorry but I don't know any Mr. Grey around here."

Paul moved away from the counter. "Thank you," he said.

"It's quite all right. Tell your mother to come in here sometime and do her shopping. I like to know the people in the neighborhood."

"I will."

Paul was glad to escape from the store. He had never before realized how difficult it is to obtain information from people. Joining his companions, he laughed good naturedly. "What's the joke?" asked Jack.

"The old so and so!" he exclaimed. "He got more out of me than I got out of him."

"You mean you didn't find out anything?" Jack was serious and anxious.

Paul shook his head. "Not a thing. The old man beat around the bush and finally confessed that he didn't know anyone by the name of Mr. Grey."

"And you fellows accused me of not obtaining enough information," Ken joked. "At least I found out what his name is."

The boys were discouraged. "Now what?" asked Jack in a tone of hopelessness.

His companions did not know what to do next and rather than talk about it, they walked along silently. They came to the street on which Jack lived and he said he was going home. Ken said, "No, don't do that. It's early yet."

"Oh, I thought I would go home and putter around with my dad's car; it needs some work done on it."

"I'll tell you what," commented Ken. "Let's go over and speak to your father, Paul. He is a doctor and knows a lot of people in town. Perhaps he might tell us something."

Paul shrugged his shoulders. "Yes, we can do that. But I don't think he has many patients in this neighborhood."

"And if he doesn't know," continued Ken, "we might go over and see Chief of Police Bates. He knows me and I am sure we could get to see him."

Paul shook his head. "I don't think we ought to see Chief Bates. He might ask us a lot of questions, worm the story out of us and then laugh at us or call us crazy kids."

"We might at least try your father," insisted Ken.

"All right. We will do that."

But Dr. Morrison did not know either. He mentioned John Grey, the pharmacist, Walter Grey the butcher and W. J. Grey the lawyer. Those were all the Greys he knew. But the boys knew that themselves. They were stumped.




Chapter X

Stumped!


It was shortly after lunch time and Paul was doing an errand for his father. Walking down Main Street, he stopped at a stationery store to look at the window display. His attention was attracted by someone coming out of the store. He caught his breath. The man was tall, gaunt, with ill fitting clothes hanging like sacks on him. "Mr. Grey!" he thought to himself.

Not hesitating, Paul followed. He wanted to get a good look at the man's face, but how was he going to do that? He thought fast. Increasing his pace, he walked past the man. At the corner, he pretended that he was lost and was looking for something. He waited for Mr. Grey to come up. Approaching the man, he said, "Excuse me, sir. But can you tell me where McDougal Street is? You see, I am a stranger in this town."

Paul looked up at the great height towering over him. He was very much excited and kept shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Mr. Grey answered softly, "I'm sorry, son, but I really don't know."

Paul pretended that he was disappointed. The man's sunken cheeks, long nose and deep sockets, were imprinted in his mind. But it was Mr. Grey's eyes that bore into him. Those eyes! he thought to himself, he would never forget them. They were dark, brilliant, wild. He became conscious that he was staring very awkwardly at the man and that Mr. Grey was waiting for him to say something. He said, "You see -- er -- I am looking for Grey's Pharmacy."

The man repeated to himself, "Grey's Pharmacy! I am sorry, but I don't think I know where it is."

On the spur of the moment, Paul said, "And then I have to go down also to John and Main Streets. Can you tell me where that is?"

Paul thought that the man would show some sign of interest at the mention of the words Grey and John Street. But he was disappointed. Mr. Grey was quite calm and not at all disturbed by those words. He answered softly, "Yes, I can tell you where John Street is. You walk straight down Main Street; you can't miss it. It is quite a walk though; almost a mile." He hesitated for a second and looked down the street. "There is the car coming," he continued. "You can take it and get off at John Street."

"Thank you," murmured Paul and stepped aside to let the man pass on. He watched Mr. Grey, walk away. Remembering that he still had the errand to do for his father, he was undecided whether to follow or not. Shaking his head, he turned and walked off.

Completing the errand for his father, he ran off to the stationery store. He entered. A young man behind the counter asked, "What can I do for you?"

Paul showed him a blank, white card. "Have you got any cards like that?" he asked.

The young man behind the counter took the card, fingered it and answered, "Yes, we have them. How many do you want?"

"I need ten," said Paul.

The young man stopped as he was pulling out a box from one of the shelves, and replied, "I'm sorry. The cards are twenty-five cents a hundred and we don't sell less than a package of a hundred."

"Never mind, then," announced Paul and walked out of the store.

Paul felt cheerful; he seethed with excitement. Now he was getting somewhere, he thought. Upon reflection he realized that he was nowhere nearer to a solution of the mystery than he was before. Yet he could not dispel his feeling of excitement.

He felt someone touch him on the arm and Paul turned around. "Hello, Captain Bob," he called.

"Hello, yourself, my boy," was the reply. "What are you doing just now?"

"Nothing much. I am at your disposal, if you want me to do something for you," he offered.

"No, I don't want you to do anything for me," and the captain shook his head. "I merely want to have a few words with you."

"That's all right with me. What is it you want?"

"Let's first move away from the main thoroughfare," remarked Captain Bob, smiling. "We may get knocked over by all these people rushing past us."

They walked away a short distance into Cherry Street. Paul was curious to know what the captain had to say to him. He was on his guard, though. The old man was clever and shrewd and if he thought he was going to obtain information from him, he was mistaken. Paul steeled himself and asked, "Is this all right? I guess we can talk here without being disturbed."

Captain Bob nodded. "Yes, I think so, too," he answered. "What I want to ask you, my boy, is how are you getting along with solving that mystery of yours?"

Paul gasped. He didn't think the man would put it up to him so bluntly. "What mystery?" he asked, trying to make his voice sound as though he were surprised at the question.

"Now, now," commented the old man. "Never mind beating around the bush. Let's be honest with each other. I suppose you know that I am also interested in finding the culprit who is responsible for starting that fire?"

"That is news to me," replied Paul. "I didn't think you had any suspicions about the cause of the fire."

"Well, you know I did. And what's more, I also know that you and your friends are doing a lot of detective work. I just want to know how you are getting along and whether you have come upon any substantial clues."

Paul smiled, feeling slightly guilty. "As a matter of fact," he answered, "we have not been doing much lately at all. And ..." he paused to suspend the effect of the remark. "And we don't know any more now than we did when we spoke to you about it."

"Tsk, tsk." Captain Bob appeared angry. "I guess we will just have to wait and see what happens."

"If there is anything my friends and I can do," began Paul.

The captain cut him short. "Never mind," he said, "never mind. Goodbye."

Captain Bob walked off. Paul smiled to himself and went home. All afternoon he brooded over his problem. The mystery continued to be a mystery to him. He wondered what Captain Bob was up to, whether he was still following him and his friends and also whether the old man was conducting an investigation of his own. His father came up the steps of the porch. "What are you brooding about, son?" he asked.

"Oh, nothing much," was the answer. "Just thinking."

Dr. Morrison looked askance at his son. "Well," he commented, "let's hope you are really thinking and not pretending you are thinking."

"W-w-what was that you said?" gasped Paul.

But Dr. Morrison laughed softly and walked into the house. Paul got out of his seat and walked off. Jack was busy tinkering with his father's car. He looked up and called out, "Hello, Paul. Anything new?"

Paul sat down on the box of tools. "A little," he answered nonchalantly.

Jack wiped his greasy hands. "What do you mean."

"I saw Mr. Grey." Jack opened his eyes wide and stared at his friend. "And I spoke to him, too," he added.

Jack sat down on the running board. "Well, go on, tell me. What happened?" he asked anxiously.

Paul related the events. Jack listened attentively. Finally he muttered, "So! Does all that help any?"

Paul shrugged his shoulders. "Very little. But at least I now have a good idea of the sort of person he is." A pause. "Captain Bob spoke to me," he announced.

"What does he want? How did you see him?"

"He stopped me in the street. He wants to know what we are doing and how we are getting along."

"A shrewd, clever fellow, that Captain Bob," was Jack's appraisal. "He is aware that we know something which we won't tell him and he is trying to get it out of us."

"I was wondering," remarked Paul, "whether it wouldn't be better to tell him and see what happens."

"What good will that do?"

"None that I can see, but ..."

"But what?"

"Nothing. Let's forget that angle of it and think what to do?"

"I know what I am going to do," announced Jack.

"What?"

"The same as I did last night. I am going to follow Mr. Grey." He eyed his companion. "And you?" he asked.

"I haven't decided yet. Guess I'll go home now."




Chapter XI

A Hunch


Paul, however, did not go home. On the way he changed his mind and went to the library instead. He went to the back of the room and pored over the newspaper files of the past few months. About an hour later he left the library. He had a hunch which gave him a new track to work on. He had a slip of paper in his hand and he looked on the writing on it several times until he memorized it. Then he tore the slip of paper into minute scraps and disposed of it.

Immediately after supper, he went out of the house and walked off. He had a definite destination in mind. At Corral Street, which was two blocks from Water Street, he set about looking for a particular number. That led him about half a mile away from the place of the former fire, which coincided with his hunch. He came upon the number he was looking for. The house was a two story dwelling, set away from the sidewalk. At the gate was a sign:

Jones & Jones Realtors House For Rent

Paul walked around the block and looked over the neighborhood. It was a similarly poor section of the town. Coming back to the empty house, he sneaked into the yard and walked to the rear of the house. Unable to find a good location from which he could watch anyone approaching or entering the house, he retreated a short distance and took up a position behind the gate and sheltered by some shrubbery. From his vantage point, he could not only see anyone approaching the house, but also keep a sharp watch at those passing along the street.

It was already dusk. Paul settled himself, getting as comfortable as possible. There was nothing else to do but wait and see. Perhaps his hunch was a good one, and on the other hand, perhaps a very poor one, he thought to himself. At any rate, he had nothing to lose by going through with it.

Time dragged on. He watched the sky become grayer and darker. The moon rose and the first star came out. Night came on gradually. In spite of himself, he began to fidget and become impatient. Was something going to happen or wasn't it? He went over in his mind the hunch that he had and tried to figure out how reasonable it was. At least to himself it appeared reasonable. He wondered, however, what Jack or Ken might think of it. It was no use doing that, he told himself, because he had not spoken to them about it. The next moment he was sorry he hadn't done it. Two heads, three heads are always better than one and they might have seen things about this which had not occurred to him. He felt his eyelids become heavy and tired and he closed his eyes for a second. Only a second. He had to keep watch, he told himself. But even though he fought against it, he did fall sound asleep as he waited. He dreamed a hodge podge in which Mr. Grey, Captain Bob, Ken and Jack were all setting fire to a house, laughing gleefully. When he awoke he felt ashamed of himself for not keeping the watch.

He took up his position again and resumed his watching. How could he fall asleep like that, he asked himself. And he flushed with embarrassment to have committed such an act. For all he knew, somebody may have been here and was gone again. He looked at his watch. Nine o'clock. He had been sleeping for almost an hour. He held his breath and listened. Nothing. For about five minutes he watched the house and the street. Except for an occasional bypasser, nothing happened. He crept out of his hiding and looked all around the house. Nothing seemed to have happened, nobody seemed to have been there. Calling himself a fool, he decided to give up his watch and to go off.

He walked along and meditated upon his foolish hunch. Is it a foolish one, though, he asked himself. If nothing happened tonight, does that mean that there is no basis for my suspicion? Is it not possible that something may happen tomorrow night, or the night after? He stopped in his tracks and thought, suppose something should happen there now, just after I left? For a second he felt that he should turn around and take up his vigil again. He took several steps ahead but then turned around and walked back.

He came to the house. From across the street, he let his eyes roam about the place to see if anything might have happened. Nothing stirred. All seemed to be still and quiet. He went around the block, skipped across a fence and came up from the back of the house. Moving along noiselessly, he crept along the yard. He had made up his mind to go once again all around the house and investigate. Suddenly he caught his breath and flattened himself on the ground, midst the wild tall grasses. He saw a shadow coming around the corner of the house. The man, for such it was wore dark clothes and a slouch hat pulled down over the forehead. Like a shadow, the man moved along the wall. Every few seconds he stopped and looked and listened. There was something familiar about that man, Paul thought. He held his breath and watched, his eyes glued to the moving figure. The next instant he smiled to himself.

The man came to the front of the house, quickly ran across and disappeared behind the wall. Paul got off the ground and sprinted forward. Ducking around the corner of the house, he saw the back of the man, who seemed to be hesitating, undecided as to his next course of action. Paul moved forward on tiptoes. Coming up from behind, he touched the man, who jumped as though touched by an electric spark, "It's only I, Captain Bob."

He smiled. The old man stared into his face and for several seconds was speechless. "You -- you certainly gave me a scare, boy," he muttered.

"I'm sorry," apologized Paul, "but I thought it was so funny to find you groping around here that -- "

Captain Bob grabbed him by the arm and pulled him around to the back of the house. Shaking a finger under the boy's nose, he muttered, "You! You young upstart! Scaring me like that and thinking it's funny." His severity melted and he smiled. "I should imagine it would be funny," he said, "but what brings you here, my boy?"

Paul smiled. He had not yet gotten over the humor of the situation. "I imagine that we both came here on the same hunch," he informed the captain.

"How do you know that my hunch is the same as yours? Tell me that."

"Suppose you tell me your hunch and I'll tell you mine, Captain Bob," he said. "And I'll wager they are both the same."

"I asked you first," replied the old man. "If it is the same, I won't hesitate to say so."

"Well," began Paul, "I happened to be looking through the newspaper files of the last two months and I noticed that three out of the last four fires occurred at houses belonging to the Jones and Jones realty company. The papers also mentioned several addresses of other houses of theirs, and I picked this one to look things over."

"But why should there be anything suspicious about that?" asked the shrewd old man.

"I thought that possibly somebody had a grudge against the realty company or against one of the Joneses. So I thought I might as well do a little investigation."

Captain Bob wobbled his head. "You young pups!" he muttered. "There is no getting away from you. Did I hear you say that you want to be a doctor?"

"Yes. I am going away to college in September. Jack and I, both of us are going to study to be doctors."

"Well, I don't know about your friend Jack, but I think you ought to study to be a detective."

"Then I guessed?" cried Paul.

"You certainly did," was the answer. "And let's walk away before someone sees us. You go first and wait for me at the end of the street."

Paul obeyed. He sprinted across the yard and over the fence and walked away. Two minutes later, Captain Bob joined him and he related to the old man his experience of that night and how he had already walked off and then returned. "I thought for a while that the hunch was a very poor one," he concluded.

"No," answered the captain. "On the contrary, it was a most logical one. Have you done any more investigations along this line?"

Paul became wary. He realized that again Captain Bob was trying to elicit information from him. He shook his head. "Not much," was his answer.

"Well, just keep it up. Perhaps if we continue we may yet catch the culprit."

"I hope so," remarked Paul.

Soon after they separated, Captain Bob saying that he was going home and Paul seriously intended to do the same. In front of his own home, he paused and leaned against the gate. Ken crossed the street and came up to him. "Say, where have you been all evening?" inquired the latter.

"Oh, just following up a hunch of mine."

"What sort of hunch?"

"Tell you about it later. Did you see Jack?"

"No and he isn't home either because I went over to call him."

Paul leaned against the fence and mused. The wind pushed a piece of paper against his leg. Bending down to pull it away, he suddenly remembered something. "Come on," he said to his friend.

"Where to?" asked Ken.

"To that house which Jack showed us this morning."

"What for? It is kind of late, too. Almost ten o'clock."

"We will be back shortly. Come on."




Chapter XII

A Bump On The Head


That same night Jack was impatient to be through with supper, and immediately after, he left his house and hiked down to Jones Street. He didn't know exactly what to expect, nor was he sure that anything at all was going to happen. He thought that it would be best to stick around and if Mr. Grey came out of his hiding, to follow him. It was now four days after the fire on Water Street and something was bound to happen in the immediate future. But what, or how, or when, was still a mystery to him.

Jack took along with him a brown sweater. He thought that if there was any need for it, he would put it on, and thus be able to change his appearance, if only slightly. He had the sweater wrapped up in a package under his arm. That too would make a slight difference in his appearance -- first carrying a package and later being without one.

He took the same position as the day before and he did not have to wait long for darkness to come. It was already dusk when he came to Jones Street. Just as soon as it was dark enough, he changed his place by coming forward and hiding behind the chassis of a wrecked car. That secured for him a better view of the street as well as the corner.

Watchful waiting -- that was his task. But how long? Wasn't Mr. Grey ever coming out? Was he to be disappointed tonight? He glanced at his watch; it was five minutes after nine. He saw the stars come out one by one in the sky and the moon come up on the horizon. In the street and around the corner there seemed to be very little activity. People passed up and down but he was not interested in them. Soon he saw the grocery man emerge and lock up his store.

Jack waited and watched, counting each minute. Time hung heavy on his hands. He began to wish, as he had the day before that he had never bothered with it at all, but the next instant he thought differently. He was in it and he meant to stick it through; he would not give it up just because he was impatient. It was quite possible, he thought to himself that Mr. Grey would not attempt one of his usual jaunts through the town. After all, one could not expect things to happen every night. It was quite possible that Mr. Grey had become suspicious, that he had actually become aware that he was being followed. Anything was possible, he thought to himself.

Ten minutes passed, fifteen minutes, twenty minutes -- and still nothing happened. Gradually, Jack became convinced that Mr. Grey was not coming out tonight. Suddenly it occurred to him that perhaps he had come too late. He remembered that the day before Mr. Grey had ventured forth at about six-thirty. And tonight he had not arrived there until about seven-thirty. He nodded to himself and thought that no doubt he had come too late. But what to do now and where to look first? He certainly could not just walk around town and look for his man; that would probably be futile. He debated with himself whether to go to Water Street, to the site of the last fire or to go to the house where he had followed Mr. Grey the night before. He decided on the latter course and off he went.

Peace and darkness shrouded the house. Jack walked up and down several times on the wrong side of the street. Then, growing bold he dashed across the street and into the yard. Not thinking it wise to approach the house, he crept noiselessly along the fence and all around the yard. There seemed to be not a soul around; except for the wind, nothing else seemed to stir. He approached the wall of the house and tried to peek into a window. But it was dark and, naturally, he saw nothing.

Cautiously, Jack approached the front of the house. Suddenly he stopped and held his breath. He heard a slight rumbling noise. He listened closely. Again the same noise. "Mice or rats," he told himself. He moved forward again then, flattening himself out against the wall, he waited. A woman passed down the street. He took out his searchlight which he was now glad he had brought, and moved forward again to the front of the house. Putting his hand on the knob, he turned it and the door opened slightly. Wondering how it was that the hinges, probably rusty, did not squeak, he pushed the door wider open.

He flashed his light on and stepped quickly into the hall and closed the door behind him. He threw a beam of light on the papers which Paul had pointed out to him; they were still there, in the same spot and untouched. Again he thought he heard a slight rumbling noise. Backing up close against the wall, he listened. Yes, there it was again. Rats or mice, he thought to himself. For a fraction of a second he hesitated. What was he doing in here, he asked himself. Did he expect to find Mr. Grey in the house? If so, what would he do if he did? Beside, Paul, Ken and he had been in the house only that morning.

Brushing aside all the doubts in his mind, he tiptoed along the hall. He passed one door, the second door. He retraced his steps and threw a beam of light upon the stairway. Suddenly he felt a sharp blow on the back of his head. His knees gave way and before he crashed to the floor, he sensed a figure fleeing past him and out through the door. As he fell to the floor he saw a million colored stars converging upon his eyes. Innumerable distorted thoughts flashed through his mind. Then darkness and he knew no more.

Jack opened his eyes and through a haze saw two figures hovering over him. He reached to the back of his head and writhed with pain. Somebody was bending over him and talking but he could not understand what he was saying; it sounded like buzzing in his ears. He closed his eyes and relaxed. Very suddenly he sat up and looked around. He rubbed his eyes, then the back of his head; he felt a large bump there and touching it made him shiver with pain. "How are you, old boy?" somebody was asking him.

The person bending over him, murmured softly, "How do you feel, Jack old boy?"

The mist before his eyes cleared and in the darkness he made out Paul on his knees in front of him and a short distance away, Ken. He turned his head and he noticed that he was in the open. "W-w-where am I?" he asked, his face distorted with pain as he touched the bump on the back of his head.

"You're all right," Paul assured him. "Just tell me how you feel. Any broken bones?" he asked, smiling.

Jack felt himself all over, and answered, "No, I guess not." Looking into his friend's smiling face, he also grinned, "Just where am I and what happened to me?" he asked curiously.

"What happened to you, I don't know; you will have to tell us that. But I can tell you where we are. We are in the yard of -- "

"Yes, I know," interrupted Jack. He now remembered the house, where he had been socked on the head. Rising to his feet, he felt a little wobbly. Paul supported him. "Let's go away from here," he said dejectedly.

Paul laughed. "Nobody will attack us," he said.

They walked off. Jack was flanked on either side by Paul and Ken. After a short silence, Jack asked, "How did you come to be there? And tell me what happened, will you?"

"You'd better tell us what happened," asserted Ken. "We found you there stretched out horizontally. Some bump you have, too."

Jack touched the wound and groaned with pain. "It's nothing much," said Paul. "You'll live a long time yet."

Paul and Ken laughed. But Jack couldn't see what was so funny. Ken said, "Come on, tell us what happened."

"That's just it," protested Jack, "I wish I knew myself. The last thing I can remember is that I got an awful wallop on the back of the head and sock! I was out."

"Who was that person we saw running away from the house?" asked Paul.

Jack stopped in his tracks. "Running away!" he exclaimed. "Who? What? When?"

"Ken and I," Paul explained, "were coming up the street. We were about ten feet from the house, when we saw somebody dash out of the yard and down toward the other end of the street. We thought there might be something wrong so we investigated."

"And we found you," added Ken.

"He must have been the fellow who socked you on the head," concluded Paul.

"Well, why didn't one of you go after him?" demanded Jack.

"Somebody had to take care of you, didn't they?" questioned Paul.

"By then it was too late," added Ken.

Jack began to walk back toward the house. "Come on," he said, "we're going back and see what happened."

"What for?" asked Paul. "We looked and didn't see a thing."

Jack felt his pockets. "Besides," he added, "my flashlight must be somewhere there in the hall."

"No. Here it is," said Ken, taking it out of his pocket.

But Jack insisted on going back to the house and they did. Ken was left outside on guard while the other two entered the house. They found the first door in the hall open. The dust on the floor was stirred by many footprints but there was nothing else visible in the room. The two returned to the hall and searched but they found nothing. "I wonder who it was that socked me like that?" muttered Jack.

"It's no use wondering because you can only guess," asserted Paul. "My own opinion is that some stray individual happened to be in here when you entered and just as your back was turned, he hit you on the head and escaped. That's all."

"But why? Why?" demanded Jack. "And what was he doing here?"

"How should I know? And since there is nothing else we can do here, let's go."

Joining Ken, they walked off and went home.




Chapter XIII

Discovery


Ken was saying, "It is rather strange that somebody should have been in that house when it is supposed to be empty and deserted."

"But why?" demanded Paul. "Being empty and unoccupied, anybody might walk in and look around."

"Very true," commented Jack, "but why should he sock me, that's something I can't understand." He put his hand behind his head and winced with pain. "Suppose," he continued, "some person does stray into the house and while he is there I enter. Does that mean that he has to bang me on the head and run away? It is not logical. There must be something to it."

"You may be right," conceded Paul, "but somehow it doesn't strike me so. By the way, did I tell you fellows how I ran into Captain Bob last night and almost scared him to death?"

"No," cried Ken. "Tell us."

Paul narrated his last night's adventure. The boys laughed heartily at the thought of Captain Bob being scared out of his wits. He also told them that the captain had also had the same hunch as he. Then he asked, "What do you fellows think of it?"

Jack merely shrugged his shoulders, manifesting his lack of opinion. Ken, however, said, "It sounds quite logical to me."

"Logic does not always prove anything," remarked Paul.

Jack jumped out of his seat and snapped his fingers. "I have an idea," he cried.

"Tell us," said Ken.

"What is it?" asked Paul.

"It is something I couldn't exactly explain; it's just something I feel -- a hunch. Come on, we're going back to that empty house."

"But what for?" demanded Paul. "We have been there several times and we have found no clues or anything."

"Well, we're going back and look again."

Jack disappeared into the house and a minute later came out carrying his flashlight and as baseball bat. "What is the bat for?" asked Ken.

"Just in case of anything," was the answer. "I'm not taking chances any more."

The boys rocked with laughter, Jack joining in. "You think you're going to hit somebody with that thing?" questioned Ken, still laughing.

"I suppose the fellow who hit you is waiting there for you to even things up," commented Paul.

"You fellows can laugh all you want," said Jack, "but I'm taking it along just the same. Come on."

They were on their way. Jack said, "Paul, you and I are going into the house, while you, Ken, are going to hide outside and give us the usual signal in case you see somebody suspicious coming up the street or about to enter the house."

"And what are we going to do?" asked Paul.

"You and I are going into that first room and investigate. If there is anything to be found, somehow I feel convinced that it will be found in that room. I have only one reason for it. When I was hit on the head I had my back to that door. Therefore the person who hit me came out of that room."

"That sounds reasonable," remarked Paul. "But I, on the contrary, have no illusions about finding any clues there. It seems to me that we went over every inch of ground in that room."

"You are wrong, Paul," contradicted Jack. "All we did was merely look around. We did not make a real search of the room."

The boys came to the house. All three of them made sure of a good location for Ken to hide and keep watch. When that was done, Paul and Jack entered the house and closed the door behind them. "Now," whispered Jack, "Let's open the door of this first room and examine it." Jack did so and swung the door back and forth on its hinges. "Notice something?" he asked his chum.

"I most certainly do, Jack. This is very suspicious."

"What is it you notice?" asked Jack.

"Why, the movement of the door swinging on its hinges; it's noiseless. Isn't that what you mean?"

"Yes. The hinges must be well oiled and that is why I did not hear when the door was opened and I was hit on the head. Under normal circumstances, the hinges should be rusty and there should be plenty of squeaking every time the door is swung open."

"You are right, Jack. But I still don't see what your hunch is."

"Let's just wait and see. I don't know exactly what it is myself yet. I can only make a wild guess. Let's go into the room."

They entered and closed the door behind them. They had no use for their flashlights because the room had a window in each corner wall, and it was now early morning, about ten o'clock. "Notice another thing," remarked Jack. "The windows -- they are all in perfect shape."

"That's right, but that is nothing extraordinary. It is possible that the last tenant had moved out only recently."

"Well, that doesn't matter so much. Shall we first thoroughly go over the walls or the floor?"

Paul looked about for several seconds before he answered. "I think we had better do the floor first." They looked down. "You know," continued Paul, "I am somehow beginning to get a hunch like you have. I can't exactly explain it, but -- "

Jack interrupted, crying enthusiastically, "Do you really mean that? Because then -- "

Paul held up a finger to his lips and cautioned, "Sh! Not so loud. Walls have ears, you know, and all that." Both of them crouched down. "Do you notice something odd about the dust on the floor?" he asked.

"Yes," replied Jack. "I noticed it the first time we were here but I forgot to mention it. There seems to be very little dust on this floor compared to the other rooms."

"That is right. Now you begin at the other end of the room and I will begin at this end of the room. Examine every single plank of wood and see if it lifts out of the floor."

"That was my intention exactly," whispered Jack. "You are getting on to my hunch perfectly."

Paul by now had become excited with the new turn of events and he was eager to be doing something. "Less talk and more work," he snapped at his friend briskly.

Jack smiled and moved away to his end of the floor. The boys partitioned the floor in half and set to work with zest. They ran their hands over the floor and tested each plank. Despite their eagerness and rapid movements, it took them a long time. The two of them must have been working close to an hour, and Paul was occupied now in front of the window when he hissed across the room, "Jack, I have it!"

Paul flushed with excitement. Jack raced across the room and joined his friend. Paul had discovered a removable piece of wood about six inches long by about three inches wide. He held it up in his hand. "Now!" he whispered. He plunged his hand into the opening and pulled. But too much effort was not necessary, the trap door opened easily. Jack was ready to rush right down, but Paul, ever prudent and careful, grabbed him by the arm and restrained him. "Wait a moment," he whispered. "Let's make sure of things."

Paul went to the window and peeked out. He located Ken and saw the boy on guard, his eyes roaming everywhere and on the alert. Jack had in the meanwhile gone out into the hall. Paul now joined him and together they looked through the house to make sure whether anyone was in there or was watching them. Reassured at last, they returned to the room and again pulled up the trap door. There were stairs leading down, but it was dark below and Jack flashed on his light. From every appearance it looked like an ordinary cellar. Paul whispered, "All right, let's go down. I'll go first."

Jack nodded and his chum began to descend the stairs. He followed, gripping his bat in his hand. Becoming conscious of the weapon, he smiled to himself remembering how his friends joked at his taking it along. Now, in case of anything, it would be very useful.

Paul, who carried the flashlight, reached the bottom of the stairs and waited for his chum. Jack joined him. Together they followed the beam of light around the room. At one side was a printing press and quite a bit of printing paraphernalia; in the center of the room was a table and several chairs; against the walls were several boxes, a jacket and a cap hung on a nail and from the ceiling there extended an electric bulb. Jack whispered, "What do you make of it all?"

Paul shrugged his shoulders. Again he threw a beam of light all around the room. Satisfied with what he saw, he turned and motioned to his friend that they leave. Jack shook his head. "No," he whispered, "let's see exactly what they have here."

"Not now," was the whispered reply. "Some other time."

He began to mount the stairs and Jack followed. They closed the trap after them and replaced the piece of wood. Paul went over to the window and peeked out. And it was a lucky thing that he did. Locating Ken on the spot they had left him, he noticed the guard put his fingers to his lips and whistle. But they could not hear the whistle because both the door to the house and the door to the room were closed. Grabbing Jack by the arm, he cried, "Hurry!" and dragged him out of the room. In the hall they just managed to duck under the stairs as the door opened and by the sound of the footsteps the boys guessed that two men had entered. They heard a gruff voice mutter, "All right, we'll do it."

The next instant they heard the second door open and close. Venturing out from their hiding place, they listened carefully to the opening of the trap door, one man descending, then the second man descending and then, plop, the trap door closing again. The boys looked at each other. Paul smiled while Jack wiped the perspiration off his forehead with a muffled sigh of relief. Paul opened the door noiselessly and they stepped out into the open. At a sign from Paul, Ken was in an instant over the fence and away. A moment later Jack and Paul were out of the yard and running down the street.

They joined Ken at the end of the street. The two boys did not dare to speak until they were some distance away from the empty house. Finally, Jack, who couldn't restrain himself any more, heaved a very audible sigh of relief and exclaimed, "Boy! Was that a close shave! I'm so nervous, my hands are shaking."

"What happened?" asked Ken who could see that something important had transpired.

"Let's not talk now," said Paul. "Wait until we get someplace where we can't be overheard." He looked from one of his friends to the other. "Don't look so curious and excited," he added. "Let's discuss some ordinary topic. Did you fix your dad's car, Jack?"

Jack looked at his chum and burst out laughing. Paul looked as calm and unconcerned as though nothing had happened. "I'm glad to see you fellows enjoying your fun," remarked Ken. "But I wish you would tell me the joke so I could also enjoy it and laugh."

That set both Jack and Paul laughing. "Pardon us, Ken," said Paul. "But there really is nothing to laugh about. That's the joke. But we will tell you all about it right away."




Chapter XIV

A New Turn Of Events


Jack stopped dead in his tracks. His two friends also stopped and faced him. "What is it?" asked Paul.

"I was just wondering," answered Jack, "whether we shouldn't go back there, watch until those two leave and then go down there again."

"Go down where?" asked Ken; they had not yet told him of the cellar they had discovered.

Paul shook his head. "No," he said. "We have had enough for one day. And then, I want some time to think this thing over and try to piece everything together. Let's go to Ken's garage where we can have some privacy."

"You really think we shouldn't go back?" asked Jack.

"Yes, I'm convinced."

"Don't mind me," said Ken as the three of them continued walking. "I'm only an ornament among the three of us."

"Don't be so impatient," said Paul. "Wait. We'll tell you everything."

They came to Ken's garage and sat down on boxes. Paul related what had happened. Several times Ken gasped in astonishment. When the story was finally ended, Paul commented, "But what puzzles me is how all the incidents fit together. The fires, Mr. Grey, Jack getting bumped on the head, Captain Bob, where do all these facts fit in?"

"As far as Captain Bob is concerned, you can leave him out of it," commented Jack. "No matter what it is all about, I'm quite sure he is an innocent party."

"Yes," said Ken. "As chief of the fire department he naturally would be interested in why there are an unusually large number of fires."

"All right, suppose we agree that Captain Bob is out of it," said Paul, "what about all the other facts. How does Mr. Grey fit in, for example?"

"Yes, how does he fit in?" asked Ken. "Isn't it possible that what you stumbled on today has nothing to do with all the other incidents?"

"It may sound all right," remarked Jack, "but I don't think so. For example, by now I am convinced that the fellow who hit me came out of that cellar."

"But why should he run away?" questioned Paul. "Why couldn't he have made you a prisoner, as that would be a more natural thing to do?"

"Perhaps," argued Jack. "But if he had, he would have had to take me down in the cellar. Now suppose he blindfolds me, still I might hear something they say. I might escape and inform the police. My opinion is that he hit me and ran away, hoping that the blow on the head would scare me so that I would never return."

His two companions nodded. "Suppose we accept that as the real reason. Where does everything else fit in? What are they doing with a printing press down there? They shouldn't have to hide that."

"But the mere fact that they are hiding it is proof that they are doing something illegal," commented Ken.

His two companions repeated the word, "Illegal! Illegal!"

Jack began to walk up and down, his chin in his hand and deep in thought. The other two were also silent and thinking hard. Jack picked up an old newspaper from the floor. Suddenly he dropped the paper, jumped high into the air and cried frantically, "I have it! I have it!"

His two friends leaped out of their seats, and ran up to him. "Well!" demanded Paul, for once impatient and curious. "What is the answer?"

"The answer is," whispered Jack and then paused, "Counterfeiters!" he whispered.

Ken jumped into the air enthusiastically. "That's right!" he cried. "That's right!"

Paul smiled with satisfaction. Putting an arm around Jack, he said, "It sounds very reasonable. Counterfeiters have to use a printing press. And counterfeiters do something illegal and therefore have to hide." He nodded his head. "Sounds very logical."

They returned to their seats. "But," continued Paul, "even if we grant the fact that they are counterfeiters, how do all the other incidents fit in? The fires and Mr. Grey for example?"

"Must they fit in?" inquired Ken.

"They don't have to," was Paul's reply, "but I have a notion that they do."

Jack nodded and agreed with his chum. "I feel the same way about it," he said. "It is very possible that what we have discovered today has absolutely nothing to do with the fires or Mr. Grey. But somehow I have a feeling that there is some connection. But I can't say what."

"But if there is some sort of a connection between all these facts, how do you think they fit in?" asked Paul.

Jack shook his head. Ken said, "Suppose we begin from the very beginning. I mean from the time you came upon the house, Jack. Now, was it not Mr. Grey who led you to the house?"

"Yes. And then he sneaked around in the back and scared me half to death."

"All right. Now if he had anything to do with the counterfeiters do you think he would have led you to that very house he wants you to keep away from? If he were a member of that gang of counterfeiters and he knew you were following him, don't you think he would lead you to some other part of town?"

Paul said, "That may sound logical, but the opposite may also sound logical. For example, if we concede that the fellow who hit Jack on the head and then ran away did it to frighten him so that he would keep away from there, why can't we say the same thing about Mr. Grey? Is it not possible that Mr. Grey knew he was being followed and purposely led Jack to that very house, then sneaked up behind him to frighten him so that he would never return? Isn't that very plausible?"

"Say," cried Jack, "if what you say is true, that fellow certainly made a mistake."

"And how!" echoed Ken.

"Now if we know all that," continued Paul, "that makes Mr. Grey a member of the gang of counterfeiters."

"But what about the fires? And leading Betty away. And those white cards, what about them? And the robbery at Professor Link's?"

The boys looked at each other very glumly. "The whole thing is like a crazy jigsaw puzzle," muttered Paul.

"Telling me!" mumbled Ken. "It has already given me a headache. The thing worries me so, I can't sleep nights."

The boys laughed at the manner in which Ken said it. "You have to sleep," remarked Jack. "Otherwise how are we going to solve this jigsaw puzzle of a mystery?"

The boys sat around and brooded. Three minds with one thought -- how to solve the mystery; how all the details fitted into the general picture. They were so silent and lost in thought that they were not at all aware of Ken's little sister Betty approaching and regarding them with surprise. She stood rooted in one spot and stared at her brother and his two friends. Finally she couldn't bear it any longer. She opened her mouth wide and cried suddenly, "Boo!" The boys jumped as though they were shot. Reassured again, they smiled heaving sighs of relief. "Mother says you should come to dinner," she said.

"Dinner!" exclaimed Ken. "Is it time for dinner already?"

All three simultaneously looked at their watches. "My, how time flies," mumbled Jack. "Twelve-thirty already."

Mrs. Armstrong came to the porch and called, "Betty!"

"I'm right here, Mother," cried the child. And she ran to the porch.

"Did you find Ken?"

"He is at the garage. And Jack and Paul too."

"Tell them all to come in; lunch is ready."

The boys entered the house. Paul and Jack telephoned home that they were having lunch with Ken. At the table, in the midst of the meal, Jack almost choked as he thought of something. "Hurry up, fellows," he whispered. "I've just thought of something important."

"Can't you at least eat without thinking?" mocked Ken.

"Yes, take it easy," was Paul's advice.

"Choke easy, you mean," corrected Ken.

"Stop all that talk," spoke up Jack, "and hurry up and finish. I want to get out and talk this thing over."

As soon as they were through with their meal, the boys retreated to the garage again. "Now what is it?" asked Paul.

"It is something that I thought of just as soon as we got into the cellar," replied Jack, "but it slipped my mind and I forgot to mention it."

"Well, what is it?" asked Ken. "Don't keep us in suspense."

"It's this. When we descended the stairs into the cellar, Paul, it occurred to me that if the police cornered the gang of counterfeiters in that cellar, how would they manage to escape?"

"They wouldn't," was Ken's opinion.

"Suppose you were one of the gang, wouldn't you think of such a possibility and make sure of an exit, of a means of escape?"

"Certainly."

"Then that means, that probably there is another entrance or exit into that cellar."

"That's right," said Paul. "I'm glad you thought of it. It is something we should have thought of at once."

"Oh I wish you didn't," said Ken, pretending that he was in tears, "because that only adds another item in the puzzle to solve."

"Which isn't going to be very easy."

"No, it certainly won't."

"Let's come down to earth now," remarked Jack, "and think in terms of action. What are we going to do now? What should be our plan of action from now on? Can you think of anything, Paul?"

For a short while, there was silence. At last Paul ventured to suggest, "We might, for example, give up following Mr. Grey; at least temporarily. Then we have to watch that house and get to know the men entering and leaving and determine as well as we can who the members of the gang are."

"I was just thinking of something," remarked Ken. "Do you remember, Paul, how hostile the grocery man was and how he squirmed out of giving you any information about Mr. Grey?"

"Yes, what about it?"

"Well, it just occurred to me, that the man must know something if he is so anxious to conceal it."

"Hmm!" muttered Jack.

"Another thing," continued Ken. "Isn't it true, Jack, that each time you followed Mr. Grey, it seemed to you that he emerged from that corner house, the house in which the store is situated?"

"That's right. What are you driving at?"

Ken scratched his head. "I feel this way about it," he said, "that most likely that corner house is owned or at least rented by the grocery man. Now if Mr. Grey comes out of that house, he must live there." His two companions leaned forward and listened to him attentively. They suspected that what he was saying might be very valuable. He continued, "Therefore, if Mr. Grey lives in that house, the grocery man must know him; under ordinary circumstances, he would have no reason to say that he didn't know Mr. Grey. It therefore follows that either he knows that Mr. Grey is a crook or possibly he himself is somehow involved in the situation."

The boys gasped. The reasonableness and logic of Ken's statement was beyond question. Yet how true was it? If it were true, another missing link was being added to the already complicating puzzle. "Then why," asked Jack, "should the woman have mentioned the name Mr. Grey when you entered the store and asked for information Ken?"

Paul answered, "That's simple. If we assume that what Ken said is true, the grocery man's wife knows nothing of her husband's operations and very innocently gave away the name."

"Yes, that's right," agreed Ken.

"That only makes it worse," muttered Jack.

Again the group became silent. They would hit upon an idea, discuss it rapidly and then they would brood for a while. Jack leaped to his feet. "Let's do something," he cried.

Paul rose. "I for one," he said, "am going home and I suggest you do the same. That will calm us down. Then we will meet again after supper and -- do something."




Chapter XV

Following Up Their Clues


Jack was restless, excited. The mystery had him upset. While Paul and Ken each went to their respective homes, Jack loitered along Main Street. Not that he hoped to do anything or come upon any clues; he merely didn't feel like going home. He walked down as far as Jones Street and again investigated the neighborhood. Returning to the corner, he went into the store and on the pretense that he was buying a small box of chocolate wafers, he let his eyes wander about the place. But there was nothing especial to see; it was the same as any other ordinary grocery. The woman was in the store and she appeared to be a mild sort of person. Considering it unwise to ask any questions or seek any information from her, he paid for his wafers and left.

He munched as he walked along. Thinking hard for some plan of action, he couldn't come to any definite decision. Finally he concluded that Paul was right -- he should go home and let the matter rest for a while. Quickening his pace, he walked home and busied himself with tasks about the house.

After supper, the three boys met at Paul's home. They sat down on the porch and waited for someone to speak first. Paul finally spoke up and said, "Right now, I think, we have to look into two angles of the situation. One of us should go down to Jones Street and watch the grocery man. The other two should go back to that empty house and see what happens there."

"How about you going down to Jones Street?" asked Jack. "You spoke to the grocery man and you know what he looks like."

"That suits me. You and Ken, in the meanwhile, will watch the empty house."

"How about that other angle of yours, Paul? The one about watching out for a fire at some house owned by the Jones and Jones real estate company," commented Ken. "I think it's a good hunch that we ought to follow up."

"I think we can drop it for tonight at any rate and see what happens," answered Paul. "Let's go."

They walked off the porch and headed for Main Street. "So long," called Paul, and waved.

"Good luck," returned Jack.

"We'll be seeing you," said Ken.

Jack and Ken walked off together. "It's a little early yet, don't you think?" asked Ken.

Jack looked at his watch; it was not quite seven-thirty. "Yes," he answered. "But we will go down there anyhow and see."

They walked past the house as though they were ordinary pedestrians. Coming to the railroad tracks, they turned around and walked back through the street on which the back of the house faced. It was eight o'clock now but it was still daylight. So they decided to walk around the block once more and as far as the railroad tracks. As soon as it became dusk, they returned to the house and took up different positions. Jack hid himself directly behind the fence overlooking the front of the house; Ken, on the other hand, picked out a hiding place at the rear of the house. The two were thus able to keep a watch all around the house and at the same time be within reach of each other in case of necessity.

The boys watched the sky become gray and the stars come out; the moon crept out of the horizon and night descended. Perfectly still, noiseless, inconspicuous, the two kept guard. Every once in a while, people passed up and down the street, and immediately Jack was on the alert, anxious, impatient. But nothing happened and time dragged along. Suddenly he heard the sound of a soft whistle and he turned his head to locate Ken. Again the same soft whistle. Jack looked all around him, then, very cautiously, he crept over to his friend. Ken had his ear to the ground. Jack whispered, "What's up?"

Ken motioned for his friend to put his ear to the ground and Jack did so. He flattened himself out and glued his ear to the ground. A slight trembling of the earth came to his ears, accompanied by a steady, muffled sound. For about five minutes both boys put their ears to the ground and listened. Ken, although he guessed what it was, whispered, "What do you think it is?"

"The printing press."

Ken nodded. "I thought so too."

Jack whispered, "When did you first hear that sound?" he asked.

"It seemed to begin only a short while ago."

The boys were silent, thinking hard. If the press had been operating only a short while, then it was most logical to conclude that whoever was in the cellar had come there recently, within the last thirty, forty, fifty minutes. Yet the boys had been on guard for a full hour and as far as they knew, no one had entered the house by the front door. Jack, therefore, became more firmly convinced that there was another door somewhere; that the cellar could be reached and left perhaps some distance away from the house. Jack whispered, "I'm going back."

Ken nodded. His friend crept away and again he was alone. Each one in his own hiding place, they watched and waited, but nothing happened. Overhead was the blue sky with the moon and the stars. All around them was darkness. Their waiting and watching was in vain -- at least so it seemed.

Another hour passed and still nothing happened. Ken lay with his ear to the ground and occupied himself with listening to the hissing sound that came out of the earth. Jack watched and waited but not a thing stirred. He became restless and chafed with impatience. Finally he wiggled over to Ken and also put his ear to the ground. Still that hissing sound and the trembling of the earth. Ken whispered, "They must be working hard down there."

Jack nodded and kept silent. Together they lay flat on the ground and listened. Again it was Ken who whispered, "What do you say, you think we ought to go? There is nothing doing here."

"No, let's wait a short while more. I wonder what Paul is doing."

"Same here. I hope at least he has found something interesting to do. This doing nothing is killing me."

Jack felt the same way about it. As a matter of fact, Jack was of more impatient nature than Ken, but he felt it upon himself to urge his friend on. "Take it easy and don't lose your patience," he whispered back. "A thing like this takes time you know; plenty of time."

Again they fixed their ears to the ground. They remained like that for a short time. Suddenly they pushed their ears deeper into the ground. In the darkness, they looked at each other. "Do you hear what I hear?" whispered Ken.

"Yes, nothing."

"That's right. They must have stopped the printing press."

"Yes. Now what?"

Silence. The boys knitted their brows. If they had stopped their press, Jack asked himself, would they be coming out of the cellar now? And if they were, which door would they use? Possibly they would come out by the front door because they might not care to use the same door for an exit as well as an entrance. But if they did use the rear door how would the boys find it? Jack looked around. It might be in either of three directions, he reasoned to himself -- on either sides of the house or to the rear; to the front was the sidewalk and street, which would be a most improbable means for a tunnel or other form of approach and exit. "Stay here," he whispered to Ken. "I'm going back to my place. We will stay here another half hour, and if nothing happens, I have other plans."

"What?"

"I'll tell you later."

Jack crept back to his hiding place. With nothing else to do but to wait and watch he again became conscious of the darkness and of time dragging. There was utter stillness and he could hear himself breathe; the tick of his watch in his pocket sounded extraordinarily loud. He waited. A few pedestrians passed by. He waited some more. He counted every minute. When the time was up a low muffled whistle issued from his lips. He turned his head and saw Ken creep out of his place. Together they sneaked out of the yard and walked off. Ken asked, "Well, what are your other plans?"

"I was thinking," said Jack, "that they must have another way of getting in and out -- "

"Yes, you mentioned that once before."

"Well, what I was really trying to determine is where that other entrance might be. Now, logically, it can be at any one of three places. There might be a tunnel leading away from the cellar of the house on either side or at the rear. What we have to do, therefore, is to examine those three possibilities."

"But we can't do much tonight," remarked Ken. "For one thing it's dark and there isn't much we can see. And secondly, it's late already."

"That's very true, but I certainly would like to get an idea of how the land lays."

"We can leave that for tomorrow. Now I think we ought to go over and see if Paul is waiting for us."

"That's right. I almost forgot about him. I wonder if he came across anything."

"Well, I only hope that he didn't have to spend such a dull time as we did," was Ken's comment.

"You have to take things as they come," answered Jack. "Sometimes there is plenty to do and at other times there is nothing to do."




Chapter XVI

Paul Gets Into Trouble


Ken and Jack came to Paul's house but they saw their friend nowhere around. "You think he is in the house?" asked Ken.

"No. He would be waiting for us on the porch."

"What will we do, then? Where will we wait for him?"

"Let's wait for him in front of your gate, Ken. He ought to be coming any minute, I suppose."

The boys leaned against the fence, talking in low tones to while the time away. They were impressed before with how hard it is to be patient, but now it was doubly hard. For it seemed that Paul was not coming. They waited thirty minutes, an hour, an hour and thirty minutes and still no Paul. Jack was actually becoming worried that something had happened to his chum. Ken suggested several times, "Perhaps he is home. Do you think we ought to try to find out? Though it's a little too late to ring the bell."

But Jack knew better; he knew his chum. If Paul had returned before they did, he would have waited for them on the porch; that was a certainty. He would not have gone to bed until he had seen and spoken to his friends and made sure that they were all right. Finally Jack could not bear it any longer and he muttered, "I'm going to look for him."

"I'm going with you," said Ken with determination. "Where will we look first?"

"There are only two places where we can look -- at Jones Street and then that empty house."

"Where will we go first?"

"What do you think?"

They went down to Main Street, then they were undecided as to which direction to take. Jack said, "Let's toss a coin." He drew a nickel out of his pocket. "Heads we go to Jones Street; tails we go to that empty house."

He tossed the coin into the air, caught it with his right hand and slapped it down on his left wrist. Ken put his head close to see. Jack removed his hand -- it was tails up. "The empty house," he whispered.

When Paul started out early in the evening, he leisurely strolled along Main Street until he came to his destination. There, he examined the house on the corner from every possible view. It was a two story frame house with the grocery occupying most of the ground floor; the rest of the floor, Paul figured, were either closets or some form of storage places. He was pretty sure there were no living quarters on the ground floor. The people who occupied the house lived above the store. By counting the windows -- there were seven -- he reasoned that there must be either three or four rooms. The grocery man and his wife most likely occupied one room, Mr. Grey another, and the children, if there were any, the other one or two rooms.

By now it had become dusk and Paul thought that it was time to take up some hiding position and watch. The next moment he changed his mind. Instead of hiding anywhere, he nonchalantly took up a position across the street and pretended that he was waiting for someone. He didn't have to wait long. Pretty soon he saw Mr. Grey emerge from around the corner and walk up Main Street. He wondered where the man was going and what he might be up to. For several seconds he debated with himself whether to follow him or to wait, as he had previously decided, for the grocery man. He chose to wait. About fifteen minutes later he saw his man come out from the rear of the house. "Very clever," he thought to himself.

The grocery man came to the corner and stopped, looked around and then walked off down Jones Street. Paul wanted to follow but on second consideration he realized that the street was deserted and he would instantly be noticed. He had a hunch, however, that the man's walking down Jones Street was done on purpose to detect anyone following. Paul ran to the next parallel street and raced to come to the corner first. He hid in a doorway and saw his man round the corner and continue walking on the street parallel to Main Street. This part of the town was rather empty and deserted. He therefore decided to let his man walk at least two hundred and fifty yards ahead of him.

Soon the street became busier, with many people strolling up and down. Paul gradually narrowed the distance between himself and his man. They came to about the centre of the town. Suddenly he caught his breath and his heart began to beat rapidly. He saw Mr. Grey walking the other way, and as the two men passed each other, there was a slight movement of the head on the part of both of them. So they did know each other! So there was some connection between the two! Paul thrilled with the excitement of it.

At the next corner, the grocery man turned in and headed for Main Street, where he turned right and walked straight ahead for several blocks. At about the middle of the street he joined a group of three men who were standing to one side and talking quietly among themselves. Paul crossed to the other side of the street. Pretending that he was looking at a window display, he was actually studying the group of four men. As far as he could tell, they were not native townspeople; everything about them looked as though they came from somewhere else; possibly from a large city. Two of them were very ordinary looking -- of average size and wearing the usual summer clothes. The third person was a tall, fat individual, with a big head and a double chin. One thing was common for all three; they all were rather hard looking. Such was the trio that the grocery man had joined.

It was evident that they had a lot to say to each other, for they talked for some time, while people passed up and down and paid no attention to them. Paul decided on a bold step. Walking down a bit, he crossed over and, falling in behind a group of strollers, he passed close to the group of conspirators. But they talked in such low tones that he could not overhear a word they said.

Not seeing any other opportunity of overhearing their conversation, Paul crossed over again, pretended that he was looking at a window display and walked down to the corner and back again. But every second he kept an eye on that group. Finally after about half an hour, the group broke up into twos. The big, fat fellow with one of his companions walked south, while the grocery man and the third of the trio walked north on Main Street. Paul decided to follow the grocery man and his companion.

They walked straight ahead for several blocks, then, very nonchalantly rounded the corner and disappeared. Paul felt the thrill of excitement grow on him; something hot and exciting bubbled inside of him. They had turned into the street on which the empty house was situated. He thought of Ken and Jack and their being on guard. But just then Jack's well founded hunch occurred to him; perhaps there was a secret entrance and they would not use the front door of the house. He peeked around the corner and saw his men turn off at the next crossing. "Good!" he thought to himself. They were not fooling him; it was their intention to take a roundabout route to throw anyone off their trail if they happened to be followed.

At a rapid pace, he took a direct route to his destination. He did not intend to go to the house; if anything happened there, it was up to Jack and Ken to take care of that and he knew that he could trust them. His intention was to take up such a position that they would have to pass him. If they did not head for the house, then he would follow them and spy out the secret entrance to the house.

There were only three possibilities for a secret tunnel to the house, Paul reasoned with himself. It might be on either side or to the rear of the house. The most probable one was at the rear of the house because that afforded a direct connection with very little space intervening between the two cellars. It would be a simple thing, he thought to himself, to dig and fortify such an underground passage.

Paul hid in a doorway and waited for his quarry to come along. In time they did and passed within two feet of him. They were silent and walked as though they were out for an evening stroll. Paul hesitated ere he ventured out of his hiding place. The neighborhood was still and dark. If he dared to follow and keep them in sight, he would very easily be detected; he might have a running chance to escape, but that would give him away and they, on the other hand, would then realize that they were being suspected.

But it was not necessary for him to follow within sight of them. He had a pretty good idea where they were heading for. He waited for them to round the corner and immediately he ran after them. He peeked around the corner and saw them stop in front of a house at about the middle of the street. They stopped and looked all around them. The next moment they were gone.

Paul flushed with excitement. He had discovered their secret means of approach to the house. Now all he had to do was to thread together all the details of the mystery, put together the puzzle into a single whole, and choose a time when they would most probably be in the cellar for the police to descend upon them. Paul already foresaw the moment when the gang would be captured and locked away where they belonged.

He decided to walk down the street, get a glimpse of the house and then join his friends. What he saw put him in a jovial mood, as he walked back to the corner with every intention of joining Jack and Ken. But he did not have quite enough foresight. He had seen the group of four break up into two pairs; he should have taken into consideration the missing pair. Might it not be possible that these two had headed for the same destination by a longer route. At any rate, his not considering that angle proved disastrous for him.

Very innocently he rounded the corner and suddenly found himself facing the protruding, round stomach of the man he had seen as one of the trio. Looking up into the man's brutal face, Paul felt himself becoming confused. In the meanwhile, he noticed the second man take his place directly behind him. "What are you doing around here?" the fat man demanded in a gruff, husky voice. "Don't you know it is dangerous to be roaming around at this time of night?"

Paul hesitated, trying hard to keep his voice from shaking. He said, "I just took a walk, that's all. I live only a couple of blocks from here."

"So you were just taking a walk, eh? Well, then what were you spying around for, huh?"

Paul felt himself become tense. He wondered if they would attack him. He answered, "I wasn't spying, Mister. I was just walking."

"Then why did you look goggle eyed at every house as you passed down the street?"

"Just looking as I was walking."

The man squared his jaw and gritted his teeth. "Some day," he hissed, "you'll go blind for seeing things you ain't supposed to. Who are you?"

Paul began to edge away so that he would not have the second gangster directly behind his back. But he was cornered and he had no way to move. He answered, "My name is Morris Paulson."

"Do you have any friends who have been snooping around lately? They had better watch out or they will get into heaps of trouble."

Pretending that he was ignorant of the reference, Paul said, "I don't know what you are talking about, Mister. My friends are nice fellows who mind their own business."

The gangster gorilla grinned mischievously. "That's a swell idea, everybody minding his own business," he remarked. "And you too."

"Yes, sir," Paul agreed meekly. Feeling that the questioning was over and that he was being dismissed, he stepped out of the way and took a step forward to walk away. For a fraction of a second he congratulated himself on his luck. The next instant, however, he felt a crash on his head. His whole body trembled, his knees began to wobble. As he fell to the ground he turned half way and noticed the cruel grin on his attacker. Then everything went dark and he knew nothing more.

Paul lay unconscious at the feet of the fat gangster. The man poked his toes into the boy's ribs and turned him over on his back. "You shouldn't have hit him so hard," the fat fellow said, addressing his henchman. "He's only a kid."

"I didn't hit hard, Boss. I only tapped him nice and easy." He looked pleadingly at his chief. "What'll we do with him?" he asked anxiously.

"Bind his hands and feet and throw him in one of the empty lots."

"You want me to dump him, Boss?"

"No!" was the snarling answer. "Do what I say and be quick about it."

Bending down, the henchman used Paul's tie and handkerchief to tie the boy's hands and feet. When that was done, he picked up the inert body under his arm and crossed the street to an empty lot and then dropped it to the ground. Rejoining his boss, the two walked off. "That'll teach him a lesson," muttered the fat fellow.

Paul did not know how long he lay there, but he imagined that it must have been a very long time. He tried to rise, but couldn't. His head ached terribly. He fell back and closed his eyes. Gradually he regained consciousness. With difficulty, he sat up and discovered his hands and feet bound. At first he could not recollect exactly what had happened to him and how he came to be in this predicament. But little by little, events came back to him.

Frantically, Paul began to work on his bonds to free himself. But he felt weak and every time he moved his wrist, he felt the bonds cutting his flesh. But at last, after about twenty minutes of tiring work, he freed his hands and it took him but a few seconds to untie his feet. Rising, he felt himself trembling all over. He could barely keep himself steady on his feet. Walking, he wobbled from one side to the other.

At the corner, he leaned against the wall of a house. Suddenly he heard some shouts. He looked to see who it might be, but his sight was blurred and he could only see dim shadows running toward him. Who are they, he wondered, and what do they want from me? Was he going to be again attacked? He wanted to run but there was no will nor effort to do so.




Chapter XVII

Parental Admonitions


Jack and Ken commenced their search for any sign of Paul. But everything was still and dark and there wasn't a sign of human life anywhere about. After about twenty minutes of futile searching, the two boys decided to leave and go to Jones Street. Coming to the corner, Ken noticed a lonely figure hovering against a wall a short distance away. He called his friend's attention to it and Jack said, "Most likely a drunk. But let's go and see. It may be someone needing assistance."

As they neared the figure, both boys remarked that there was something familiar about it. Jack began to feel a little uneasy about that lonely figure leaning against the wall and he walked faster, Ken at his side. Soon they were both running. "It's Paul!" screamed Jack, almost hysterically.

The two friends ran over to Paul and caught hold of him on either side. "Paul! Paul!" whispered Jack frantically. "How are you? What happened to you?"

Paul shook his head, trying to shake away the mist from his eyes and the dullness out of his head. Ken whispered, "Let's take him right home, Jack. Don't bother him with questions now."

Jack nodded and agreed. He was almost in tears at the helpless sight of his chum. Putting their arms around their friend, they started to lead him home. Very gradually, Paul regained his balance and self assurance. "All right," he muttered, "I can walk by myself now."

But just as soon as the boys removed their supporting arms, Paul tottered and almost fell. Jack immediately put an arm around his shoulder. A short while later, Paul finally walked by himself. "Some mess I got myself into," he mumbled.

Jack smiled, happy that his friend was all right again. "Now don't talk," he said. "Save your energy."

Paul grinned to himself thinking of how nearly he got away. They came to his house and Jack whispered, "How will we wake your father up? It's quite late already."

"What do you want to wake him up for?" inquired Paul.

"He has to treat your head, fellow. You're all bloody and messy."

"Don't bother him, Jack. I'll wash up myself and let him see it tomorrow."

"Nothing doing," insisted Jack. "You have to be taken care of by a doctor right away. And it's better your father does it than anyone else."

"All right, but don't tell him what happened. Just say I fell."

Jack ran up the step to the porch and rang the night bell. About two minutes later, Dr. Morrison, in his pajamas and bath robe, answered the door. Seeing who it was, he exclaimed, "Why, Jack, is there anything wrong?"

Jack thought for a few seconds what to say. "Er, Dr. Morrison," he began, "don't be alarmed but er -- "

The doctor was impatient and he cried, "Well, well?"

"You see, Paul was hurt and -- "

"Where is he?" was the direct and decisive question. "I thought he was in his room and asleep long ago."

They went around to the back of the porch. The doctor looked at Paul's wound and said, "Let's go into the office and I'll fix you up." The boys followed. At the door the doctor turned to them and said, "You go home, fellows; it's late."

Jack compressed his lips and gritted his teeth. He wanted to ask if the wound was serious or if there was anything he could do to help. But the doctor seemed not to want them around. He waited until Paul and his father entered the house and closed the door. Ken whispered, "All right, Jack, let's go. There is nothing more we can do here."

Crossing the street, they separated and each went home to sleep and to think over everything that happened that evening.

Early in the morning, Jack got ready to leave his home. His mother called to him and asked, "Where are you going so early? Aren't you going to wait for breakfast?"

But Jack shook his head, kissed his mother on the cheek and ran out of the house. He was anxious to see Paul, and, as it was too early to ring the bell, he walked back and forth like a sentinel in front of the Morrison house. Counting every minute, he finally decided at eight-thirty sharp, that it was all right to ring the bell now. He knew that Dr. Morrison's office hours began at nine, and that usually he had his breakfast between eight-fifteen and a quarter of nine. His heart beat wildly as he heard footsteps coming to open the door. "Good morning, Jack," Mrs. Morrison greeted him. "What are you doing here so early?"

"Good morning, Mrs. Morrison. I just want to see Paul."

"Paul is a little tardy in getting out of bed this morning," she told him as they entered the dining room. "Have a seat. He ought to be down any minute."

"Good morning, Dr. Morrison."

"Good morning, Jack. Did you have breakfast yet?"

"Breakfast!" Jack clasped his hand to his forehead. "I completely forgot about it."

Dr. Morrison laughed heartily, but his wife couldn't see the joke and she exclaimed, "You forgot to have breakfast! Is there anything wrong with you?"

Dr. Morrison laughed and Jack shook his head. "No," he replied meekly. "I guess I wasn't hungry."

"You're going to have breakfast right now," insisted Mrs. Morrison. "Sit here," she ordered the boy and then she went to the kitchen.

Dr. Morrison shrewdly remarked, with a twinkle in his eye, "If you can forget your breakfast, Jack, I can imagine what happened last night."

Jack moved to the edge of his seat. "How is he?" he inquired anxiously. "Hurt bad?"

"Oh, I guess he will live to get into plenty of more trouble. Nothing to worry about."

Mrs. Morrison returned and placed silverware and a plate in front of Jack. "Your bacon and eggs will be ready right away," she said. "In the meanwhile, have this orange juice."

Just then Paul came downstairs. He was smiling and looked as though nothing had happened. "Good morning, everybody," he called cheerfully.

His greetings were returned. Kissing his mother on the cheek, she noticed the bandage on the back of his head. "What happened?" she demanded.

"Nothing, Mother. I just fell, that's all."

She looked at her husband who was smiling. "Nothing much," he muttered to re-assure her.

"I wonder," she said skeptically.

Paul and Jack looked at each other and grinned guiltily. "Well, sit down," remarked Dr. Morrison, addressing his son.

Weighed down by a guilty conscience, the boys ate their breakfast in silence. Jack waited for Paul to finish. They noted with dismay that Dr. Morrison, although through with his morning meal, sat by the table and read the paper. Paul said, "I'm ready, Jack, let's go."

Dr. Morrison rose with the boys and took them under the arm. "Where to?" he asked.

Paul squirmed. "Just out to the porch," he answered.

"Are you in any particular hurry? Something very important to talk about?"

"No," his son answered hesitantly.

"That's fine. Do you mind coming into my office for a couple of minutes?"

Jack thinking that Dr. Morrison meant only Paul, drew away. But the doctor said to him, "You, too, Jack. Come along."

Dr. Morrison sat down at his desk and pointed the boys to chairs. For a moment there was silence. "Well," remarked the doctor, "now tell me what this is all about."

The boys fidgeted. "What what's about, Dad?"

"Now don't pretend ignorance," commented the doctor. "You know very well what I mean."

Paul turned to his companion and said, "You tell him, Jack."

Jack felt himself getting hot all over and becoming red in the face. "No, you tell him yourself, Paul."

Dr. Morrison smiled at their uneasiness. Paul said, "Dad, I don't want to tell you any falsehoods and I can't tell you now what it is all about. You wouldn't understand. Please don't ask me."

"I don't want to pry into your personal affairs and have you tell me things you don't want," said Dr. Morrison, "but getting a bump on the head like that is very serious." He paused and the boys kept silent. The doctor continued, "I have treated a number of such cases and I can testify to the fact that the bumping was done by an expert."

"It really isn't much," Paul assured his father. "And I promise to be more careful in the future."

"All right, son. You had better be -- and you, too, Jack -- if you want to keep a whole head on your shoulders."

"Yes, Dad."

Grinning, the boys rose and left the office, with Dr. Morrison shaking his head and wondering what they were up to now.




Chapter XVIII

False Alarm!


Ken was sitting on the steps of the porch. He jumped up as he heard the door open. "Hello, fellows," he cried.

"Hello, Ken. You're lucky; you always get away with things."

"What's the trouble this time, Paul?"

"My dad just had us up at the bar and almost made us tell."

"You can't do that. Not yet, at any rate."

"For the present we got away with it," remarked Jack.

They went across the street to Ken's garage where they would have the privacy they wanted. Seating themselves on boxes in a circle, Jack heaved a sigh, then said, "Well, Paul, now you can tell us everything that happened."

Paul grinned mischievously. He leaned forward and whispered, "I found out their secret entrance to the cellar."

"You mean it!" exclaimed Jack.

"That's perfect!" cried Ken.

"It's in the house to the rear of the empty house."

"I had a suspicion it would be something like that," commented Jack. "What sort of a house is it?"

"It was dark and there was not much chance to see anything. By the way," he asked, "whose idea was it to suspect the grocery man?"

"Mine," answered Ken. "Was I wrong?"

"On the contrary, you were right and you deserve a medal as a fine detective. That man is one of the gang."

"You don't say! Well, come on, tell us about it."

Paul commenced at the very beginning and related all that had happened to him the previous night. Completing his narrative, Jack muttered, "So! That's the way things stand."

"Yes. Now you tell me what happened to you two last night."

"In one word," replied Jack, "nothing."

"Tell him about the printing press," suggested Ken.

"Well, yes, but that wasn't much. By putting our ears to the ground, we could hear very slightly the printing press going."

"On the contrary. You should have been able to hear it very well," commented Paul.

"Come to think of it," remarked Jack, "you're right. They must have muffled the noise of the machine somehow."

"They are certainly going in for it in a big way," said Ken.

"It seems that they are," Paul replied. "Now, if we can get a couple of things straightened out, we can tell the story to the police and have the gang arrested."

"I think we ought to wait a while," suggested Jack. "It is a little too soon yet."

"Yes. From every indication," commented Paul, "it seems that they are on the alert. We have to catch them at a moment when they are off their guard and make sure that every one of them happens to be there."

"There are also a couple of more things that we have to check up on. For example, we still don't know how Mr. Grey fits into the picture and -- "

"Oh, I forgot to tell you," interrupted Paul. "Following the grocery man, he and Mr. Grey passed each other and nodded. Whatever that meant I don't know, but it establishes beyond a doubt that they know each other and that Mr. Grey is in with the crowd."

"That's very interesting to know," said Jack enthusiastically. "But in that case, how are we going to explain his past behavior?"

"I don't know," answered Paul. "But there is no doubt that there is some connection between his past behavior and what we are up against now."

"Yes," muttered Jack, "I'd give a penny to know exactly how those fires and the robbery fit into the puzzle."

"Eventually, we will solve that," remarked Paul. "I have a notion how they fit in but -- "

"Tell us!" exclaimed Ken.

"I would rather not; it sounds foolish and I may be mistaken. Besides, I couldn't very well substantiate my argument. But what we have to decide now, is what we are going to do next, what our plan of action is going to be."

"Do you have any suggestion?" asked Jack.

"My opinion is that we ought to keep away for a couple of days. That would make them think that they have scared us away. It will also make them a little careless and things will be easier for us to accomplish."

"All right. Now suppose we do play dead, so to speak, for two days; then what?" asked Ken.

"Well, we still have to go down to the cellar for a second time and establish definitely what's going on there."

"And we still have to locate the exact position of their secret tunnel -- for it must be that," added Jack.

Paul nodded. "Yes," he said. "It would be a simple thing to bore a tunnel connecting the two cellars."

"But how are we going to determine how the fires and the robbery at Professor Link's fit into the picture?" asked Ken.

"For that we will have to wait and see how things turn out," explained Paul. "It may be very possible that those incidents have nothing to do with it all."

"But those were the very things that we began to investigate," insisted Ken.

"Yes, and now look what it got us into," remarked Jack.

Suddenly the air was rent by the screech of the fire siren. The boys leaped to their feet and began to race down the street. "But it isn't time yet for another fire," protested Paul.

"What do you mean, it isn't time yet?" questioned Ken.

"I told you about it. From the reports in the papers, it seemed there was a fire approximately every ten to fourteen days."

"Well, maybe this is a real fire," suggested Jack.

"Perhaps."

At Main Street, the boys saw the fire engine, a brand new one the town of Stanhope had recently acquired, come racing madly down the street. People were lined up along the sidewalk watching the engine pass. "Where's the fire?" Paul asked someone.

The man shrugged his shoulders and answered, "I don't know."

Paul asked someone else. But nobody seemed to know where the fire was. Jack suggested that they run down the street, in the direction the fire engine went, and perhaps they would come upon it. The boys agreed and they fell into a trot. On the way, they stopped every once in a while to inquire as to the location of the fire. But nobody seemed to know. "That's strange," muttered Jack.

"What's strange?" asked Ken.

"That no one should know where the fire is."

About a quarter of a mile down, they saw the fire engine returning. The firemen waved to people as they passed. One of the firemen shouted to a friend at the curb, "False alarm!"

"Did you hear that?" asked Jack, turning to his friends.

"Yes," answered Paul, "I heard it. I'm just wondering."

"Wondering about what?"

"Just thinking of something."

The boys began to walk back. For a while they were silent. "By golly!" exclaimed Paul, slapping his right fist into his palm. "I wouldn't be surprised if -- "

He stopped to think for a second. "If what?" asked Ken.

"If that gang," continued Paul, "were not responsible for the false alarm."

"How do you mean?" asked Jack.

"Pretty soon," commented Ken, "you will have that gang responsible for everything that happens in this town."

"But listen to this," explained Paul. "Suppose they want to move something, do you think they want any witnesses?"

"No, but -- "

"But when you hear the fire siren, people start running to the fire, there is a commotion, no one would pay any attention to something being moved in or out of a house. Isn't that right?"

"Yes," agreed Ken hesitantly, "but -- "

"How about going over there and looking around?" suggested Jack.

"No," insisted Paul. "We said we would play dead for two days and we are going to do it."

"All right, you win."




Chapter XIX

Captured!


The two days were up. Jack and Ken, waiting for Paul, sat idly about at the latter's garage. It was early morning, about nine o'clock and the day was clear and warm. Soon Paul appeared and he sat down near his friends on a box. "All right, fellows," he said, "what's to be our first move?"

"Go down to the cellar," suggested Jack. "It's early morning and probably no one will be there. We will have at least a couple of hours in which to look around."

"Yes, and perhaps we will find the secret door," added Ken.

"Let's go, then," said Paul.

Jack picked up the baseball bat and followed. "Again you're bringing along your bat," remarked Paul.

"Sure. It may come in handy."

"You're right. It might not be a bad idea for Ken and I also to take along some sort of weapon."

They stopped and looked around. Finding a stray broom handle, Ken sawed it into three pieces and Jack discarded his bat. Putting their weapons out of sight, they walked off. "How will we manage it?" asked Ken.

"We will do it the same as last time," suggested Paul. "You will stay outside and keep a careful watch while Jack and I will go down. Is that agreeable?"

Ken nodded. "It's all right with me."

Before they reached the empty house, Jack suggested that they take a look at the house in its rear, where no doubt the secret door was situated. His companions thought it was a good idea and they proceeded to do so.

Ken took his place at one corner and Paul, by walking around the block, took his place at the opposite corner. When all was ready, Jack very innocently walked down the street on the wrong side. The house under suspicion was a one family brick building with a stoop leading up to the front door; at the ground level were noticeable the small windows of the cellar. From all appearances, the house was occupied; there were curtains in the windows, several flower pots were distributed on the small porch and a rubber hose lay on the ground not far from the house.

As Jack reached the corner, he took over Ken's place and the latter strolled nonchalantly up the street, noticing everything within sight of the house. The boys got together again and discussed their impressions of the house. "Very innocent looking as far as I could see," remarked Ken.

"Don't let that fool you," asserted Paul.

The boys proceeded to the empty house. Careful not to be seen as they entered the yard, they put their ears to the ground to find out whether the printing press was in motion. Satisfied that everything was quiet below as far as they could judge they prepared for action.

Ken took his place prepared to watch, while Jack and Paul moved off and entered the house. Closing the door quietly behind them, they entered the first room on their right. Moving very cautiously, they approached the spot where the trap door was supposed to be. But at first they could not find the small piece of wood that came out of the floor. Both boys frantically hunted for that piece of wood. After about fifteen minutes of digging their nails into the floor in wild search, Jack at last came upon it and lifted it out of the floor.

Paul lifted the trap door and began to descend. Their hearts were aflutter with excitement. What awaited them below? Would they come to trouble? Would they come to grips with the gangsters? Both boys had had a taste of their medicine, but that didn't discourage them nor were they intimidated. Grasping firmly their short sticks, they walked down the steps.

It was dark below, and that was a good sign. Each of the boys carried a flashlight and lit up their way. Jack closed the trap door over his head and followed Paul. At the bottom of the stairs, Paul waited for his friend. A beam of light went all around the room and came to rest on the table. About five or six bills lay sprawled on the wooden table. Jack whispered, "Look."

Paul nodded. Together they approached the table and looked at the money bills. There were two fives, two tens and a twenty dollar bill. "Counterfeit," whispered Paul.

Jack picked one up and slipped it into his pocket. They returned to the end of the room and began a thorough search, working from one end of the room to the other. There were several pieces of clothing, many rags, various packages, and other things, such as tools and machinery about which they knew nothing. They paused to examine the printing press very carefully. They moved on. Jack whispered, "Let's try to find the secret door."

Paul nodded. "It must be over the other way," he whispered back.

They proceeded to the other end of the cellar. A beam of light moved back and forth over the wall, but no sign of a door. They tapped and groped at the wall but with no success. Suddenly their hearts fell. The faint noise of footsteps on the other side of the wall came to them. Their minds were in a whirl. What were they to do? Were they to be captured? If so what would happen to them? They already had a taste of what the gang did to anyone spying on them. What would they do now? All these thoughts flashed through their minds in an instant. Paul whispered, "Hide."

Paul dived behind a bunch of rags and pulled several of the rags over him. But Jack was not so quick. At his corner, there was no ready hiding place for him to run to. And he was still looking for one as the electric light flashed on and part of the middle of the wall was pushed open. In a flash, he noticed how the door worked; the handle of the door was pushed through on the other side, and thus a means was left for an exit; but on leaving, if the handle was pulled in, whoever was in the cellar was either imprisoned or had to use the trap door in the empty house.

As the door was thrown open, the two gangsters whom Paul had noticed with the fat fellow and the grocery man, stepped forth. Seeing Jack, one of them whipped a revolver out of his hip pocket. The second one, however, grabbed his mate by the arm and exclaimed, "Don't shoot. He is only a kid."

Advancing to Jack, the second one demanded, "What are you doing here?"

Jack held his breath and tried not to look in the direction where his chum was hiding. "Just happen to be here," he answered, his heart in his mouth, wondering what they would do to him.

The gangster became angry and boisterous. "I know you happen to be here," he cried as he gave the boy a shove that sent him sprawling. "But how do you happen to be here, that's what I want to know."

Jack picked himself up. The first man, with his gun still in his hand, mumbled to his companion, "Wait a minute, Pete, somebody else may be here. Let's look around."

"Okey, Joe. Keep this fellow covered while I look around."

He took his gun out of his pocket and let his eyes wander about the cellar. He spied the bundle of rags. Levelling the gun at it, he cried, "If you're hiding there behind the rags, you better come out or I'll shoot."

Paul thought he had better not take any chances and slowly he rose, with his hands above his head. Joe cried, "I think that's the guy the boss and I caught the other day and I socked him."

Pete demanded, "Are there any more of you in here?"

Paul shook his head. Out of the corner of their eyes, the boys glanced at each other. Both were pale and tense, but not frightened. Pete raised his fist threateningly and scowled, "If you're lying, I'll knock your block off."

Paul said, "If you don't believe me why don't you look around and see for yourself."

That seemed to satisfy the gangster and he lowered his arm. "What are you doing here?" he again demanded.

"We came upon the trap door by accident," replied Paul undaunted, "and we thought we would look and see what it was all about."

"You're sure you don't know any more than that?"

"What could we know that you don't want us to know?" asked Paul.

Pete lunged out and hit Paul on the cheek. "That'll teach you not to get fresh," he hissed.

"What'll we do with them?" asked the gangster named Joe, addressing his mate. "You think we ought to dump them?"

"No," was the snarling reply. "We'll tie them up and leave it to the boss to do with them as he pleases."

"What for?" demanded Joe. "They're a couple of rats and we ought to get rid of them."

"They're kids," argued Pete. "We dump them and you'll have the cops on our tail."

"The cops don't need to know."

"Never mind. Tie them up and don't argue."

The two gangsters faced each other and it seemed that they might get into a quarrel. "I say dump them," shouted Joe.

"And I say no," snarled back Pete.

Jack and Paul watched them face each other, leveling their guns. The boys thought it would be good luck if they did fight and kill each other. But in that case there would be shooting and they needed safe places to run to. However, Joe, the weaker of the two, gave in and muttered, "Okey. We'll tie them up."

Tearing some rags into strips, Joe tied the boy's hands and feet and their own handkerchiefs were used to put around their mouths. The job completed, they were tossed into the corner. Pete, who was watching the procedure, now said, "All right. Now grab those two packages and take them to the boss. And ask him what to do with these kids."

"And what are you gonna do?" Joe asked with malice.

"I'm going to stay here and keep an eye on these kids."

"That's all right with me," said Joe. He went to the other end of the cellar and picked up two packages wrapped in plain brown paper. Nodding to his mate, he called, "Okey, I'll be going now."

"And don't take all day coming back," snarled Pete.

Joe was gone. Pete brought over a chair and leaned it against the wall. Sitting down, he took a penknife out of his pocket, placed his gun in his lap and began to clean his fingernails. "It's too bad you kids have to pry into things you shouldn't," he muttered, addressing himself to the boys without looking at them. "It ain't healthy. You're liable to get bumped off one of these days and then where will it get you?" He paused for a moment to think and scratch his head. "Mind your own business is my motto," he continued. "If everybody would mind their own business, everything would be all right. As it is, people get into the trouble, like you kids, when you shouldn't."

He stopped talking. With their hands tied behind their backs, the boys worked feverishly to loosen their bonds. But they had to work without being suspected by their captor. And what's more, Joe had done a good and expert job. The bonds were tied so strongly they could barely move their wrists.




Chapter XX

Escape!


The boys felt cramped and awkward in their sprawling positions. The bonds cut into their wrists and ankles. Each one worked to release his hands, but the task was difficult. But even if they did untie themselves, what could they do? Pete, the gangster, sat near by with his gun in his lap. The slightest move on their part and he would shoot at them. They realized that they were in a very bad predicament.

The gangster began his preaching again. "Now if you kids had minded your own business," he said, "as you should have, you wouldn't get into this thing. You should have been out playing baseball or swimming instead of snooping around. And what do you get for it? I don't know what the boss is going to do to you. He may even dump you and that'll be too bad because you're still kids." He shook his head in dismay. "You should have minded your own business."

He put away his knife and leaned back in his chair. Taking the handle of his gun in his hand, he glanced at the boys who seemed to be pretty safely tied up, and then he closed his eyes.

Waiting a few minutes, the boys continued working on their bonds. Soon Pete began to snore. Now, if he only slept soundly for a short while so that they could work undisturbed! But the effort to free their hands was a very tiring process and in ten minutes they had not accomplished anything. Paul thought of a method. Noiselessly he began to edge up to his friend. Pete moved and the boys ceased their activity. He slept on, and Paul finally managed to creep up to Jack. Placing themselves back to back, Paul began to work on his friend's bonds.

In the meanwhile, a shadow appeared at the other end of the cellar which seemed to have descended the stairs through the trap door. He was so noiseless that even the boys did not hear his footsteps. He crept forward like a cat, a veritable shadow. Nearer and nearer he came to the sleeping form of the gangster.

Paul decided to rest his fingers for a moment and to look up at Pete to see if the gangster was still sound asleep. Doing so, he noticed the approaching form. His heart sank. Nudging his friend, Jack also looked up and together they watched the approaching form. What was he up to? Was he friend or foe? The man put a finger to his lips and motioned to the boys to keep utter quiet. It mystified them. Was he after all a friend? And all the while they had taken him for a foe.

The boys flushed with excitement and followed every stealthy move of Mr. Grey, for it was he. When he was within about a yard of Pete, he threw himself upon the gangster. The gun clattered to the ground. The gangster uttered a shriek, but the next moment his face was buried into the floor and his hands were being tied in the back with rope that Mr. Grey took out of his pocket. Following that, Pete's feet were tied. The gangster tried to turn to see who his assailant was but Mr. Grey kept his face turned toward the floor. Then Mr. Grey gagged and blindfolded the gangster and left him lying in a heap where he was.

The boys were breathless; they couldn't imagine what the man was up to. With one bound he was at their side and untying their bonds. "It's a lucky thing I got here in time," he muttered.

He helped them to their feet and motioned for them to follow him. He ran up the stairs and through the trap door. "Now run for your lives," he told them.

The boys hesitated. Paul said, "We want to thank you for saving our lives and -- "

The man cut him short with a wave of his hand. "No time to lose," he whispered rapidly. "Go."

"Who are you?" asked Jack.

The man shook his head and pushed them through the door. "Go," he commanded them for a second time.

The boys went out of the house and signalled to Ken to follow them. But he needed no signal. He was on the alert, waiting for them and frantic with worry. He jumped out of his hiding place and joined his two friends. "I thought you were goners, sure," he cried.

They sprinted away down the street. "What do you mean?" asked Jack as they ran.

"I saw Mr. Grey enter the house and -- "

Jack stopped dead in his tracks. "Say!" he exclaimed, "where did he disappear to? Did you notice, Paul?"

Paul shook his head. "No," he answered. "I guess we were so excited we didn't notice."

"What happened?" asked Ken.

"Tell you later," answered Paul. "Finish what you started to say."

"Well, as I was saying I saw Mr. Grey enter the house and I became frantic. I whistled and whistled but evidently you didn't hear me. I couldn't imagine what might happen to you and I couldn't think of anything to do or how to help. I waited and it seemed to me like a year. I was already preparing to go down there myself when you two came out."

"Nothing else happened?" asked Jack.

"Nothing else," was the reply. "Wasn't that enough?"

They slowed down to a walk as they approached Main Street. "Now tell me what happened to you," said Ken.

"Plenty happened," remarked Paul, "but let's wait until we get to the garage where we can discuss the whole thing."

At their destination, they sat down to rest. Paul and Jack heaved a sigh of relief. "What a close shave!" exclaimed Paul.

"Well, tell me, what happened?" asked Ken.

Between them, the two boys narrated the events that befell them while Ken gasped and could hardly believe it. When the story was all told, he exclaimed, "Say, this thing is getting to be dangerous. We have to do something about it."

"Yes," agreed Paul. "And we have to do it quickly. In all likelihood, those gangsters are going to return to that cellar, if they haven't already. Seeing that we escaped, they will probably try to get away by tonight."

"We have to move fast then," added Jack.

"But what are we going to do?" asked Ken. "What can we do?"

Paul leaned forward and whispered to his companions, "The police!" It struck them all at once that lately they had not thought of the police who might have saved them a lot of trouble and who were the most logical people to tell. Paul continued, "We have to tell the police right away before it is too late."

"But wait a minute," remarked Jack. "Do you think they will believe us. They are liable to think that we are inventing it all."

"We have to convince them, that's all there is to it."

"We most surely do," added Ken. "There is nothing we can do ourselves."

"Oh, yes, there are lots of things we could do ourselves if we only thought of it," commented Jack. "I don't know how wise it is to tell the police. They may just take us for a bunch of crazy kids."

"As I said," repeated Paul, "we have to convince them."

"I wonder how Mr. Grey fits into the situation. I would give a penny to know," said Jack.

"So would we all," commented Paul. "But we don't have any time to lose, so let's get going."

"Do you think we will be able to see Chief Bates himself?" asked Jack.

"I think I can manage that," replied Ken. "He knows me and I'll ask to see him."

"All right, let's go," said Jack.




Chapter XXI

Convincing The Police


The boys headed for police headquarters. They undertook their task with trepidation, wondering how they would be received, feeling that possibly it was an unwise course to take, that perhaps if they tried they might capture the gangsters themselves without having to be ridiculed by unbelieving police. And coming to think of it, all the evidence at their command was flimsy, in many cases unreasonable and illogical. Besides, they were youngsters, and if they narrated all the events, they would be considered mentally distorted. The fact that they were perfectly normal and were sincere and truthful was beside the point. It was whether they would be able to convince that would tell the tale.

They were very silent as they walked down Main Street toward police headquarters. Each one was thinking his own thoughts about the past week. Jack asked himself what the best approach might be. Paul tried hard to think how to narrate the story so that it would sound convincing, and in his mind he went over the words and phrases that he thought would be most suitable to use. Ken was thinking that with the police entering the case it would be soon ended and their mystery solved. But would it be?

Suppose the gang of counterfeiters were caught, what then? The boys had started out to solve the mystery of the white card -- who was responsible for leading Betty away to the end of the town? Who was responsible for the fires? Who was responsible for the robbery at Professor Link's? And these three things were linked together by virtue of the white card. The boys felt so convinced of the white card as a clue, that if it were found to be not so, they would be badly disappointed.

Jack muttered skeptically, "I hope we don't get thrown out before we get a chance to see Chief Bates."

Ken assured his friend, "Oh, you'll see him all right. The important thing is, can you convince him?"

Paul laughed and joked, "Whether we convince him or not, wouldn't it be a fine predicament if to crown all our effort and glory, Chief Bates throws us into jail."

"What for?" demanded Ken.

"For any number of reasons," answered Paul. "He might put us away to cool us off. Or he might jail us for doing detective work without a license."

"You don't need a license to be an amateur detective," argued Ken.

"Amateur is a perfect word for it," ironically commented Jack. "He will think we are a bunch of amateurs running wild."

"Well, let's not anticipate his reception of us. The chief might give us a bunch of onions for a prize and that would be something," remarked Paul.

"I'm hungry," exclaimed Ken. "Let's go in for an ice cream soda."

"That's the perfect idea," agreed Paul. "And I hope it will put us into the right spirit."

"Most likely it will cool us off," remarked Jack. "But I'll also have a soda."

They entered a drugstore and ordered three ice cream sodas. As Jack said, it cooled them off, but it also picked them up in spirits. They emerged smiling, cheerful, confident. The police headquarters was a short distance away and they were soon in front of the building. They hesitated before entering. Each one of them felt his heart sink low and his pulse begin to throb. Paul shrugged his shoulders and commented, "Well, as the saying goes, faint heart never won fair maiden. Let's go in."

They entered the hall. At one side was a desk with a sergeant behind it. "Yes, boys," he called to them, "What do you want?"

Ken said, "I want to see Chief Bates; my name is Ken, Ken Armstrong."

The policeman smiled patiently. "The chief is very busy, you know, and unless you have important business with him, you can't see him."

Jack piped up, "Oh, it's very important."

Paul pulled his friend away. Ken said confidently, "Oh, he will see me all right. You see, he knows me. Just say that Ken Armstrong wants to see him."

"And what shall I say is your business with him?" inquired the sergeant, amused at the boy's self confidence.

"It's personal. Just say I would like to see him."

The policeman nodded and very lazily picked up his telephone. "Hello, hello," he called into the speaker, "give me the chief's office." He waited for several seconds, in the meanwhile looking the boys up and down. Again he spoke into the mouthpiece, saying, "There's a boy here by the name of Ken Armstrong who wants to see the chief. Says that the chief knows him and will surely -- most surely -- see him." The policeman scowled as he said that. Again he waited for an answer. Several seconds later, he answered, "All right."

He hung up the receiver and turned to Ken. "I guess he knows you all right." Ken was overjoyed while his two friends were glad and cheerful. "Go down to the end of the corridor," directed the sergeant, "and then turn left. On the door that says Police Chief, go in there and his secretary will take care of you."

"Thank you," said Ken.

The three boys walked down the corridor and turned left. They entered the office of the Chief of Police and his secretary, a very attractive young woman, greeted them. "Which of you is Ken?" she asked.

Ken spoke up. "I am."

"Very well. Have a seat and Mr. Bates will see you in a few minutes. He is busy just now."

The boys sat down and the secretary returned to her desk and typewriter. To the boys it seemed that she typed faster than the eye could follow. They looked around the room and noticed the various pictures and other office furniture. Every moment was to them an hour. Jack was sure that the chief would take one look at them and then throw them out of his office. Paul wondered how it happened Ken was acquainted with Chief Bates and made a mental note to ask his friend about it.

A buzzer sounded in the room and the boys jumped up. The secretary nodded and said, "You can go in now, Ken."

Ken proceeded toward the door, followed by his friends. The secretary stopped them. "I thought only Ken was going in?"

"Oh, no," he replied. "These are friends of mine and they are coming in with me."

The young woman shrugged her shoulders. "Very well," she said, "go right in."

Ken knocked on the door and someone called loudly, "Come in."

They entered. Behind a large desk toward the rear of the room sat Chief Bates. He was a man of about forty-five, well-set, husky and strong. He called out, "Hello Ken. I'm glad to see you."

"Hello, Chief," Ken answered, "these are friends of mine. I hope you don't mind -- "

"No, not at all. Pull up chairs, boys." He leaned back in his swivel chair. When they were seated, he said, "Well what is it, Ken. But I warn you, I don't have much time, so you better talk quickly."

Ken said, "We are here to ask you a favor, Chief."

"Anything within reason, Ken," shot back the chief, "and I'll do it."

"The favor is," continued Ken, "that you listen to something very, very important."

"Very, very important," added Jack.

Ken turned to Paul and said, "You tell him, Paul."

Paul drew up his chair and leaned on the desk. He began, "You see, Chief, what we are going to tell you may sound very fantastic but I want you to believe that we are telling the truth and that we are not inventing anything."

"Go on, go on," urged the chief, nonchalantly leaning back in his chair.

"Well, to begin with," continued Paul, "we have discovered a gang of counterfeiters -- "

The chief almost jumped out of his seat. He flew forward to the desk and cried, "You have what? What are you talking about? Are you telling me stories or something?"

Paul felt his confidence shaking. He realized that the chief was a terror and would be hard to convince, but, he said to himself, he had to be convinced. "You see," he said, "already you think we are telling you some fictionized story or trying to shock you. Please listen, it's very important, and if you want to catch the gang, you have to act quickly."

"Go on, go on," said the chief, leaning on his desk.

"At 752 York Street, there is an empty house. In the cellar of that house you will find a printing press and all the things necessary to make counterfeit money."

"How do you know all that?" demanded the chief.

"We were in there; we saw everything."

"And how did you happen to be in there?"

The chief shot his questions like arrows and Paul began to waver; he was becoming confused. "That's a long story, Chief," he said, "and I am trying to come to the point directly."

"Never mind, tell me the whole story."

"But Chief Bates, that would take too long and it is important that you act quickly. The point of the story is that there are a gang of counterfeiters operating in the cellar of the empty house at 752 York Street. There is also a tunnel leading from that cellar to the cellar of the house in the rear of 752 York Street. That's how they get in and out without being noticed."

"But, my dear boy," exclaimed the chief, irritated, "how do you know all that? Do you have any evidence? How am I to believe that what you are telling me is not a hoax of some sort?"

Jack jumped to his feet, impatient and exasperated. "Why don't you go down there and find out?" he cried.

He shoved his hands deep into his pockets. Paul began to say something, but the next instant Jack jumped up and cried, "Here, here is your evidence. Look at this. When we were down there, there were a number of such bills on the table and I put this one into my pocket."

The chief picked up the fake five dollar bill that Jack had thrown on the desk and examined it carefully. He rose and walked to the door and called to his secretary. "Tell Jim Spencer I want to see him right away."

He returned to his swivel chair and said to the boys, "Now fellows, I am not doubting your story; on the contrary, I think that you may be telling the truth. But you understand that I have to question you closely." He paused and the boys looked relieved; they even smiled happily. "In the meanwhile, I do wish you would tell me the whole story, from beginning to end, how you happened to discover this gang and all that."

Paul looked at his friends and they nodded to him. Jack said, "Go on, Paul, tell him. But it will take a long time, though, Chief."

The Chief of Police nodded. "That's all right. I'm a good listener."

Just then a tall, husky man entered the office and said, "You called for me, Chief?"

"Yes. Take a look at this." And the chief gave Jim Spencer the counterfeit bill.

The detective quickly and expertly glanced at the bill and announced, "It's fake, all right, Chief. Very clever work, though. Most likely the work of Moonshine Charlie."

"You know what these boys are telling me, Jim?" asked the Chief. The detective shook his head and Bates continued, "They say that they have located the gang, have been down in their hangout and all they want now, I guess, is for us to step in and clean the gang up, isn't that so, fellows?"

"That's right," cried Jack. "And you had better hurry, too."

"Very interesting," commented Jim Spencer. "How did they happen to discover it all?"

"That's just what I'm trying to get out of them," answered the chief, "but it's like pulling teeth. Sit down and listen to the story." To Paul, he said, "All right, go on with your story."

"Well," began the boy, "how it all began may sound a little fantastic. But you remember, Chief, that a week ago today, Ken's little sister, Betty, disappeared for about an hour. Jack happened to be on Leonard Street at the moment and he saw her. He couldn't understand what she was doing there, but after questioning her for some time, she told him that a tall man bought her candy and then took her for a walk and then he left her all alone at almost the end of the town."

"And so you three became detectives and undertook to find the man, isn't that so?" commented the chief, smiling.

"Yes, but wait a minute. This man had given Betty a blank, white card."

"Here it is," cried Jack, and threw the card on the desk.

The chief and the detective glanced at it casually. "Go on," said the chief.

"Several days later," continued Paul, "there was a fire on Water Street and -- "

"Yes. I remember that," said the chief. "And you very bravely ran into the burning house and saved an old couple and an infant. That was a very brave deed, my boy."

"The important thing," said Paul, "is that in the door of the room where the infant was, I found another card like that." He searched in his pocket and produced the evidence. The chief and the detective examined the two cards. "And to make a long story short," continued Paul, "there was a robbery at Professor Link's and -- "

"And you found another such card," said the chief, interrupting.

"Yes."

"But that is no evidence; it means nothing," said the chief. "You can find cards like these everywhere you go, by the dozen."

"Well, that may be so," said Paul. "But to us it was evidence, and we figured that the same man committed all the three crimes. And we decided to track him down."

"Why didn't you come to us and tell us?" demanded Chief Bates.

Paul was perspiring. He was very tense and he felt that he was being hindered rather than helped. "Well, I don't know," he remarked, "I guess we didn't think of it."

"Didn't think of it!" exclaimed the chief.

Jack saw how his friend was suffering and he jumped to his feet and cried, "What difference does all that make? The important thing is that we discovered the gang of counterfeiters and if you don't act quickly they will escape."

"I'm sorry for interrupting," said the chief, somewhat embarrassed. "Go on with your story."

"Well, we came across this man. To us he is known as Mr. Grey. And -- "

"And how did you come across him and how did you know it was he?"

"There are a lot of little details that I'm leaving out to make the story short. At any rate, Jack followed him one night to the empty house at 752 York Street. We searched the house several times until we found the secret door to the cellar. And that's the end of the story."

"Well, there are some other things too, but we can tell you that later."

The chief and the detective eyed each other. Detective Spencer asked, "Do you happen by any chance to know any of the members of this counterfeit gang?"

Paul nodded. "Yes," he answered. "The fellow they call the boss and who seems to be the chief is a big, fat, dark featured individual. The -- "

Chief Bates and the detective exclaimed simultaneously, "Moonshine Charlie!"

"Two other men call themselves Pete and Joe. Another member of the gang is a man who runs a grocery store at Main and Jones Streets."

"Don't forget Mr. Grey," added Jack.

Paul nodded and said, "That's right, and Mr. Grey. That's all we know."

"That's plenty," cried Jim Spencer. "Where is their hangout?"

"At 752 York Street; in the cellar."

Just then they were interrupted by the entrance of the secretary, who said, "A gentleman to see you, Mr. Bates. He -- "

The man was directly behind her and he said, "Never mind telling who I am and what my business is. I'll do it myself."

Everybody looked at the speaker. The boys jumped to their feet as if they had been touched by an electric spark. Simultaneously, they all cried, "Mr. Grey!"




Chapter XXII

Mr. Grey


Indeed, it was Mr. Grey. He stood there looking at them, smiling, self-confident. By now the chief and Jim Spencer had also jumped to their feet. Everyone was staring speechless at the gaunt man. Jack cried, "Who are you?"

The chief added, "Yes, tell us who you are and what you want."

Mr. Grey walked over to the desk. Pausing for a moment to eye the secretary, she blushed and left the room. When the door was closed, he took a badge out of his pocket and showed it to the chief.

"Oh!" exclaimed the chief. "I'm glad to meet you."

"Who is he, Chief Bates?" demanded Jack.

"A government man," was the snappy retort.

"Then why did we find him among the gang?" demanded Jack. "Anyone can get himself a badge. Let him really identify himself."

They all eyed Mr. Grey. Paul and Ken felt horrified by Jack's demand but they felt that he was right, reasonable. Wasn't it possible for him to pass off as a government man and yet be in reality a member of the gang? Mr. Grey said smilingly, "That boy will some day make a very good sleuth."

"Well, you're wrong," retorted Jack. "I'm going to study to be a doctor."

That set everybody to laughing. Addressing Chief Bates, Mr. Grey asked, "What have the boys been telling you?"

This time Paul was on his feet. He felt that Jack was correct in his demand that the man identify himself further. And the fact that the man was trying to evade it, aroused his own suspicions. "Why don't you identify yourself?" he demanded. "How do we know who you are? For all we know, you may be a member of the gang, as we have thought right along, and only pretending that you are a government man."

Mr. Grey raised his eyebrows but did not lose any of his equanimity. He smiled and seemed perfectly at ease. The chief remarked humorously, "It seems that this thing has passed completely out of my hands. So you two had better settle the issue."

Mr. Grey said, "These boys are all right. No. As a matter of fact, they are better than that. They are shrewd, fine detectives. You ought to acquire them for your force, Chief."

He took his coat off and ripped the seam open. Producing several papers, he handed them to Chief Bates, who looked them over carefully. Then Mr. Grey rolled up the sleeve of his right arm and revealed a red gash of about two inches long. The chief was convinced. "Good!" he exclaimed. Addressing the boys, he said, "He has identified himself beyond any doubt."

The boys were satisfied. Jack said, "All right, now we know. But do you mind, Mr. er -- "

"Mr. Grey."

"Do you mind Mr. Grey, telling us the mystery of the white cards, your being with the grocery man who is a member of the gang and -- "

"When the time comes, my boy," he answered, "you will know everything. In the meanwhile, may I repeat my former question. What have the boys been telling you?"

Chief Bates cleared his throat. With a twinkle in his eye, he remarked, "They have been giving me a cock and bull story about a gang of counterfeiters."

"Well, it just happens to be true," announced Mr. Grey.

For a short while there was silence, as though they were all overcome by the government man's statement. "Is it the Moonshine Charlie gang?" asked Jim Spencer.

"That's right," answered Mr. Grey. "And I'm here to ask you for ten men to round up the gang."

"Right away?" asked Chief Bates.

"Right away."

"Jim," said the chief, addressing his detective, "round up ten men and get them ready. What else, Mr. Grey?"

"Nothing else," he answered. "That is, for the present." Addressing the boys, he said, "Well, fellows, how do you think we ought to go about it? But before we discuss that, may I know who you are?"

Paul rose. "My name is Paul -- Paul Morrison. And I'm glad to know you, Mr. Grey."

"Thank you. You fellows have done some very good work."

"And this is Jack Stormways," introduced Paul.

The two shook hands. Jack remarked, "I'm not going to say I'm glad to know you, but rather glad to meet you. After having followed you so much, I think I know you by now."

Mr. Grey smiled. "Yes," said Mr. Grey, "you have followed me around a great deal and rather expertly, too."

"Thank you," said Jack, grinning with pleasure.

"And this is Ken Armstrong."

The two shook hands. "Now," said Mr. Grey, "how are we going to finish the job and capture the gang? What's your idea, fellows?"

Paul said, "I guess you ought to know that better than any of us. We will leave that to you."

"Just one favor," exclaimed Jack.

"What?"

"May we go along? I'd like to be in on it."

Mr. Grey and the chief exchanged glances. The chief shook his head. "It's going to be dangerous," remarked Mr. Grey.

"Any more dangerous than what we have already done?" asked Jack.

"There may be shooting. And you might get hurt."

"I guess we could keep out of the way. We might keep in the background."

"Well," conceded Mr. Grey, "if the chief has no objections, I'll get you into action somehow." The chief shrugged his shoulders. "After all," he commented, "who am I to deny them their fun?"

"That's swell," cried Jack.

Just then, Detective Spencer returned to the office and announced that everything was ready. "I'll tell you what you can do first, boys. Suppose Paul and Ken and two officers go down to the grocery store at Jones Street and arrest Harriman, the grocery man. If he isn't in the store, he is upstairs, in the first room on your right."

"And what am I going to do?" asked Jack.

"You will come with me," said the government man.

The boys rose. "Are we all ready?" asked the chief. "Because I'm also going along."

"If you will excuse me," said Mr. Grey, "I don't think you should."

"All right. If you insist."

"For best interest all around."

The chief nodded. Addressing the boys, he said, "Well, fellows, it seems that you were right and I want to apologize for questioning you and doubting you. And let me tell you that I appreciate everything you have done and I shall see to it that you are in some small way rewarded."

The boys beamed with delight. Mr. Grey remarked, "They certainly deserve it, Chief. You ought to make them honorary members of your force."

"Now, that's a serious thing," answered Chief Bates hesitantly. "But I shall certainly consider it."

"Well, goodbye," said Ken. "Thanks for listening to our story."

"The thanks is all on my side," returned the Chief. "And good luck."

They left the office. In the waiting room, Mr. Grey whispered something in the secretary's ear and she blushed and waved him away. In the corridor, they walked to the rear of the building, where autos and policemen, armed, waited for them. Mr. Grey gave the necessary orders, and with screaming sirens, they were off.




Chapter XXIII

Paul Helps Out


Paul and Ken had entered a large automobile with three detectives. One was driving, while the other two talked to the boys. The other cars went west to drive, at the direction of Mr. Grey, a roundabout way. The single auto drove along Main Street. The driver did not use his siren, preferring to proceed quietly and arouse no curiosity. Detective Walters, who was in charge of the detail asked Paul, "You know this fellow Harriman, the grocery store keeper, don't you? You could easily identify him, couldn't you?"

"Oh, yes, very easily."

"Fine, then you and I will enter the store and pick him up. As for you boys," meaning his fellow policemen, "one of you will cover the front of the house, and the other, the rear of the house. As for you, young fellow," and he addressed Ken, "you know how to drive a car, don't you?"

"Yes, of course. I drive my dad's car all the time."

"That's fine. You stay in the car. Get behind the wheel and if there is any chasing to do, you will drive the car. Everybody now knows what he is to do?" he asked, looking from one man to the other.

"Yes," was the answer of all of them.

The boys felt excited. They liked the way Walters treated them. They felt as though they were members of the force with certain jobs assigned to them. They looked forward to doing as well as they could.

The next moment the car came to a halt at the corner across from the grocery store. Paul immediately jumped out of the car with the detectives and Ken at once took his place behind the steering wheel. The detectives carried no rifles as they did not wish to arouse suspicion. They were merely armed with their service revolvers which they held ready in their coat pockets.

Walters waited for his mates to take their places and then he nodded to each one of them in turn. To Paul, he whispered hurriedly, "In case of trouble, take shelter right away; get out of the way of the line of fire. You understand?"

"Yes, sir," was his meek reply.

Paul felt a wave of excitement. He felt a little anxious and hoped everything would pass off quietly without anyone coming to harm.

Walters, with Paul at his side, started to cross the street toward the grocery store. They mounted the sidewalk and approached the door. Suddenly a shot rang out, fired, so it seemed to Paul, point blank at them. Immediately Walters, with his left hand, shoved Paul to one side and sent him sprawling. As for himself, he dodged behind the wall. Evidently, the grocery man had seen them coming and had realized who they were and what they were up to. And it further seemed that he did not intend to give up without a violent struggle. Walters shouted, "Come on out or we are coming in to get you."

For an answer another shot rang out. Harriman meant business and no fooling. Walters signalled to his fellow detectives covering the front of the house and the man crawled across the street to the car at the curb. "Duck," he said to Ken.

Ken complied and lowered himself in the car. The detective took out two rifles, a couple of boxes of ammunition which he shoved into his pocket and a square box. With this load he crept back into position. Suddenly Walters ran across the front of the store and joined him. The next instant a shot rang out. But it was too late. Walters was safe and sheltered by lying flat on the ground behind the curb. "Come on out," he called for a second time, "or we'll give you the works."

Again the answer was a shot. Walters picked up a small stone lying nearby, and, without raising himself, threw it and shattered the window. Several shots rang out and Walters and his mate returned the fire just to impress the gangster.

In the meanwhile, the detective who covered the rear of the house, had also run back of the car, got himself a rifle, a box of cartridges and a square box similar to the one taken by his fellow detective. In an instant he returned to his position.

Walters shouted, "Harriman, if you don't come out willingly, you'll be carried out."

No answer. For several tense moments there was silence. A number of people had collected on the opposite sidewalk and Ken waved to them to get out of the way. The next moment he tore open the square box and took out what looked like a baseball and threw it into the store through the broken window. There was an explosion and a cloud of smoke rose. An instant later, two women burst through the door; they were coughing frantically and rubbing their eyes. One of the women was the wife of the grocery man, the other a customer who by chance had happened to be in the store at the moment. Walters shouted to them, "This way. Come here."

The other detective took the two women and led them to the automobile. "Stay here," he told them.

Taking out his revolver, he gave it to Ken and said, "Now be careful. Keep the women here and don't let them get away. You understand?"

Ken gripped the weapon and nodded, "Yes, sir."

The detective then stole back to his position. But just then, a cry arose from the rear of the house. Harriman appeared at the back of the house and was surprised by the detective who now shouted to Walters the news. Walters left his mate to cover the front and ran to the empty lot adjoining the corner house. Harriman, in an effort to escape the tear gas inside the store, rushed out of the rear door and took a position behind a cluster of bricks that seemed to form a very natural fortress. He was cornered, but it seemed that he refused to surrender without a violent struggle. It also seemed that he was very well armed, having two revolvers and plenty of ammunition.

Shots continued to ring out in an exchange of fire. Walters looked around for a way of getting at the gangster's rear. There was only one way and that was through the house. But immediately Walters realized that to move out of his shelter behind a tree would take him into the open and make of him a very simple target. It occurred to him that he was now just as well cornered as his prey and that the only alternative was to shoot it out, unless of course the detective left to guard the front of the house took the initiative and got at Harriman's rear.

Now let us see what happened to Paul in the meanwhile. When Walters pushed him and sent him sprawling, he was on the side of the house facing Main Street. He wondered what he could do. His investigation several days before had revealed to him the door at the rear of the house. But he thought that the grocery man, realizing the odds against him, would certainly surrender. He had no idea that Harriman would be so stubborn and defy the policemen. But he did. And the more Paul waited for the gangster to surrender, the more he realized that the grocery store keeper was bent on violence. After the barrage of tear gas and the cry announcing the gangster at the rear of the house, he lifted himself slightly off the ground and made sure of the exact spot where Harriman had barricaded himself.

Thinking quickly, he rushed to the corner and waved to the detective, hoping that the man would understand what he was up to. The next moment he rushed into the hall of the house where the stairs were leading upstairs. He figured that there must be a door leading from the hall into the store. But he didn't want to get into the store. And he tried to think how Harriman had escaped from the store to the rear of the house. He looked around. There was only one door at the end of the hall. Approaching noiselessly, he pulled the door open. To his complete amazement, he was directly behind the gangster who was absorbed by the fire of the detectives. Without hesitating or giving Harriman a chance to realize his danger, Paul let out a most horrible shriek and threw himself on the gangster. Harriman looked up, his face pale and frightened. He turned to fire at Paul, but it was too late. The boy was already on top of him and pinning his arms.

Harriman was a bulky, strong individual. With Paul on top of him, he rose and was on the point of whirling his assailant off. But by this time the two detectives were also on top of him and pinned his arms. Paul slipped off the gangster's back. In an instant Walters slapped handcuffs on the gangster. Turning to Paul, he cried, "You fool!"

Paul smiled and appeared quite calm and confident. Walters slapped him on the back and together they escorted the criminal to the automobile, while the other detective began to pick up Harriman's guns and ammunition.




Chapter XXIV

Battle


Siren screaming, Ken drove the car down Main Street and to police headquarters. Chief Bates met them and congratulated them on their capture. "Any trouble, boys?" he asked.

Walters smiled and said, "It seems, Chief, that we couldn't get along without these youngsters." He pointed to Paul, and asked, "Do you know what he did, this kid?"

The chief shook his head and asked, "What did he do? Get into trouble again or something?"

"Well, if it wasn't for him," was the answer, "we would still be there pegging away at each other. That kid up and jumped the gangster. All we had to do was to take him into custody."

The chief laughed uproariously. "Some detectives you are!" he exclaimed. "Letting a kid do your work!"

"I tell you, Chief, there is no getting away with it -- these kids are the tops," said Walters, slapping Paul on the back.

"But seriously, though," remarked the chief, "I don't want you fellows to get into any trouble. Do you hear me?" he demanded, pretending he was being tough on them. "You have done enough and I want you to keep out of harm."

Paul smiled. "All right, Chief," he said. "Did you hear from the others?"

"No, I didn't," he answered. Addressing his detectives, he said, "You boys better run down there and give them a hand if they need it."

"May we go along?" asked Ken.

"All right. I guess these detectives of mine wouldn't be able to find the place or know what to do without you." They all laughed heartily. "But don't get into more trouble, do you hear me, you two?"

The three detectives and Paul and Ken got into the car and rode off. At their destination, they came upon a pitched battle. It seemed that the gang was a tough bunch and ready to battle the law rather than surrender in spite of the heavy odds against them.

At the corner of York Street, when the police cars arrived, they stopped and Mr. Grey had issued instructions. Four of the detectives he instructed to take up varying positions across the street from the house which led to the secret door. Accompanied by three more policemen and Jack, he went to 752 York Street. The detectives he told to deploy around the house and Jack he warned to keep out of the way. On second thought, he turned to Jack and said, "You go back there and watch those automobiles."

Reluctantly, Jack went to obey and sat himself in the second car. He wanted to be in on the action, but he realized why the government agent wanted him out of the way.

The detectives were armed with rifles and sub-machine guns. Mr. Grey looked around to see if all his men were in position. He gave the signal for all of them to be on the alert. Gripping his revolver, he entered the empty house and left the door open. Noiselessly, he opened the trap door and descended the stairs. The cellar was lit up and that told him that the gangsters were there. As far as he knew, Joe and Pete were surely there, but he didn't know whether Moonshine Charlie himself was there. He paused to listen, and only the voices of the two reached him. For several seconds he debated with himself whether to wait until the arrival of the boss. On the other hand, he thought, he might seize the two and then let Moonshine Charlie walk into a trap.

Descending noiselessly, he came to the bottom of the stairs. The two gangsters were at the table, Pete with his right side toward Mr. Grey and Joe having his back toward the agent. Mr. Grey levelled his gun and muttered threateningly, "Put your hands up, boys. Quick. Reach for the ceiling and no monkey business."

The two gangsters jumped to their feet and put their hands up above their heads. Pete cried, "What the -- What's all this about?"

"You'll find out right away," was the answer. Mr. Grey saw them edging toward the back of the table and he warned them, "Don't you move or I'll plug you."

But the next instant Pete turned over the table with his leg and the two gangsters threw themselves behind it. Mr. Grey fired, the bullet burying itself in the wooden table. Pete fired back and the government agent threw himself on the floor and crept behind the stairs for protection. "The house is surrounded," he told them. "You had better surrender if you want to get out alive."

Pete tossed back, "Like hell!"

He fired and Mr. Grey returned. Pulling the table along, they moved gradually back toward the secret door. The government agent realized that their escape through the tunnel into the next house was safe and sure; there was nothing he could do about it. So he let them work their way gradually back. Joe raised his arms to pull open the door and the next moment he grabbed it away, letting out a yell. Mr. Grey had fired and the bullet had pierced the gangster's hand. But the door was now ajar, and in a moment they pulled it open and escaped.

Mr. Grey ran forward and whatever he could find, he piled up against the door, shutting off their return into the cellar. The gangsters were now trapped in the second house. The government man ran up the stairs, and cautiously emerged from the house, to make sure his own men did not fire on him. Coming out into the open, he directed his men to close up on the house.

In the meanwhile, the gangsters, realizing that their escape was cut off at both ends, set up sub-machine guns at both ends of the house and began to rake every inch of ground within sight. The detectives got busy. Several of them used their own sub-machine guns. Others, picking up stones wherever they found them, managed to break every window in the house.

The detectives ripped open the square boxes and began to throw tear gas into the house through the open windows. Several of the bombs fell short of the house, and pretty soon the whole house was enveloped in thick clouds of smoke. There was no wind and the smoke hung in the air in and around the house. Within five minutes, both gangsters stumbled out of the doorway, coughing hard and trying hard to keep their hands above their heads.

Several of the detectives immediately ran forward and grabbed them, at the same time dragging them away from the clouds of tear gas. They were immediately surrounded and handcuffed. Just then a siren screamed and everyone turned to see what was happening.

Jack was sitting in the car and watched the battle. He was glad now that he was at a safe distance. It was too bloody an affair for him. After a while, he leaned back in the seat and paid no attention to what was going on. He waited for the finish and for the detectives to return. He heard the crackling of rifle fire and the explosion of bombs.

Resting in the back seat of the automobile he only hoped that no one would be hit and that all would turn out well. Why couldn't the gangsters give up, he thought to himself. Couldn't they see that the odds were against them? And even if they should escape this time, which was impossible, they would still be hunted and caught by the police of some other town or city.

Jack leaned forward and peeked out of the window. He caught his breath and became tense. There was a man across the street who looked very familiar and appeared to be exceedingly interested in the battle that was going on between the criminals and the police. The man, tall, fat, husky, stood in front of a roadster that evidently belonged to him. "Moonshine Charlie," Jack thought to himself.

Yet he had not heard the man drive up. It was because he was absorbed in his own thoughts. Now what am I to do? What can I do? These questions came to Jack's mind, yet he found no answer. It was no use to call one of the detectives; the gangster might disappear in the meanwhile. What could he do?

Jack became conscious of the fact that the firing had ceased. He saw the fat man get into his car and drive off, turning into the next corner. Jack jumped to the wheel, set off the siren screaming and was immediately chasing the gangster.




Chapter XXV

Into The Lake


The detectives were startled by the sound of the siren but it immediately put them on their guard. Seeing the car which Moonshine Charlie was driving, tearing down the street, they thought something was wrong and they threw themselves to the ground. The gangster was bent on revenge, though there was little he could do. His plan evidently was to drive by the group of detectives, and through the open window of his car, fire on them as he passed. It was a violent gesture, born of hate and contempt.

The detectives threw themselves on the ground, dragging the two gangsters down with them. Moonshine Charlie fired four or five times as he sped by, but all his shots were futile and hurt no one. However, Jack was only a couple of yards behind him. The boy slowed down as he came alongside a group of policemen. Mr. Grey jumped forth and leaped onto the running board. "Drive!" he cried.

The car leaped forward and flew out of sight. The gangster kept speeding straight ahead. Jack kept his siren screaming and hoped no one would get in his way. Mr. Grey assured himself of a firm hold and then turned his attention to the fleeing automobile ahead of him. The police car was much more powerful and Jack was gaining gradually. Mr. Grey aimed and then fired, but with no result.

Moonshine Charlie turned the next corner on two wheels. Jack was after him. The gangster began to zigzag and that was to his disadvantage because that enabled Jack to gain considerable distance on him. Mr. Grey fired a second time, but again, the shot had no effect. Suddenly Jack caught his breath. Moonshine Charlie had turned a corner. The boy knew that it was a dead end street and unless the gangster slowed up, the car would run straight into the lake.

Jack slowed up as he turned the corner. Mr. Grey of course did not realize why, but as soon as the corner was turned, he saw for himself. The gangster didn't know it was a dead end street. It was too late when he realized it. Slamming on the brakes, the car seemed to shiver and bounce into the air. Evidently Moonshine Charlie had lost control of his machine, for it ran onto the sidewalk, almost crashed into the brick wall of a house, and then leaped through the wooden fence and into the lake.

Jack pulled the car up to the curb and stopped. Mr. Grey and he rushed up to the lake. The terrible splash of the water caused by the plunging automobile was already becoming calm. Jack stared at the approximate spot and shivered. Mr. Grey asked, "Anything wrong, fellow?"

"No," was the meek answer. There was a short silent pause, then he remarked with deep feeling, "It's a terrible death."

The government agent nodded silently, then replied, "He lived a terrible life."

By now a crowd had gathered and several reporters and photographers had arrived. Mr. Grey and Jack pushed their way through and drove off again. "Shall we go back and see if the men are still there?" asked Jack.

Mr. Grey nodded. "Yes, let's go back."

For a short while they drove along in silence. Jack felt so shaken by the incident that he drove the car at a very slow pace. The agent commented, "It's a good thing you happened to be there on the spot, or else he would have gotten away and might also have wounded some of the men."

"Yes," answered Jack ironically, "I thought I was safely out of it when bang, there. I was right in it."

Mr. Grey regained his good humor and laughed. "It seems that we can't get along without you fellows. You boys have done more in the capture of the gang than I and the detectives did. I wonder if they got Harriman all right."

"I don't suppose they had any difficulty," was Jack's opinion.

"I'm not so sure of that," was the contrary opinion. "Harriman was a violent sort of person, very temperamental and brutal. But for that matter they all were. A tough bunch they were."

They arrived at the scene of the battle. The change was now so vastly different, that Mr. Grey commented upon the fact, "Suddenly, everything is again quiet and serene. Isn't it wonderful?"

Jack was silent. There was no one in view and they assumed that the detectives with their prisoners had returned to police headquarters. Mr. Grey suggested that they enter the house and see what was inside. Jack had no objection and together they mounted the few steps to the porch and entered the house. The door opened on a small foyer, with stairs leading up to the rooms above. On their left was a door which Mr. Grey opened and they entered. The room was fairly well furnished as a living room, but now, after the battle, it was in considerable disorder.

They went from room to room and then upstairs. They were all fairly well furnished. Except for the two rooms which were used by the gangsters in their struggle with the police, the furniture was not at all disturbed. Jack asked, "Did the gangsters occupy this house?"

"In a fashion. But they didn't live here," the agent informed him. "Actually they lived at the hotel, but they used this house from which to carry on their operations. Let's go, shall we?"

They returned to their car and drove back to police headquarters. There they found that the prisoners had been brought in and put in jail; not one of the detectives had been hurt. The chief greeted them and shook Mr. Grey's hand. "Great work," he said, "great work. Did you get Moonshine Charlie?"

The government agent shook his head sadly and replied, "No, I'm sorry to say I didn't." He turned to Jack for confirmation. "You see," he continued, "he got away. We were just about to grab him when phizz, up he goes and jumps into the lake."

"Jumps into the lake!" exclaimed the chief.

"Yes," was the answer. "You see, he was going so fast, he couldn't stop himself."

"He fell in, car and all," added Jack.

Chief Bates heaved a sigh of relief. "Whew! For a moment you had me thinking that he actually got away."

"Well, he did," insisted Mr. Grey. "He got away so cleanly, no one will ever catch him again."

The chief and the detectives laughed. Catching sight of Jack, the chief pulled him forward and shook him by the hand. "I already heard of what you did, fellow," he said. "That was very bravely done."

"As I was telling him just before," commented Mr. Grey, "I don't know what we would have done without him and his friends. They did more to capture the gang than all of us put together."

"You didn't hear all of it," exclaimed the chief. "Did you hear what his friend, Paul Morrison, did?"

Jack nodded and wondered what Paul had been up to now. "What this fellow, Paul, did?" continued the chief. "He went with three men to take Harriman into custody. Well, this fellow put up a tough battle. To make a long story short, he came out of the rear of his store, barricaded himself and fired shot for shot. They might still be there shooting it out if it wasn't for this fellow. He sneaked up on his rear, jumped the gangster, and bingo! there he was all captured and no longer tough and fighting."

Mr. Grey laughed heartily. "These fellows," he remarked, "are showing us all up. Did I say before you ought to make them honorary members of your force? I take it back. They would show your men up so, the whole force would soon be plagued with an inferiority complex."

The chief roared and slapped his knee. "That's a good one," he cried.

Jack said, "By the way, where are Ken and Paul?"

"They are in the detectives' room. Shall I call them? Do you want them?"

"Well, it's about time we went home."

Mr. Grey laughed. "Notice how calm and nonchalant he is and with what poise he said that," commented the government agent. "The job is done, nothing else to do, so it's about time to go home, just like that."

Jack blushed and Chief Bates laughed. "Well," he said, "there is really no reason why the boys should not go home."

"No, I guess not. I think they deserve it."

"Yes." The chief winked to the government agent. "I think I will send them home in an official car."

"Oh, that isn't necessary at all," cried Jack. "We can just as well walk home."

He rose to his feet as if he intended to leave. "Now you just sit there," said the chief. Opening the door of his office, he called his secretary to have the boys come in.

Chief Bates and the government agent continued their joking. A minute later Jack and Ken and Walters entered. "Oh, there you are," cried Paul. "We didn't know where you were and what happened to you."

"Yes," added Ken, "we were waiting for you."

"Well, here I am," Jack informed his friends, "and I think it's time we went home."

Chief Bates, addressing the detective, said, "Walters, will you please take the boys home?"

"Oh, that isn't necessary at all," cried Paul. "Thanks all the same. But we can walk home."

"Notice the modesty of them," remarked Mr. Grey. "It's really funny."

The chief laughed. "All right," said Walters, "if you're ready, let's go."

Chief Bates came around the desk and shook hands with them. "Any time I can do anything for you boys," he said seriously, "don't forget to call on me."

"And when you want some good detective work done," intervened Mr. Grey, "you call on them."

The boys were beginning to feel uncomfortable. The government agent rose and approached them. "Well, boys," he said, "it was a real pleasure to work with you." He paused for a second, then added, "The only trouble of collaborating with you is that you do all the work and leave the other fellow nothing to do."

There was laughter all around. Then Jack said, "Mr. Grey, you must not forget that we want to talk some things over with you. There are a couple of mysterious details that we think, you can clear up for us."

The man bowed low and replied, "I am at your disposal, sir."

"Perhaps you might visit us tonight at my house," added Paul. "Then you could tell us everything."

"That's right," nodded Ken. "How about it?"

"I shall be there at eight sharp, gentlemen."

The boys smiled at the man's behavior. He was really lots of fun. They said goodbye all around and left, accompanied by Walters.




Chapter XXVI

Trouble At Home


The boys got into the official car with Walters at the wheel. Jack and Ken sat in the back while Paul sat in the front with the driver. Paul remarked, "Now that all that is done, our real work begins."

"What do you mean?" asked Ken.

"Do you remember what we originally started out to solve?" Paul asked.

"I was just thinking of that," muttered Jack. "We have gotten as far away from the original mystery as we could."

"What are you kids talking about?" asked Walters.

"Well," said Paul for the detective's information, "we happened to discover the gang of counterfeiters by...."

"You don't mean to tell me that it was you fellows who discovered them!" exclaimed the detective.

"Well, in a small way, yes."

"That's a rich one," was Walters' retort. "But go on with what you were saying."

"What I was going to say," continued Paul, "was that some maniac has been roaming through town and doing things, always leaving a white card to mark his visit there."

"You don't say!" remarked Walters. "And you're trying to track him down?"

"That's right."

"How did you find out about this fellow with the white card?"

"Well, do you remember when Ken's little sister, Betty, was reported missing for about an hour and then turned up again?"

"Why, yes, I remember the case. And I don't think anything was done about it."

"No," said Paul. "But that's how we began our investigation that led up to the discovery of 752 York Street."

"Now that's very interesting," commented the detective. "How did it happen?"

"Well, you see, Jack found her all the way out on Leonard Street. Questioning her, she told him that a man bought her candy and then took her for a walk and left her there."

"And then what?"

"Well, the man also gave her a white card. And that's how our investigation began."

"Wait a minute," cried Jack, flushed with excitement. "Do you remember that all along we have been thinking that Mr. Grey was that man and that is why we were following him and all that, just waiting to jump on him?"

Ken exclaimed, "Why that is right, come to think of it."

Walters laughed. "So Mr. Grey is the guilty party. That's good."

And he laughed some more. "What are we going to do, Paul?"

"We will just have to ask him, I guess," was the reply. "I imagine he will be able to clear up a lot of details for us."

"Yes," said Ken, "but you don't think he was responsible for the fires and the robbery at Professor Link's, do you?"

"What about the fires and that robbery you are talking about?" asked Walters.

"We found that there have lately been more than an average number of fires in town."

"That's right," agreed the detective. "I remember that Captain Bob has spoken to the chief about it and I think that a detective has been put on the case. I'll find out who it is and tell him to look you up."

The detective treated it as a good joke. While he was still laughing Paul remarked, "Yes, send him over. We may be able to give him some valuable information."

The detective was still more amused and the boys laughed too. "That's right, Walters," echoed Ken, "some day when you have a case you can't solve, call on us."

"I think we have been talking too much," replied the detective.

The car pulled up to the curb in front of the Morrison home. Paul and Ken, who lived across the street, jumped out. They waved to Jack and Walters as the car sped away to deliver the last of the trio home.

Paul rushed into the house and upstairs to his room. His mother as yet knew nothing about her son's adventure. Later on, she called him to dinner. Dr. Morrison walked in. Seeing his son, he exclaimed, "Well, well! Permit me to congratulate you, my boy. I didn't know we had a hero in the family."

Paul blushed and became very busy with his grape fruit. Mrs. Morrison asked innocently, "A hero in the family? What are you talking about?"

Dr. Morrison waved a newspaper. "Just take a look at the evening paper and you'll see. His picture is in there and the whole story of how he and his friends captured a gang of counterfeiters."

Paul's head sunk lower. So his picture was in the paper! He wondered how the reporters got it and whether Jack's and Ken's pictures were also in the paper. He was itching to read what the papers had to say about the affair. But his mother grabbed the newspaper and read it breathlessly. A minute later she looked up and demanded, "Paul Morrison! Will you please tell me what this is all about?"

Paul shook his head meekly. "Why nothing, Mother," he whispered. "It just happened that I...."

He faltered and his mother said, "It just happened! I will be very glad to see you go off to college. You will be too busy there to get into mischief."

But the next moment she smiled sweetly and and came around the table and kissed him. Dr. Morrison was beaming. He had always been proud of his son. He said, addressing his wife, "He is all right; he is one boy who can take care of himself."

"I'm sure of that," answered Mrs. Morrison, "but for my peace of mind I wish he would keep out of trouble. I hope college will do that -- keep him out of mischief."

Just then the maid entered and announced that Paul was wanted on the telephone. He went into the foyer and picked up the receiver. It was Jack. "Hello."

"Hello, Paul. Are you in trouble with your family about the affair?"

"A little."

"Well, so am I. Goodbye."

Paul went back to the dining room. His father said, "Now, since you were a participant, do you mind telling us a few of the details?" So Paul started in to relate the whole story.

At the Armstrong home, it happened a little differently. Ken entered the house and went to wash up. Soon his father returned home from the office, carrying an evening paper. Looking around for his son, he found the boy in the library reading a story to his little sister Betty. Mr. Armstrong walked in, stood over the boy for several seconds, pretending that he was going to give him a good verbal thrashing, then exclaimed, "So! So you have decided to become a detective!"

"What's a defective?" Betty asked innocently.

Ken and his father burst out laughing. Mr. Armstrong bent down and said to the child, "Detective, honey. The word is detective."

Ken still laughed. He thought his little sister was cunning in the way she had said it. Turning to his son, Mr. Armstrong asked, "Well, what is it all about?"

"What does the paper say?" asked Ken.

"Here, see for yourself." And Mr. Armstrong gave the evening paper to his son. "Your picture is in it and Chief Bates is quoted as saying that you were real heroes. Imagine it, my son a hero!"

"Well, what's wrong with that, Dad?" asked Ken.

Just then Mrs. Armstrong entered.

Mr. Armstrong said, "Will you come here a second, Mother? I want to tell you something." She came into the library. "Did you know that your son is a hero?" asked her husband.

"What did he do now?" she inquired calmly.

"Give your mother the newspaper, Ken."

Mrs. Armstrong took the paper and glanced at the headlines and the pictures. She said calmly, "Nothing surprises me. What these boys can't get into has not been invented yet. Come to dinner."

They rose to comply. Mr. Armstrong put an arm around the boy's shoulder and said, "You're all right, son. But I do hope college will tame you and your friends a bit."

They went into the dining room. When they were about half through the meal Ken was called to the telephone. It was Jack. "Hello, Ken."

"Hello, Jack. What's up?"

"Are you having trouble with your family about that affair?"

"No, not really. My father and mother took it very well."

"Well, I am. Goodbye."

Jack's reception had been different. When he got into the house, he found his mother waiting for him. One of the neighbors, who had been out shopping returned home with an afternoon newspaper. She immediately ran over to show Mrs. Stormways the headlines and the pictures of Jack and his friends. Jack's mother first became frightened, and was on the point of calling Chief Bates to inquire further into the matter. But then she thought it would be better to wait until her son returned. It was evident that no harm had come to him, or it would have been in the paper.

She waited for her son. At last he came and she asked him, "Well, Jack Stormways, what is this all about?"

"What is what about, Mother?"

He really did not know that the story was in the afternoon papers and that his mother knew the situation. She showed him the paper with the headlines and the pictures. His first comment was, "Not such a bad picture of me and the boys, is it, Mother?"

The remark took her breath away for a moment. His calmness and self-assurance overwhelmed her. She smiled. "Is that all you can say for yourself?" she asked.

He went over and kissed her. "What can I say, Mother?" he replied. "The story is right here and I guess I am guilty. But there was really nothing to it. I merely helped a little to capture the gang."

"Just helped a little!" commented Mrs. Stormways. "You're always taking some sort of risk. I don't know what will ever happen to you."

"Now, Mother," pleaded Jack, "you know I can take care of myself."

"That's just the trouble," she replied. "You can take care of yourself too well."

Just then Jack's younger brother, aged thirteen, burst into the house. Seeing Jack with his mother, he cried, "Say, I heard you were playing cops and robbers; is it true?"

Jack and his mother laughed. "Come on, Jack, tell me about it," insisted the boy.

But Jack paid no attention to his brother. His mother said, "I just wonder what your father will say when he comes home."

She walked out into the kitchen to continue her preparations for dinner. In due time, Mr. Stormways came home carrying an evening paper with him. As soon as he stepped into the house, his younger son cried, "Did you hear, Dad? Jack has been playing cops and robbers."

"Yes, son, I heard all about it. Too much, in fact. What do you think we ought to do about it?"

"I think you ought to make him tell us all about it, Dad," answered the boy. "He wouldn't tell me anything."

"All right, we'll see what we can do about that. Where is he, by the way?"

"He is upstairs in his room. Shall I call him?"

"Yes, do, son. Tell him to come down for dinner. I shall be in the dining room."

Jack came downstairs. His father was at the table. As soon as he walked into the room, his father rose and bowing, said, "May I congratulate you? Will you please tell us how it feels to be a hero?"

Jack blushed. "Oh, don't do, that, Dad," pleaded Jack.

But Mr. Stormways was enjoying himself. "Sit down, my hero," he said. He led Jack to the head of the table and sat him down there, saying, "Since you are now a hero, you shall preside over the dinner table." As Mrs. Stormways came in her husband called out, "An extra portion of everything for the hero, my dear."

"Ah, Dad, don't," pleaded Jack.

But Mr. Stormways was not to be dissuaded. Sitting down, he said, "Now tell me, did you capture the gang all by yourself, or did someone help you a little?"

Jack smiled. He thought he might as well join in with his father's humor. "Well," he answered, "Paul and Ken did help a little, but very little."

"Just what I thought," remarked his father. "And tell me another thing," continued Mr. Stormways, "did the gangsters run just as soon as they saw you or did they hesitate for a little while?"

"They immediately surrendered," was the reply.

"Now let me think," mused his dad, "what else was there I wanted to ask you. Oh, yes. I suppose, that as a reward for your bravery, the president himself will no doubt come here to congratulate you and bestow upon you the Congressional Medal of Honor, is that so?"

"Well, I don't know about that, Dad," replied Jack. "I imagine that he may be too busy to do that. But I am sure he will send a representative."

There was a silent pause for a few seconds, then Mr. Stormways burst out laughing. "Well, seriously, fellow," he said, "don't you think that you ought to stop keeping company with gangsters and all that?"

"I'll try, Dad."

Just then Jack's younger brother spoke up and asked for details of the story and Jack complied by telling all of it.




Chapter XXVII

Mystery Of The White Card


The boys were at the Morrison home waiting for Mr. Grey to appear. They had hundreds of questions to ask him and they hoped that he would clear up the mystery of the white card. But if he did not, they would be at a loss as to what to do next. They would either have to give up or commence their investigation all over again, and they were rather tired of the thing by now. Jack remarked, "I still can't understand how we happened to come upon Mr. Grey and follow him. I don't suppose he had anything to do with the mystery of the white card."

"But it was you who originally began to follow him," said Ken.

"That's right. But now that I think of it, I can't understand how I happened to pick on him."

"Betty described the man who took her for a walk as tall and thin," interposed Paul.

"Yes, but there are many tall, thin men in town," argued Jack.

"And we came to the conclusion that the man who would start fires and steal a single book must be a maniac of some sort."

Jack laughed. "Well, does Mr. Grey look like a maniac?" he asked.

Paul smiled and remarked, "Well, he does look rather odd, tall and thin as he is."

"All that doesn't get us anywhere," said Jack.

"Well, let's not come to any conclusions but wait until Mr. Grey comes," remarked Paul.

"Yes, he'll clear it all up for us."

About ten minutes later, the government agent arrived. He looked like a changed man, dressed in a summer linen suit and his hair combed neatly back. "Hello, fellows," he greeted as he entered.

"Hello, Mr. Grey," returned Paul. "Won't you sit down?"

"Well, I'll try," he said as he took a seat, "but I'm afraid you fellows are going to question me so much, you'll have me standing on my head."

"Then we'll turn you over and sit you down again," spoke up Jack.

"Now, Mr. Grey," began Paul, "and by the way, is that your real name?"

"No, of course not. My name is George Wilson."

"Well, Mr. Wilson, we are mystified by a certain little thing," continued Paul, "and I wonder if you can clear it for us."

"Try me and we'll see."

"The mystery of the white card," Jack blurted out. "What is it all about?"

"What white card?" asked the agent mystified.

"You don't know?" cried Ken.

The man shook his head in complete ignorance. "I'll faint," cried Jack, falling back in his chair and pretending that he was actually fainting.

"Tell me what it is all about," asked the government agent. "I don't even know what you are talking about."

"And we thought that you could give us the solution," commented Jack. "Now what are we going to do?"

"Will you please let me in on it?" Mr. Wilson asked for the second time.

"It's like this," began Paul, again explaining the whole thing, this time for the benefit of Mr. Wilson. "About ten days ago, Ken's little sister, Betty, disappeared. Jack happened to find her all the way out on Leonard Street. Questioning her, he found that a man had bought her candy, taken her for a walk and left her there after he gave her a blank white card."

"May I see the card?" asked Mr. Wilson.

Paul took it out of his pocket and showed it to him. The agent glanced at it and then said, "Go on."

"Well, several days later there happened to be a fire on Water Street and I rushed into the building. To make the story short, inside that burning house I found another white card, an exact duplicate of the first one."

"What?" asked Mr. Wilson, his curiosity now aroused. "And then what?"

"That isn't all," continued Paul. "The next day a robbery occurred at Professor Link's and all that was taken was a single book out of the library. And what's more, the same white card was left."

"But the point of the story is," intervened Ken, "we thought all along that you were the guilty person and that is how Jack began to follow you."

"I!" cried the agent, aghast. "How do I come in on this?"

"Well, sir," spoke up Jack, "it was really all my fault. After talking the thing over, we came to the conclusion that only a, -- er, -- a maniac sort of person would do anything like that."

"And you took me for a maniac?" cried the agent, bursting out laughing. "That's a good one."

"I don't think so," replied Jack.

"No, I agree with you," said Mr. Wilson. "I don't think it's quite the thing to be taken for a maniac. But go on."

"Well, sir," continued Jack, "I began to follow you. And the first night I followed you out to Waters Street, to the exact spot where the fire occurred, and ..."

"But you must be wrong," cried Mr. Wilson, "because I don't even know where Waters Street is."

"You don't know?" demanded Jack leaping out of his seat.

The other boys also were by now out of their seats and staring dumbly at Mr. Wilson. The agent said, "I remember that I was once followed by one of you, I couldn't say who. But I shook him off quickly. Then I also remember that Paul approached me one day and asked me where Jones Street was and I told him."

"My God!" cried Jack, "I have followed the wrong man all the time."

"Wait a minute," Paul said tensely. "You haven't followed the wrong man. On the contrary. You know what?" They all looked at him curiously. "There is a man in this town who looks very much like you, Mr. Wilson, and I am convinced that he is the guilty party."

"Now that is interesting," commented the agent. "I should certainly like to meet him."

"Now let me ask you this," said Paul. "You don't know anything about the fires nor about the robbery at Professor Link's, do you?"

"I most certainly don't."

"Was it you who saved us when Jack and I were prisoners in the cellar?"

"Yes, that was me."

"Well, wait a minute," interrupted Ken. "Suppose you tell us how you knew that the boys were being held there and how you came to know Harriman and how you came to be a member of the gang?"

"It's this way, fellows," began Mr. Wilson. "I was put on this case and I followed the gang to this town. Looking around for a room I hired one over the grocery store, from Harriman. At the time I did not know that he was a member of the gang, but I soon found it out. Through him, I came upon the gang. I became friends with Harriman and did him a few favors. From then on, he trusted me. After I got on their trail, I waited to get them with the goods -- that is, they were then only experimenting and not yet turning out counterfeit money. Just as soon as they ran off some fake greenbacks, I got into action."

"How did you know, then, that we were being held in the cellar of the empty house?" asked Paul.

"You see, the gang had a room in the hotel. And I had a room next door. And when Joe came and told Moonshine Charlie of holding you prisoners, I rushed down and freed you."

"That's plenty funny," commented Jack. "If it was not you whom I was following all the time, who then was it?"

"That is something I should like to know myself," replied the agent.

"Another thing, Mr. Wilson," said Paul. "Four days ago, I followed Harriman. On the street, I noticed you -- or was it you -- passing him and you nodded to each other. Now was it you or was it not you?"

"No, it could not have been me," was the answer, "because I remember distinctly that I was at the hotel at the time listening in on Moonshine and his gang."

"That's right," continued Paul. "Harriman did lead me to Main Street where he met Moonshine, Joe and Pete. But if it was not you who nodded to Harriman, then I am more convinced than ever that there is a man in this town who looks very much like you. In fact he looks so much like you that even Harriman mistook him for you."

"Now that is very interesting," Mr. Wilson said. "We will have to do something about it."

"But here is something that is very suspicious, Mr. Wilson," Paul said. "You say that at the time you were at the hotel, but you or the person that looks like you, walked out of the corner house, that is, Harriman's house, only about fifteen minutes before the grocery store keeper himself came out. How do you figure that out?"

"You have me puzzled, Paul, if that was the case. I can't figure it out."

The four of them leaned back in their seats and kept quiet. The boys appeared exhausted from the ordeal. They thought that at last everything would be cleared up and now they discovered that it still remained a mystery. "At last," muttered Jack, "we are back where we started. Hooray!" Paul sighed and kept silent. Ken asked sadly, "Now what are we going to do?"

His companions shrugged their shoulders. Mr. Wilson remarked, "I wish I knew how I could help you. But as a matter of fact, I am leaving on the midnight express."

"That's too bad," said Paul. "I thought that perhaps you would stay here for several days."

Mr. Wilson shook his head. "That is out of the question," he answered.

"To come back to the point," said Jack, "what do you think we ought to do, Paul?"

"About what?"

"The mystery of the white card, of course."

"I suppose we will just have to wait and see. Perhaps we will find some clue one of these days which will solve it."

"If we wait until the mystery is solved by itself, we will never know the solution," was Ken's statement.

"Too bad I can't help you," said Mr. Wilson as he rose to go.

They shook hands all around, the boys wishing Mr. Wilson a pleasant trip and he wishing them success in unravelling the mystery of the white card.




Chapter XXVIII

Again The White Card


All of the following day the boys wandered about trying their best to form some definite opinion about the mystery of the white card so that they might act upon it. But however they discussed the situation, they could come to no conclusion nor hit upon any new clue. In desperation, they gave it up for the present and decided to let events take their course; perhaps something might turn up in several days or weeks that would give them a clue which they could follow with some chance of clearing up the situation.

Two days later, something did happen, but it only helped to complicate things further. Paul was walking along Main Street when he heard an automobile horn and he turned around to see who it was. A police car pulled up to the curb and Walters waved to him. "Hey, there, fellow," he called. "Come on, get in."

Paul got into the car. "Hello, Walters," he said, "anything up?"

"Yes," said the detective. "I have a very baffling case to solve and when I saw you walking along, I thought I might ask you to help me." They both laughed and the detective added, "Are you bent on going any place in particular?"

"Well, I was going to the library. But I have plenty of time."

"That's fine. Then you can drive along with me for a while. I hate to drive all by myself with no one to talk to."

"I don't mind," said Paul. "Where are you driving to?"

"That's just it. No place in particular."

"What do you mean?"

"Well," said the detective, "we got a report about fifteen minutes ago that a car was stolen." He brought a slip of paper out of his pocket and gave it to Paul. "Here," he said, "look at it and then keep your eyes open. We will begin at one end of the town and ride through street by street. It may be that the owner parked it somewhere and forgot the place."

Paul looked at the slip of paper. He read, "Ford ... four door sedan ... license number S 91 52."

For a while they rode along talking of various things. They rode down one street and up the next street. Walters related some experiences of his as a detective. Finally he remarked, "By the way, the oddest thing happened to me yesterday. I was walking along and suddenly I noticed a man that was the exact image of George Wilson, the government agent. I was so astonished, I couldn't imagine him being in town when two days ago I saw him off on the train."

"Did you stop him?" demanded Paul excitedly. "Did you see where he went?"

The detective said, "Why, no. That's just it. I closed my eyes for a second because I thought they were deceiving me. When I opened them again, he was gone."

"Now isn't that the worst of luck," said Paul. "He is just the man we are looking for."

"What did he do?" asked Walters. "What do you want him for?"

"We need him to clear up the mystery of the white card. We think he is the missing link in the puzzle."

"That's right," remarked the detective. "I think I remember you telling me something about this white card mystery. Did you do anything about it?"

"No. And that is why we are looking for this man."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, our original clues led up to our following this man. But we got him mixed up with the government agent and that is how we happened to come upon the counterfeit gang. Well, sir, after all that was cleared up, we questioned Mr. Wilson but he didn't know anything about the white card and then we knew we were up the wrong tree."

"In other words," said the detective, "as far as I can figure it out, you are back where you started and now you are looking for him again."

"That's right."

"Well, I wish you luck. Maybe if you keep it up long enough, you will come across another gang of crooks. But this time finish the job yourself."

"I don't think we will be able to do that," returned Paul smiling. "You see, Jack, Ken and I are leaving for college in two weeks."

"We will have to do something about that," said the detective. "I will tell the chief to move the police headquarters to the college or have him move the college here. Which would you prefer?"

"Neither one. When I get to college, I won't have much time for anything except study."

"What are you going to study?"

"Jack and I are going to study to be doctors."

"Your father is a doctor, isn't he?"

"Yes."

"It's a very respectable profession. I wish I had gone to college and studied a profession."

"Aren't you satisfied with being a detective?"

"Oh, I'm satisfied all right but I guess it's like the saying, that when you're one thing you always want to be something else."

They were crossing Main Street and Paul spied Ken walking along. Hailing his friend, the detective pulled up to the curb and Ken got into the car. "Where are you two going?" he asked.

"Just going for a ride," said the detective. "Want to come along?"

"Sure, why not. I have nothing in particular to do right now. I was on my way for a swim, but this is all right."

"Well, keep your eyes open for a Ford four door sedan, license number S 91 52. Walters is looking for it," said Paul.

"Stolen?"

"No," said the detective, "just removed by the wrong party."

"By the way," spoke up Paul, "Walters here has come across the mystery man of the white card, the man that looks like Mr. Wilson."

Ken leaned forward eagerly. "You mean it?" he cried. "Did you arrest him, Walters?"

"No. I didn't want to bother," the detective replied.

"Didn't want to bother!"

"He is kidding you," said Paul. "The man looks so much like Mr. Wilson that he couldn't believe his own eyes. Well, he closed them for a second, and when he opened them again, the man was gone."

"Just like a detective!" cried Ken.

"What do you mean?" asked Walters.

"To close your eyes to things."

For several seconds there was silence, then Walters burst out laughing. "That's a good one," he cried, "I'll have to remember it."

"Well, what are we going to do now?" asked Ken.

Paul shrugged his shoulders and didn't answer. For a short while they rode along in silence. Suddenly, both Ken and Paul cried simultaneously, "Look!"

About ten yards ahead of them was a Ford sedan with the license number S 91 52 parked at the curb. Walters swung over to the curb and pulled up directly behind the Ford car.




Chapter XXIX

Mystery Solved


The three of them jumped out of the car and approached the Ford. Walters looked it over, checked the license number and said, "This is it, all right."

Ken threw open the door next to the steering wheel. "Hey, Paul, Walters," he cried, "come here, quick."

He was joined by his friend and the detective. "Look," he muttered and pointed at the driver's seat.

They looked. There on the seat lay a white card. Walters grabbed it and turned it over on both sides. It was a plain, white, blank card. "Can you beat that!" gasped Walters.

Paul took his own card out of his pocket and gave it to Walters. "Here," he said, "compare the two."

The detective made the comparison and announced, "Identical."

Ken burst out laughing. The detective asked angrily, "What are you laughing at, you young pup?"

"Now it's your mystery," answered the boy. "You look for him and the next time you see him don't close your eyes."

"Trying to be smart," countered the detective, grinning. "Well, I'll have to start looking for him all right."

Walters searched the front and the rear of the car but he found nothing suspicious. His investigation completed, he asked Ken to get into the Ford and follow him. The detective drove back to police headquarters where the stolen car was parked and the owner of it was notified.

Ken and Paul walked out of the police headquarters in high spirits. There was no particular reason for it but they thought it quite humorous that Walters was now involved in the mystery of the white card. And Ken didn't seem to get tired of repeating, "From now on, perhaps he will get out of the habit of closing his eyes."

And after he said it, he would laugh, assured that it was a very good joke. Paul said, "Forget it for a while. Which way are you going?"

"Which way are you going?"

"Well, I was on the way to the library when Walters picked me up. So I guess I will continue my trip to the library."

"That suits me," said Ken, "I'll go along."

Whistling, chatting, they walked along Main Street when Ken suddenly saw something that made him quickly alert.

Paul was eyeing a window display as he walked. He felt his arm pinched and he uttered a muffled cry. "Hey!"

Ken muttered, "Shsh! Look!"

Across the street was the man who looked so much like Mr. Wilson! The boys gasped. He was standing in the doorway of a three story apartment house. The ground floor was occupied by a haberdashery on one side and a shoe store on the other. The mystery man, with his wild, maniacal appearance, glanced both ways, then he walked off, heading north. Paul cried, "Come on. I'll take care of him, Ken. You run into the hall of the building and see what he may have been up to."

Ken rushed into the hall. He searched frantically and at last he found under the stairs a bundle of rags evidently soaked in gasoline or kerosene, in flames. The wall and the back of the stairs were already beginning to smolder. By some luck, there happened to be a pail of dirty water at the other end of the hall. He grabbed it and dashed the water on the fire. The flames were out in a moment. With the rags soaking wet, he wiped it across the smoldering wood.

Holding on to the rags, he ran outside and looked at the number of the building. At the curb he found a sheet of newspaper which he wrapped around the wet rags. And to make sure he did not forget the address, he wrote it down.

In the meanwhile, Paul had approached the man and took him under the arm. "Do you mind if I walk along with you?" he asked.

"Oh, no, no. No, not at all."

"My name is Paul. What is yours?"

"Who, me? I have no name."

"That's too bad," said Paul. "I thought everybody had a name."

"Everybody except I," was the answer.

Paul was at a loss what to do or say. On the spur of the moment, he remarked, "There is a man who wants to see you. I will take you to him."

"That is very nice of you. Where is he?"

"Straight ahead, down Main Street."

"That's fine. Let's hurry, because I don't want to keep him waiting. I don't like to keep people waiting."

Just then Ken came running up and took the man by the other arm. Together they led the man to police headquarters and into the detectives' room. Walters was there and as soon as he saw the boys and the man, he jumped to his feet. "Where did you get him?" he cried.

"He was looking for you," said Ken, "so we thought we would bring him here."

"Stop kidding, will you, and tell me what it's all about?" demanded the detective.

The man stood there very innocently looking from one to the other. Ken removed the covering of paper from the rags and showed it to Walters. Paul said, "We saw him come out of the hall of a building...."

"357 South Main Street is the correct address," said Ken, interrupting. "That bunch of rags was in flames and the wall and the stairs were already beginning to smolder."

"And so we brought him here," concluded Paul.

The detective turned to the man. "What's your name?" he demanded.

The man shrugged his shoulders and opened his arms in a gesture of complete ignorance. "Did you try to start a fire just before at 357 South Main Street?" the detective again asked.

But the man kept his mouth shut, grinned and would say nothing. The detective was growing red in the face. Paul said, "You ought to have him examined by a doctor."

"Where do you live?" asked Walters.

But questioning him was futile and a waste of breath and effort. The man either would not, could not, or just did not understand enough to answer the simple questions. Walters searched him. In his right coat pocket was found a bunch of white cards. Paul and the detective took out their cards and compared them to the bunch. "Identical," muttered Walters.

"Hooray!" cried Ken. "The white card mystery is solved."

The man grinned sheepishly. Walters continued searching him. In the other pockets they found more white cards, various odds and ends such as pieces of string, a pocket knife, several pencils, shoe strings and an empty wallet with a name and address. Paul read, "Jerome Walsh, 321 Applebury Street."

"Let's run down there," suggested Ken.

The detective nodded. "Yes, we'll do that. First I will have him examined by a doctor."

Walters took the man by the arm and led him out. The boys waited and two minutes later he returned. "What did you do with him?" asked Ken.

"I gave him over to one of the men to take care of. Let's go," said Walters.

They went to the back of the building and got into a police car. Ken plopped into the rear seat and began to laugh uproariously. "What's the joke?" asked the detective.

"I don't think you will appreciate it."

"Take a chance, let's hear it."

"What I was laughing at," said Ken, "is how much it helps when you keep your eyes open."

"Aw, keep your mouth shut," cried the detective, and the next moment he was himself enjoying the humor of it.

The car sped through the town and soon pulled up in front of 321 Applebury Street. It was a boarding house. Walters rang the bell and a middle aged woman answered the door. "Does a man by the name of Jerome Walsh live here?" asked the detective.

"Why, yes," answered the woman hesitantly. "He isn't in just now, though."

Walters showed his badge and told her who he was. "That's all right," he said. "Take us up to his room."

"Did he do anything wrong?" asked the woman.

"We just want to search his room," said Walters.

"And he is such a harmless man," mused the woman.

They followed the woman to the second floor and she showed them into a small, neatly kept room. The detective and the boys entered. On a little table were several books. Paul examined them. "Look," he cried, "Professor Link's book."

Ken grabbed the volume and looked at it. Inside was the professor's name. "So," he mumbled, "the mystery at last is solved."

The detective searched the room and found many small items that had been no doubt stolen from any number of places. Turning to the woman, he asked, "What do you know about this man, Jerome Walsh?"

"I don't know anything about him," she answered meekly. "He has been boarding with me for almost a year. Once a month a man comes, I think it is his brother, and pays for his room and board. Tell me, Mister detective, did Mr. Walsh do anything wrong?"

"Plenty," was the answer. "Is there supposed to be something wrong with him mentally?"

"I don't know," the woman replied. "Every once in a while he acts strangely, but as far as I know, he is harmless."

"What sort of strange things would he do?" asked Paul.

"Well, he would sometimes talk to himself, sometimes he would go out walking all night long -- little things like that."

The detective said, "The next time this man, his brother or whoever he is, comes to pay his room and board, I want you to call me. In the meanwhile, Mr. Walsh is not coming back here any more."

"But what did he do?" the woman asked frantically.

"He tried to set a house on fire and he stole an automobile this morning," the detective told her.

"Which is not all," added Paul. "Do you have the address of this man who visits him?"

"Why, yes, I think I do; I think I must have it somewhere downstairs."

"Let's go down, then," said Walters.

Downstairs, the woman searched for about ten minutes until at last she found the address and gave it to the detective. "Very good," he muttered. "We will send for him."

They left. Ken turned to Paul and said, "Let's run over to Jack's and tell him. He'll drop dead when he hears it."

"Yes," said Paul, "let's do that."

Walters dropped them off in front of the Stormways home. Paul waved and called, "So long, Walters."

"So long."

"Keep your eyes open," called Ken.

The detective smiled. "And you watch yourself," he called back and drove off.

The two boys ran into the house, looking for their friend. Mrs. Stormways told them that he was at the garage and they ran out of the house again. Jack waved to them, his hands grimy with grease; he was working on his dad's car. "Hey!" cried Ken, "the mystery has been broken wide open."

"You mean...."

Jack stared at his friends with his mouth open. He couldn't believe it. Paul smiled and said, "That's right, the mystery is solved."

"And without me," moaned Jack, "How could you finish up the whole thing without me! Tell me all about it."

The boys related how it had all happened. Jack looked very miserable as he listened to the story. His great regret was that he had not been in on the exciting final clearing-up of the mystery.

"It's all right Jack, next week we'll start college and we'll forget all about the Mr. Grey's and white cards and counterfeiters. We'll have to put our minds on how to learn all of the hard subjects we're going to take." Paul tried to be consoling.

"Yes, Jack, and you can start solving a mystery as soon as we get there. The mystery I mean is this -- how are we going to work hard and get good grades, and still play football, go to dances and have a good time? Figuring that out will give you a good tough sleuthing job," Ken said.

Jack was quite cheerful by now.

"If we can have as good a time at college together as we have here in Stanhope," he said, "We will be lucky. But I'm rather tired of summer and the town. I get a thrill every time I think of getting on the train Monday."

"So do I," Ken added. "We've had plenty of adventures since the troop has been together, and we will have plenty more."

"Sure we will," said Paul, "And I'm going home and help my mother pack my clothes right now. If I don't watch her she will only put in my best clothes and leave out things like football sweaters and old pants."

And with that all three boys started eagerly for home.

<eob>

Bébée

Or

Two Little Wooden Shoes

By

Louisa De La Ramée



Chapter I.


Bébée sprang out of bed at daybreak. She was sixteen.

It seemed a very wonderful thing to be as much as that -- sixteen -- a woman quite.

A cock was crowing under her lattice. He said how old you are! -- how old you are! every time that he sounded his clarion.

She opened the lattice and wished him good day, with a laugh. It was so pleasant to be woke by him, and to think that no one in all the world could ever call one a child any more.

There was a kid bleating in the shed. There was a thrush singing in the dusk of the sycamore leaves. There was a calf lowing to its mother away there beyond the fence. There were dreamy muffled bells ringing in the distance from many steeples and belfries where the city was; they all said one thing, "How good it is to be so old as that -- how good, how very good!"

Bébée was very pretty.

No one in all Brabant ever denied that. To look at her it seemed as if she had so lived among the flowers that she had grown like them, and only looked a bigger blossom -- that was all.

She wore two little wooden shoes and a little cotton cap, and a gray kirtle -- linen in summer, serge in winter; but the little feet in the shoes were like rose leaves, and the cap was as white as a lily, and the gray kirtle was like the bark of the bough that the apple-blossom parts, and peeps out of, to blush in the sun.

The flowers had been the only godmothers that she had ever had, and fairy godmothers too.

The marigolds and the sunflowers had given her their ripe, rich gold to tint her hair; the lupins and irises had lent their azure to her eyes; the moss-rosebuds had made her pretty mouth; the arum lilies had uncurled their softness for her skin; and the lime-blossoms had given her their frank, fresh, innocent fragrance.

The winds had blown, and the rains had rained, and the sun had shone on her, indeed, and had warmed the whiteness of her limbs, but they had only given to her body and her soul a hardy, breeze-blown freshness like that of a field cowslip.

She had never been called anything but Bébée.

One summer day Antoine Mäes -- a French subject, but a Belgian by adoption and habit, an old man who got his meagre living by tilling the garden plot about his hut and selling flowers in the city squares -- Antoine, going into Brussels for his day's trade, had seen a gray bundle floating among the water-lilies in the bit of water near his hut and had hooked it out to land, and found a year-old child in it, left to drown, no doubt, but saved by the lilies, and laughing gleefully at fate.

Some lace-worker, blind with the pain of toil, or some peasant woman harder of heart than the oxen in her yoke, had left it there to drift away to death, not reckoning for the inward ripple of the current or the toughness of the lily leaves and stems.

Old Antoine took it to his wife, and the wife, a childless and aged soul, begged leave to keep it; and the two poor lonely, simple folks grew to care for the homeless, motherless thing, and they and the people about all called it Bébée -- only Bébée.

The church got at it and added to it a saint's name; but for all its little world it remained Bébée -- Bébée when it trotted no higher than the red carnation heads; -- Bébée when its yellow curls touched as high as the lavender-bush; -- Bébée on this proud day when the thrush's song and the cock's crow found her sixteen years old.

Old Antoine's hut stood in a little patch of garden ground with a brier hedge all round it, in that byway which lies between Laeken and Brussels, in the heart of flat, green Brabant, where there are beautiful meadows and tall, flowering hedges, and forest trees, and fern-filled ditches, and a little piece of water, deep and cool, where the swans sail all day long, and the silvery willows dip and sway with the wind.

Turn aside from the highway, and there it lies to-day, and all the place brims over with grass, and boughs, and blossoms, and flowering beans, and wild dog-roses; and there are a few cottages and cabins there near the pretty water, and farther there is an old church, sacred to St. Guido; and beyond go the green level country and the endless wheat-fields, and the old mills with their red sails against the sun; and beyond all these the pale blue, sea-like horizon of the plains of Flanders.

It was a pretty little hut, pink all over like a sea-shell, in the fashion that the Netherlanders love; and its two little square lattices were dark with creeping plants and big rose-bushes, and its roof, so low that you could touch it, was golden and green with all the lichens and stoneworts that are known on earth.

Here Bébée grew from year to year; and soon learned to be big enough and hardy enough to tie up bunches of stocks and pinks for the market, and then to carry a basket for herself, trotting by Antoine's side along the green roadway and into the white, wide streets; and in the market the buyers -- most often of all when they were young mothers -- would seek out the little golden head and the beautiful frank blue eyes, and buy Bébée's lilies and carnations whether they wanted them or not. So that old Mäes used to cross himself and say that, thanks to Our Lady, trade was thrice as stirring since the little one had stretched out her rosy fingers with the flowers.

All the same, however stirring trade might be in summer, when the long winters came and the Montagne de la Cour was a sharp slope of ice, and the pinnacles of St. Gudule were all frosted white with snow, and the hot-house flowers alone could fill the market, and the country gardens were bitter black wind-swept desolations where the chilly roots huddled themselves together underground like homeless children in a cellar, -- then the money gained in the time of leaf and blossom was all needed to buy a black loaf and fagot of wood; and many a day in the little pink hut Bébée rolled herself up in her bed like a dormouse, to forget in sleep that she was supperless and as cold as a frozen robin.

So that when Antoine Mäes grew sick and died, more from age and weakness than any real disease, there were only a few silver crowns in the brown jug hidden in the thatch; and the hut itself, with its patch of ground, was all that he could leave to Bébée.

"Live in it, little one, and take nobody in it to worry you, and be good to the bird and the goat, and be sure to keep the flowers blowing," said the old man with his last breath; and sobbing her heart out by his bedside, Bébée vowed to do his bidding.

She was not quite fourteen then, and when she had laid her old friend to rest in the rough green graveyard about St. Guido, she was very sorrowful and lonely, poor little, bright Bébée, who had never hardly known a worse woe than to run the thorns of the roses into her fingers, or to cry because a thrush was found starved to death in the snow.

Bébée went home, and sat down in a corner and thought.

The hut was her own, and her own the little green triangle just then crowded with its Mayday blossom in all the colors of the rainbow. She was to live in it, and never let the flowers die, so he had said; good, rough old ugly Antoine Mäes, who had been to her as father, mother, country, king, and law.

The sun was shining.

Through the little square of the lattice she could see the great tulips opening in the grass and a bough of the apple-tree swaying in the wind. A chaffinch clung to the bough, and swung to and fro singing. The door stood open, with the broad, bright day beaming through; and Bébée's little world came streaming in with it, -- the world which dwelt in the half-dozen cottages that fringed this green lane of hers like beavers' nests pushed out under the leaves on to the water's edge.

They came in, six or eight of them, all women; trim, clean, plain Brabant peasants, hard-working, kindly of nature, and shrewd in their own simple matters; people who labored in the fields all the day long, or worked themselves blind over the lace pillows in the city.

"You are too young to live alone, Bébée," said the first of them. "My old mother shall come and keep house for you."

"Nay, better come and live with me, Bébée," said the second. "I will give you bit and drop, and clothing, too, for the right to your plot of ground."

"That is to cheat her," said the third. "Hark, here, Bébée: my sister, who is a lone woman, as you know well, shall come and bide with you, and ask you nothing -- nothing at all -- only you shall just give her a crust, perhaps, and a few flowers to sell sometimes."

"No, no," said the fourth; "that will not do. You let me have the garden and the hut, Bébée, and my sons shall till the place for you; and I will live with you myself, and leave the boys the cabin, so you will have all the gain, do you not see, dear little one?"

"Pooh!" said the fifth, stouter and better clothed than the rest. "You are all eager for your own good, not for hers. Now I -- Father Francis says we should all do as we would be done by -- I will take Bébée to live with me, all for nothing; and we will root the flowers up and plant it with good cabbages and potatoes and salad plants. And I will stable my cows in the hut to sweeten it after a dead man, and I will take my chance of making money out of it, and no one can speak more fair than that when one sees what weather is, and thinks what insects do; and all the year round, winter and summer, Bébée here will want for nothing, and have to take no care for herself whatever."

She who spoke, Mère Krebs, was the best-to-do woman in the little lane, having two cows of her own and ear-rings of solid silver, and a green cart, and a big dog that took the milk into Brussels. She was heard, therefore, with respect, and a short silence followed her words.

But it was very short; and a hubbub of voices crossed each other after it as the speakers grew hotter against one another and more eager to convince each other of the disinterestedness and delicacy of their offers of aid.

Through it all Bébée sat quite quiet on the edge of the little truckle-bed, with her eyes fixed on the apple bough and the singing chaffinch.

She heard them all patiently.

They were all her good friends, friends old and true. This one had given her cherries for many a summer. That other had bought her a little waxen Jesus at the Kermesse. The old woman in the blue linen skirt had taken her to her first communion. She who wanted her sister to have the crust and the flowers, had brought her a beautiful painted book of hours that had cost a whole franc. Another had given her the solitary wonder, travel, and foreign feast of her whole life, -- a day fifteen miles away at the fair at Mechlin. The last speaker of all had danced her on her knee a hundred times in babyhood, and told her legends, and let her ride in the green cart behind big curly-coated Tambour.

Bébée did not doubt that these trusty old friends meant well by her, and yet a certain heavy sense fell on her that in all these counsels there was not the same whole-hearted and frank goodness that had prompted the gifts to her of the waxen Jesus, and the Kermesse of Mechlin.

Bébée did not reason, because she was too little a thing and too trustful; but she felt, in a vague, sorrowful fashion, that they were all of them trying to make some benefit out of her poor little heritage, with small regard for herself at the root of their speculations.

Bébée was a child, wholly a child; body and soul were both as fresh in her as a golden crocus just born out of the snows. But she was not a little fool, though people sometimes called her so because she would sit in the moments of her leisure with her blue eyes on the far-away clouds like a thing in a dream.

She heard them patiently till the cackle of shrill voices had exhausted itself, and the six women stood on the sunny mud floor of the hut eyeing each other with venomous glances; for though they were good neighbors at all times, each, in this matter, was hungry for the advantages to be got out of old Antoine's plot of ground. They were very poor; they toiled in the scorched or frozen fields all weathers, or spent from dawn to nightfall poring over their cobweb lace; and to save a son or gain a cabbage was of moment to them only second to the keeping of their souls secure of heaven by Lenten mass and Easter psalm.

Bébée listened to them all, and the tears dried on her cheeks, and her pretty rosebud lips curled close in one another.

"You are very good, no doubt, all of you," she said at last. "But I cannot tell you that I am thankful, for my heart is like a stone, and I think it is not so very much for me as it is for the hut that you are speaking. Perhaps it is wrong in me to say so; yes, I am wrong, I am sure, -- you are all kind, and I am only Bébée. But you see he told me to live here and take care of the flowers, and I must do it, that is certain. I will ask Father Francis, if you wish: but if he tells me I am wrong, as you do. I shall stay here all the same."

And in answer to their expostulations and condemnation, she only said the same thing over again always, in different words, but to the same steadfast purpose. The women clamored about her for an hour in reproach and rebuke; she was a baby indeed, she was a little fool, she was a naughty, obstinate child, she was an ungrateful, wilful little creature, who ought to be beaten till she was blue, if only there was anybody that had the right to do it!

"But there is nobody that has the right," said Bébée, getting angry and standing upright on the floor, with Antoine's old gray cat in her round arms. "He told me to stay here, and he would not have said so if it had been wrong; and I am old enough to do for myself, and I am not afraid, and who is there that would hurt me? Oh, yes; go and tell Father Francis, if you like! I do not believe he will blame me, but if he do, I must bear it. Even if he shut the church door on me, I will obey Antoine, and the flowers will know I am right, and they will let no evil spirits touch me, for the flowers are strong for that; they talk to the angels in the night."

What use was it to argue with a little idiot like this? Indeed, peasants never do argue; they use abuse.

It is their only form of logic.

They used it to Bébée, rating her soundly, as became people who were old enough to be her grandmothers, and who knew that she had been raked out of their own pond, and had no more real place in creation than a water rat, as one might say.

The women were kindly, and had never thrown this truth against her before, and in fact, to be a foundling was no sort of disgrace to their sight; but anger is like wine, and makes the depths of the mind shine clear, and all the mud that is in the depths stink in the light; and in their wrath at not sharing Antoine's legacy, the good souls said bitter things that in calm moments they would no more have uttered than they would have taken up a knife to slit her throat.

They talked themselves hoarse with impatience and chagrin, and went backwards over the threshold, their wooden shoes and their shrill voices keeping a clattering chorus. By this time it was evening; the sun had gone off the floor, and the bird had done singing.

Bébée stood in the same place, hardening her little heart, whilst big and bitter tears swelled into her eyes, and fell on the soft fur of the sleeping cat.

She only very vaguely understood why it was in any sense shameful to have been raked out of the water-lilies like a drowning field mouse, as they had said it was.

She and Antoine had often talked of that summer morning when he had found her there among the leaves, and Bébée and he had laughed over it gayly, and she had been quite proud in her innocent fashion that she had had a fairy and the flowers for her mother and godmothers, which Antoine always told her was the case beyond any manner of doubt. Even Father Francis, hearing the pretty harmless fiction, had never deemed it his duty to disturb her pleasure in it, being a good, cheerful old man, who thought that woe and wisdom both come soon enough to bow young shoulders and to silver young curls without his interference.

Bébée had always thought it quite a fine thing to have been born of water-lilies, with the sun for her father, and when people in Brussels had asked her of her parentage, seeing her stand in the market with a certain look on her that was not like other children, had always gravely answered in the purest good faith, -- 

"My mother was a flower."

"You are a flower, at any rate," they would say in return; and Bébée had been always quite content.

But now she was doubtful; she was rather perplexed than sorrowful.

These good friends of hers seemed to see some new sin about her. Perhaps, after all, thought Bébée, it might have been better to have had a human mother who would have taken care of her now that old Antoine was dead, instead of those beautiful, gleaming, cold water-lilies which went to sleep on their green velvet beds, and did not certainly care when the thorns ran into her fingers, or the pebbles got in her wooden shoes.

In some vague way, disgrace and envy -- the twin Discords of the world -- touched her innocent cheek with their hot breath, and as the evening fell, Bébée felt very lonely and a little wistful.

She had been always used to run out in the pleasant twilight-time among the flowers and water them, Antoine filling the can from the well; and the neighbors would come and lean against the little low wall, knitting and gossiping; and the big dogs, released from harness, would poke their heads through the wicket for a crust; and the children would dance and play Colin Maillard on the green by the water; and she, when the flowers were no longer thirsted, would join them, and romp and dance and sing the gayest of them all.

But now the buckets hung at the bottom of the well, and the flowers hungered in vain, and the neighbors held aloof, and she shut to the hut door and listened to the rain which began to fall, and cried herself to sleep all alone in her tiny kingdom.

When the dawn came the sun rose red and warm; the grass and boughs sparkled; a lark sang; Bébée awoke sad in heart, indeed, for her lost old friend, but brighter and braver.

"Each of them wants to get something out of me," thought the child. "Well, I will live alone, then, and do my duty, just as he said. The flowers will never let any real harm come, though they do look so indifferent and smiling sometimes, and though not one of them hung their heads when his coffin was carried through them yesterday."

That want of sympathy in the flower troubled her.

The old man had loved them so well; and they had all looked as glad as ever, and had laughed saucily in the sun, and not even a rosebud turned the paler as the poor still stiffened limbs went by in the wooden shell.

"I suppose God cares; but I wish they did." said Bébée, to whom the garden was more intelligible than Providence.

"Why do you not care?" she asked the pinks, shaking the raindrops off their curled rosy petals.

The pinks leaned lazily against their sticks, and seemed to say, "Why should we care for anything, unless a slug be eating us? -- that is real woe, if you like."

Bébée, without her sabots on, wandered thoughtfully among the sweet wet sunlightened labyrinths of blossom, her pretty bare feet treading the narrow grassy paths with pleasure in their coolness.

"He was so good to you!" she said reproachfully to the great gaudy gillyflowers and the painted sweet-peas. "He never let you know heat or cold, he never let the worm gnaw or the snail harm you; he would get up in the dark to see after your wants; and when the ice froze over you, he was there to loosen your chains. Why do you not care, anyone of you?"

"How silly you are!" said the flowers. "You must be a butterfly or a poet, Bébée, to be as foolish as that. Some one will do all he did. We are of market value, you know. Care, indeed! when the sun is so warm, and there is not an earwig in the place to trouble us."

The flowers were not always so selfish as this; and perhaps the sorrow in Bébée's heart made their callousness seem harder than it really was.

When we suffer very much ourselves, anything that smiles in the sun seems cruel -- a child, a bird, a dragon-fly -- nay, even a fluttering ribbon, or a spear-grass that waves in the wind.

There was a little shrine at the corner of the garden, set into the wall; a niche with a bit of glass and a picture of the Virgin, so battered that no one could trace any feature of it.

It had been there for centuries, and was held in great veneration; and old Antoine had always cut the choicest buds of his roses and set them in a delf pot in front of it, every other morning all the summer long. Bébée, whose religion was the sweetest, vaguest mingling of Pagan and Christian myths, and whose faith in fairies and in saints was exactly equal in strength and in ignorance, -- Bébée filled the delf pot anew carefully, then knelt down on the turf in that little green corner, and prayed in devout hopeful childish good faith to the awful unknown Powers who were to her only as gentle guides and kindly playmates.

Was she too familiar with the Holy Mother?

She was almost fearful that she was; but then the Holy Mother loved flowers so well, Bébée would not feel aloof from her, nor be afraid.

"When one cuts the best blossoms for her, and tries to be good, and never tells a lie," thought Bébée, "I am quite sure, as she loves the lilies, that she will never altogether forget me."

So she said to the Mother of Christ fearlessly, and nothing doubting; and then rose for her daily work of cutting the flowers for the market in Brussels.

By the time her baskets were full, her fowls fed, her goat foddered, her starling's cage cleaned, her hut door locked, and her wooden shoes clattering on the sunny road into the city, Bébée was almost content again, though ever and again, as she trod the familiar ways, the tears dimmed her eyes as she remembered that old Antoine would never again hobble over the stones beside her.

"You are a little wilful one, and too young to live alone," said Father Francis, meeting her in the lane.

But he did not scold her seriously, and she kept to her resolve; and the women, who were good at heart, took her back into favor again; and so Bébée had her own way, and the fairies, or the saints, or both together, took care of her; and so it came to pass that all alone she heard the cock crow whilst it was dark, and woke to the grand and amazing truth that this warm, fragrant, dusky June morning found her full sixteen years old.



Chapter II.


The two years had not been all playtime any more than they had been all summer.

When one has not father, or mother, or brother, and all one's friends have barely bread enough for themselves, life cannot be very easy, nor its crusts very many at any time.

Bébée had a cherub's mouth, and a dreamer's eyes, and a poet's thoughts sometimes in her own untaught and unconscious fashion.

But all the same she was a little hard-working Brabant peasant girl; up whilst the birds twittered in the dark; to bed when the red sun sank beyond the far blue line of the plains; she hoed, and dug, and watered, and planted her little plot; she kept her cabin as clean as a fresh-blossomed primrose; she milked her goat and swept her floor; she sat, all the warm days, in the town, selling her flowers, and in the winter time, when her garden yielded her nothing, she strained her sight over lace-making in the city to get the small bit of food that stood between her and that hunger which to the poor means death.

A hard life; very hard when hail and snow made the streets of Brussels like slopes of ice; a little hard even in the gay summer time when she sat under the awning fronting the Maison du Roi; but all the time the child throve on it, and was happy, and dreamed of many graceful and gracious things whilst she was weeding among her lilies, or tracing the threads to and fro on her lace pillow.

Now -- when she woke to the full sense of her wonderful sixteen years -- Bébée, standing barefoot on the mud floor, was as pretty a sight as was to be seen betwixt Scheldt and Rhine.

The sun had only left a soft warmth like an apricot's on her white skin. Her limbs, though strong as a mountain pony's, were slender and well shaped. Her hair curled in shiny crumpled masses, and tumbled about her shoulders. Her pretty round plump little breast was white as the lilies in the grass without, and in this blooming time of her little life, Bébée, in her way, was beautiful as a peach-bloom is beautiful, and her innocent, courageous, happy eyes had dreams in them underneath their laughter, dreams that went farther than the green woods of Laeken, farther even than the white clouds of summer.

She could not move among them idly as poets and girls love to do; she had to be active amidst them, else drought and rain, and worm and snail, and blight and frost, would have made havoc of their fairest hopes.

The loveliest love is that which dreams high above all storms, unsoiled by all burdens; but perhaps the strongest love is that which, whilst it adores, drags its feet through mire, and burns its brow in heat, for the thing beloved.

So Bébée dreamed in her garden; but all the time for sake of it hoed and dug, and hurt her hands, and tired her limbs, and bowed her shoulders under the great metal pails from the well.

This wondrous morning, with the bright burden of her sixteen years upon her, she dressed herself quickly and fed her fowls, and, happy as a bird, went to sit on her little wooden stool in the doorway.

There had been fresh rain in the night: the garden was radiant; the smell of the wet earth was sweeter than all perfumes that are burned in palaces.

The dripping rosebuds nodded against her hair as she went out; the starling called to her, "Bébée, Bébée -- bonjour, bonjour." These were all the words it knew. It said the same words a thousand times a week. But to Bébée it seemed that the starling most certainly knew that she was sixteen years old that day.

Breaking her bread into the milk, she sat in the dawn and thought, without knowing that she thought it, "How good it is to live when one is young!"

Old people say the same thing often, but they sigh when they say it. Bébée smiled.

Mère Krebs opened her door in the next cottage, and nodded over the wall.

"What a fine thing to be sixteen! -- a merry year, Bébée."

Marthe, the carpenter's wife, came out from her gate, broom in hand.

"The Holy Saints keep you, Bébée; why, you are quite a woman now!"

The little children of Varnhart, the charcoal-burner, who were as poor as any mouse in the old churches, rushed out of their little home up the lane, bringing with them a cake stuck full of sugar and seeds, and tied round with a blue ribbon, that their mother had made that very week, all in her honor.

"Only see, Bébée! Such a grand cake!" they shouted, dancing down the lane. "Jules picked the plums, and Jeanne washed the almonds, and Christine took the ribbon off her own communion cap, all for you -- all for you; but you will let us come and eat it too?"

Old Gran'mère Bishot, who was the oldest woman about Laeken, hobbled through the grass on her crutches and nodded her white shaking head, and smiled at Bébée.

"I have nothing to give you, little one, except my blessing, if you care for that."

Bébée ran out, breaking from the children, and knelt down in the wet grass, and bent her pretty sunny head to the benediction.

Trine, the miller's wife, the richest woman of them all, called to the child from the steps of the mill, -- '

"A merry year, and the blessing of Heaven, Bébée! Come up, and here is my first dish of cherries for you; not tasted one myself; they will make you a feast with Varnhart's cake, though she should have known better, so poor as she is. Charity begins at home, and these children's stomachs are empty."

Bébée ran up and then down again gleefully, with her lapful of big black cherries; Tambour, the old white dog, who had used to drag her about in his milk cart, leaping on her in sympathy and congratulation.

"What a supper we will have!" she cried to the charcoal-burner's children, who were turning somersaults in the dock leaves, while the swans stared and hissed.

When one is sixteen, cherries and a cake have a flavor of Paradise still, especially when they are tasted twice, or thrice at most, in all the year.

An old man called to her as she went by his door. All these little cabins lie close together, with only their apple-trees, or their tall beans, or their hedges of thorn between them; you may ride by and never notice them if you do not look for them under the leaves closely, as you would for thrushes' nests.

He, too, was very old; a lifelong neighbor and gossip of Antoine's; he had been a day laborer in these same fields all his years, and had never travelled farther than where the red mill-sails turned among the colza and the corn.

"Come in, my pretty one, for a second," he whispered, with an air of mystery that made Bébée's heart quicken with expectancy. "Come in; I have something for you. They were my dead daughter's -- you have heard me talk of her -- Lisette, who died forty year or more ago, they say; for me I think it was yesterday. Mère Krebs -- she is a hard woman -- heard me talking of my girl. She burst out laughing, 'Lord's sake, fool, why, your girl would be sixty now an she had lived.' Well, so it may be; you see, the new mill was put up the week she died, and you call the new mill old; but, my girl, she is young to me. Always young. Come here, Bébée."

Bébée went after him a little awed, into the dusky interior, that smelt of stored apples and of dried herbs that hung from the roof. There was a walnut-wood press, such as the peasants of France and the low countries keep their homespun linen in and their old lace that serves for the nuptials and baptisms of half a score of generations.

The old man unlocked it with a trembling hand, and there came from it an odor of dead lavender and of withered rose leaves.

On the shelves there were a girl's set of clothes, and a girl's sabots, and a girl's communion veil and wreath.

"They are all hers," he whispered, -- "all hers. And sometimes in the evening time I see her coming along the lane for them -- do you not know? There is nothing changed; nothing changed; the grass, and the trees, and the huts, and the pond are all here; why should she only be gone away?"

"Antoine is gone."

"Yes. But he was old; my girl is young."

He stood a moment, with the press door open, a perplexed trouble in his dim eyes; the divine faith of love and the mule-like stupidity of ignorance made him cling to this one thought without power of judgment in it.

"They say she would be sixty," he said, with a little dreary smile. "But that is absurd, you know. Why, she had cheeks like yours, and she would run -- no lapwing could fly faster over corn. These are her things, you see; yes -- all of them. That is the sprig of sweetbrier she wore in her belt the day before the wagon knocked her down and killed her. I have never touched the things. But look here, Bébée, you are a good child and true, and like her just a little. I mean to give you her silver clasps. They were her great-great-great-grandmother's before her. God knows how old they are not. And a girl should have some little wealth of that sort; and for Antoine's sake -- "

The old man stayed behind, closing the press door upon the lavender-scented clothes, and sitting down in the dull shadow of the hut to think of his daughter, dead forty summers and more.

Bébée went out with the brave broad silver clasps about her waist, and the tears wet on her cheeks for a grief not her own.

To be killed just when one was young, and was loved liked that, and all the world was in its May-day flower! The silver felt cold to her touch -- as cold as though it were the dead girl's hands that held her.

The garlands that the children strung of daisies and hung about her had never chilled her so.

But little Jeanne, the youngest of the charcoal-burner's little tribe, running to meet her, screamed with glee, and danced in the gay morning.

"Oh, Bébée! how you glitter! Did the Virgin send you that off her own altar? Let me see -- let me touch! Is it made of the stars or of the sun?"

And Bébée danced with the child, and the silver gleamed and sparkled, and all the people came running out to see, and the milk carts were half an hour later for town, and the hens cackled loud unfed, and the men even stopped on their way to the fields and paused, with their scythes on their shoulders, to stare at the splendid gift.

"There is not such another set of clasps in Brabant; old work you could make a fortune of in the curiosity shops in the Montagne," said Trine Krebs, going up the steps of her mill house. "But, all the same, you know, Bébée, things off a dead body bring mischance sometimes."

But Bébée danced with the child, and did not hear.

Whose fête day had ever begun like this one of hers?

She was a little poet at heart, and should not have cared for such vanities; but when one is only sixteen, and has only a little rough woollen frock, and sits in the market place or the lace-room, with other girls around, how should one be altogether indifferent to a broad, embossed, beautiful shield of silver that sparkled with each step one took?

A quarter of an hour idle thus was all, however, that Bébée or her friends could spare at five o'clock on a summer morning, when the city was waiting for its eggs, its honey, its flowers, its cream, and its butter, and Tambour was shaking his leather harness in impatience to be off with his milk-cans.

So Bébée, all holiday though it was, and heroine though she felt herself, ran indoors, put up her cakes and cherries, cut her two basketfuls out of the garden, locked her hut, and went on her quick and happy little feet along the grassy paths toward the city.

The sorting and tying up of the flowers she always left until she was sitting under the awning in front of the Broodhuis; the same awning, tawny as an autumn pear and weather-blown as an old sail, which had served to shelter Antoine Mäes from heat and rain through all the years of his life.

"Go to the Madeleine; you will make money there, with your pretty blue eyes, Bébée," people had said to her of late; but Bébée had shaken her head.

Where she had sat in her babyhood at Antoine's feet, she would sit so long as she sold flowers in Brussels, -- here, underneath the shadow of the Gothic towers that saw Egmont die.

Old Antoine had never gone into the grand market that is fashioned after the Madeleine of Paris, and where in the cool, wet, sweet-smelling halls, all the flowers of Brabant are spread in bouquets fit for the bridal of Una, and large as the shield of the Red-Cross Knight.

Antoine could not compete with all those treasures of greenhouse and stove. He had always had his little stall among those which spread their tawny awnings and their merry hardy blossoms under the shadow of the Hôtel de Ville, in the midst of the buyings and sellings, the games and the quarrels, the auctions and the Cheap Johns, the mountebank and the marriage parties, that daily and hourly throng the Grande Place.

Here Bébée, from three years old, had been used to sit beside him. By nature she was as gay as a lark. The people always heard her singing as they passed the garden. The children never found their games so merry as when she danced their rounds with them; and though she dreamed so much out there in the air among the carnations and the roses, or in the long, low workroom in the town, high against the crocketed pinnacles of the cathedral, yet her dreams, if vaguely wistful, were all bright of hue and sunny in their fantasies. Still, Bébée had one sad unsatisfied desire: she wanted to know so much, and she knew nothing.

She did not care for the grand gay people.

When the band played, and the park filled, and the bright little cafés were thronged with pleasure seekers, and the crowds flocked hither and thither to the woods, to the theatres, to the galleries, to the guinguettes, Bébée, going gravely along with her emptied baskets homeward, envied none of these.

When at Noël the little children hugged their loads of puppets and sugar-plums; when at the Fête Dieu the whole people flocked out be-ribboned and vari-colored like any bed of spring anemones; when in the merry midsummer the chars-a-bancs trundled away into the forest with laughing loads of students and maidens; when in the rough winters the carriages left furred and jewelled women at the doors of the operas or the palaces, -- Bébée, going and coming through the city to her flower stall or lace work, looked at them all, and never thought of envy or desire.

She had her little hut: she could get her bread; she lived with the flowers; the neighbors were good to her, and now and then, on a saint's day, she too got her day in the woods; it never occurred to her that her lot could be better.

But sometimes sitting, looking at the dark old beauty of the Broodhuis, or at the wondrous carven fronts of other Spanish houses, or at the painted stories of the cathedral windows, or at the quaint colors of the shipping on the quay, or at the long dark aisles of trees that went away through the forest, where her steps had never wandered, -- sometimes Bébée would get pondering on all this unknown world that lay before and behind and around her, and a sense of her own utter ignorance would steal on her; and she would say to herself, "If only I knew a little -- just a very little!"

But it is not easy to know even a very little when you have to work for your bread from sunrise to nightfall, and when none of your friends know how to read or write, and even your old priest is one of a family of peasants, and can just teach you the alphabet, and that is all. For Father Francis could do no more than this; and all his spare time was taken up in digging his cabbage plot and seeing to his beehives; and the only books that Bébée ever beheld were a few tattered lives of saints that lay moth-eaten on a shelf of his cottage.

But Brussels has stones that are sermons, or rather that are quaint, touching, illuminated legends of the Middle Ages, which those who run may read.

Brussels is a gay little city that lies as bright within its girdle of woodland as any butterfly that rests upon moss.

The city has its ways and wiles of Paris. It decks itself with white and gold. It has music under its trees and soldiers in its streets, and troops marching and countermarching along its sunny avenues. It has blue and pink, and yellow and green, on its awnings and on its house fronts. It has a merry open-air life on its pavements at little marble tables before little gay-colored cafés. It has gilded balconies, and tossing flags, and comic operas, and leisurely pleasure seekers, and tries always to believe and make the world believe that it is Paris in very truth.

But this is only the Brussels of the noblesse and the foreigners.

There is a Brussels that is better than this -- a Brussels that belongs to the old burgher life, to the artists and the craftsmen, to the master-masons of the Moyen-âge, to the same spirit and soul that once filled the free men of Ghent and the citizens of Bruges and the besieged of Leyden, and the blood of Egmont and of Horn.

Down there by the water-side, where the old quaint walls lean over the yellow sluggish stream, and the green barrels of the Antwerp barges swing against the dusky piles of the crumbling bridges.

In the gray square desolate courts of the old palaces, where in cobwebbed galleries and silent chambers the Flemish tapestries drop to pieces.

In the great populous square, where, above the clamorous and rushing crowds, the majestic front of the Maison du Roi frowns against the sun, and the spires and pinnacles of the burgomaster's gathering-halls tower into the sky in all the fantastic luxuriance of Gothic fancy.

Under the vast shadowy wings of angels in the stillness of the cathedral, across whose sunny aisles some little child goes slowly all alone, laden with lilies for the Feast of the Assumption, till their white glory hides its curly head.

In all strange quaint old-world niches withdrawn from men in silent grass-grown corners, where a twelfth-century corbel holds a pot of roses, or a Gothic arch yawns beneath a wool warehouse, or a waterspout with a grinning faun's head laughs in the grim humor of the Moyen-âge above the bent head of a young lace-worker.

In all these, Brussels, though more worldly than her sisters of Ghent and Bruges, and far more worldly yet than her Teuton cousins of Freiburg and Nürnberg, is still in her own way like as a monkish story mixed up with the Romaunt of the Rose; or rather like some gay French vaudeville, all fashion and jest, illustrated in old Missal manner with helm and hauberk, cope and cowl, praying knights and fighting priests, winged griffins and nimbused saints, flame-breathing dragons and enamoured princes, all mingled together in the illuminated colors and the heroical grotesque romance of the Middle Ages.

And it was this side of the city that Bébée knew; and she loved it well, and would not leave it for the market of the Madeleine.

She had no one to tell her anything, and all Antoine had ever been able to say to her concerning the Broodhuis was that it had been there in his father's time; and regarding St. Gudule, that his mother had burned many a candle before its altars for a dead brother who had been drowned off the dunes.

But the child's mind, unled, but not misled, had pondered on these things, and her heart had grown to love them; and perhaps no student of Spanish architecture, no antiquary of Moyen-âge relics, loved St. Gudule and the Broodhuis as little ignorant Bébée did.

There had been a time when great dark, fierce men had builded these things, and made the place beautiful. So much she knew; and the little wistful, untaught brain tried to project itself into those unknown times, and failed, and yet found pleasure in the effort. And Bébée would say to herself as she walked the streets, "Perhaps some one will come some day who will tell me all those things."

Meanwhile, there were the flowers, and she was quite content.

Besides, she knew all the people: the old cobbler, who sat next her, and chattered all day long like a magpie; the tinker, who had come up many a summer night to drink a-glass with Antoine; the Cheap John, who cheated everybody else, but who had always given her a toy or a trinket at every Fête Dieu all the summers she had known; the little old woman, sour as a crab, who sold rosaries and pictures of saints, and little waxen Christs upon a tray; the big dogs who pulled the carts in, and lay panting all day under the rush-bottomed chairs on which the egg-wives and the fruit sellers sat, and knitted, and chaffered; nay, even the gorgeous huissier and the frowning gendarme, who marshalled the folks into order as they went up for municipal registries, or for town misdemeanors, -- she knew them all; had known them all ever since she had first trotted in like a little dog at Antoine's heels.

So Bébée stayed there.

It is, perhaps, the most beautiful square in all Northern Europe, with its black timbers, and gilded carvings, and blazoned windows, and majestic scutcheons, and fantastic pinnacles. That Bébée did not know, but she loved it, and she sat resolutely in front of the Broodhuis, selling her flowers, smiling, chatting, helping the old woman, counting her little gains, eating her bit of bread at noonday like any other market girl, but at times glancing up to the stately towers and the blue sky, with a look on her face that made the old tinker and cobbler whisper together, "What does she see there? -- the dead people or the angels?"

The truth was that even Bébée herself did not know very surely what she saw -- something that was still nearer to her than even this kindly crowd that loved her. That was all she could have said had anybody asked her.

But none did.

No one wanted to hear what the dead said; and for the angels, the tinker and the cobbler were of opinion that one had only too much of them sculptured about everywhere, and shining on all the casements -- in reverence be it spoken, of course.



Chapter III.


"I remembered it was your name-day, child Here are half a dozen eggs," said one of the hen wives; and the little cross woman with the pedler's tray added a waxen St. Agnes, colored red and yellow to the very life no doubt; and the old Cheap John had saved her a cage for the starling; and the tinker had a cream cheese for her in a vine-leaf, and the sweetmeat seller brought her a beautiful gilded horn of sugarplums, and the cobbler had made her actually a pair of shoes -- red shoes, beautiful shoes to go to mass in and be a wonder in to all the neighborhood. And they thronged round her, and adored the silver waist buckles; and when Bébée got fairly to her stall, and traffic began, she thought once more that nobody's feast day had ever dawned like hers.

When the chimes began to ring all over the city, she could hardly believe that the carillon was not saying its "Laus Deo" with some special meaning in its bells of her.

The morning went by as usual; the noise of the throngs about her like a driving of angry winds, but no more hurting her than the angels on the roof of St. Gudule are hurt by the storm when it breaks.

Hard words, fierce passions, low thoughts, evil deeds, passed by the child without resting on her; her heart was in her flowers, and was like one of them with the dew of daybreak on it.

There were many strangers in the city, and such are always sure to loiter in the Spanish square; and she sold fast and well her lilacs and her roses, and her knots of thyme and sweetbrier.

She was always a little sorry to see them go, her kindly pretty playmates that, nine times out of ten no doubt, only drooped and died in the hands that purchased them, as human souls soil and shrivel in the grasp of the passions that woo them.

The day was a busy one, and brought in good profit. Bébée had no less than fifty sous in her leather pouch when it was over, -- a sum of magnitude in the green lane by Laeken.

A few of her moss-roses were still unsold, that was all, when the Ave Maria began ringing over the town and the people dispersed to their homes or their pleasuring.

It was a warm gray evening: the streets were full; there were blossoms in all the balconies, and gay colors in all the dresses. The old tinker put his tools together, and whispered to her, -- 

"Bébée, as it is your feast day, come and stroll in St. Hubert's gallery, and I will buy you a little gilt heart, or a sugar-apple stick, or a ribbon, and we can see the puppet show afterwards, eh?"

But the children were waiting at home: she would not spend the evening in the city; she only thought she would just kneel a moment in the cathedral and say a little prayer or two for a minute -- the saints were so good in giving her so many friends.

There is something very touching in the Flemish peasant's relation with his Deity. It is all very vague to him: a jumble of veneration and familiarity, of sanctity and profanity, without any thought of being familiar, or any idea of being profane.

There is a homely poetry, an innocent affectionateness in it, characteristic of the people. He talks to his good angel Michael, and to his friend that dear little Jesus, much as he would talk to the shoemaker over the way, or the cooper's child in the doorway.

It is a very unreasonable, foolish, clumsy sort of religion, this theology in wooden shoes; it is half grotesque, half pathetic; the grandmothers pass it on to the grandchildren as they pass the bowl of potatoes round the stove in the long winter nights; it is as silly as possible, but it comforts them as they carry fagots over the frozen canals or wear their eyes blind over the squares of lace; and it has in it the supreme pathos of any perfect confidence, of any utterly childlike and undoubting trust.

This had been taught to Bébée, and she went to sleep every night in the firm belief that the sixteen little angels of the Flemish prayer kept watch and ward over her bed. For the rest, being poetical, as these north folks are not, and having in her -- wherever it came from, poor little soul -- a warmth of fancy and a spirituality of vision not at all northern, she had mixed up her religion with the fairies of Antoine's stories, and the demons in which the Flemish folks are profound believers, and the flowers into which she put all manner of sentient life, until her religion was a fantastic medley, so entangled that poor Father Francis had given up in despair any attempt to arrange it more correctly. Indeed, being of the peasantry himself, he was not so very full sure in his own mind that demons were not bodily presences, quite as real and often much more tangible than saints. Anyway, he let her alone; and she believed in the goodness of God as she believed in the shining of the sun.

People looked after her as she went through the twisting, picture-like streets, where sunlight fell still between the peaked high roofs, and lamps were here and there lit in the bric-à-brac shops and the fruit stalls.

Her little muslin cap blew back like the wings of a white butterfly. Her sunny hair caught the last sun-rays. Her feet were fair in the brown wooden shoes. Under the short woollen skirts the grace of her pretty limbs moved freely. Her broad silver clasps shone like a shield, and she was utterly unconscious that any one looked; she was simply and gravely intent on reaching St. Gudule to say her one prayer and not keep the children waiting.

Some one leaning idly over a balcony in the street that is named after Mary of Burgundy saw her going thus. He left the balcony and went down his stairs and followed her.

The sun-dazzle on the silver had first caught his sight; and then he had looked downward at the pretty feet.

These are the chances women call Fate.

Bébée entered the cathedral. It was quite empty. Far away at the west end there was an old custodian asleep on a bench, and a woman kneeling. That was all.

Bébée made her salutations to the high altar, and stole on into the chapel of the Saint Sacrament; it was the one that she loved best.

She said her prayer and thanked the saints for all their gifts and goodness, her clasped hand against her silver shield, her basket on the pavement by her, abovehead the sunset rays streaming purple and crimson and golden through the painted windows that are the wonder of the world.

When her prayer was done she still kneeled there; her head thrown back to watch the light, her hands clasped still, and on her upturned face the look that made the people say, "What does she see? -- the angels or the dead?"

She forgot everything. She forgot the cherries at home, and the children even. She was looking upward at the stories of the painted panes; she was listening to the message of the dying sun-rays; she was feeling vaguely, wistfully, unutterably the tender beauty of the sacred place and the awful wonder of the world in which she with her sixteen years was all alone, like a little blue corn-flower among the wheat that goes for grist and the barley that makes men drunk.

For she was alone, though she had so many friends. Quite alone sometimes; for God had been cruel to her, and had made her a lark without song.

When the sun faded and the beautiful casements lost all glow and meaning, Bébée rose with a startled look -- had she been dreaming? -- was it night? -- would the children be sorry, and go supperless to bed?

"Have you a rosebud left to sell to me?" a man's voice said not far off; it was low and sweet, as became the Sacrament Chapel.

Bébée looked up; she did not quite know what she saw: only dark eyes smiling into hers.

By the instinct of habit she sought in her basket and found three moss-roses. She held them out to him.

"I do not sell flowers here, but I will give them to you," she said, in her pretty grave childish fashion.

"I often want flowers," said the stranger, as he took the buds. "Where do you sell yours? -- in the market?"

"In the Grande Place."

"Will you tell me your name, pretty one?"

"I am Bébée."

There were people coming into the church. The bells were booming abovehead for vespers. There was a shuffle of chairs and a stir of feet. Boys in white went to and fro, lighting the candles. Great clouds of shadow drifted up into the roof and hid the angels.

She nodded her little head to him.

"Good night; I cannot stay. I have a cake at home to-night, and the children are waiting."

"Ah! that is important, no doubt, indeed. Will you buy some more cakes for the children from me?"

He slid a gold piece in her hand. She looked at it in amaze. In the green lanes by Laeken no one ever saw gold. Then she gave it him back.

"I will not take money in church, nor anywhere, except what the flowers are worth. Good night."

He followed her, and held back the heavy oak door for her, and went out into the air with her.

It was dark already, but in the square there was still the cool bright primrose-colored evening light.

Bébée's wooden shoes went pattering down the sloping and uneven stones. Her little gray figure ran quickly through the deep shade cast from the towers and walls. Her dreams had drifted away. She was thinking of the children and the cake.

"You are in such a hurry because of the cake?" said her new customer, as he followed her.

Bébée looked back at him with a smile in her blue eyes.

"Yes, they will be waiting, you know, and there are cherries too."

"It is a grand day with you, then?"

"It is my fête day: I am sixteen."

She was proud of this. She told it to the very dogs in the street.

"Ah, you feel old, I dare say?"

"Oh, quite old! They cannot call me a child any more."

"Of course not, it would be ridiculous. Are those presents in your basket?"

"Yes, every one of them." She paused a moment to lift the dead vine-leaves, and show him the beautiful shining red shoes. "Look! old Gringoire gave me these. I shall wear them at mass next Sunday. I never had a pair of shoes in my life."

"But how will you wear shoes without stockings?"

It was a snake cast into her Eden.

She had never thought of it.

"Perhaps I can save money and buy some," she answered after a sad little pause. "But that I could not do till next year. They would cost several francs, I suppose."

"Unless a good fairy gives them to you?"

Bébée smiled; fairies were real things to her -- relations indeed. She did not imagine that he spoke in jest.

"Sometimes I pray very much and things come," she said softly. "When the Gloire de Dijon was cut back too soon one summer, and never blossomed, and we all thought it was dead, I prayed all day long for it, and never thought of anything else; and by autumn it was all in new leaf, and now its flowers are finer than ever."

"But you watered it whilst you prayed, I suppose?"

The sarcasm escaped her.

She was wondering to herself whether it would be vain and wicked to pray for a pair of stockings: she thought she would go and ask Father Francis.

By this time they were in the Rue Royale, and half-way down it. The lamps were lighted. A regiment was marching up it with a band playing. The windows were open, and people were laughing and singing in some of them. The light caught the white and gilded fronts of the houses. The pleasure-seeking crowds loitered along in the warmth of the evening.

Bébée, suddenly roused from her thoughts by the loud challenge of the military music, looked round on the stranger, and motioned him back.

"Sir, -- I do not know you, -- why should you come with me? Do not do it, please. You make me talk, and that makes me late."

And she pushed her basket farther on her arm, and nodded to him and ran off -- as fleetly as a hare through fern -- among the press of the people.

"To-morrow, little one," he answered her with a careless smile, and let her go unpursued. Above, from the open casement of a café, some young men and some painted women leaned out, and threw sweetmeats at him, as in carnival time.

"A new model, -- that pretty peasant?" they asked him.

He laughed in answer, and went up the steps to join them; he dropped the moss-roses as he went, and trod on them, and did not wait.



Chapter IV


Bébée ran home as fast as her feet would take her.

The children were all gathered about her gate in the dusky dewy evening; they met her with shouts of welcome and reproach intermingled; they had been watching for her since first the sun had grown low and red, and now the moon was risen.

But they forgave her when they saw the splendor of her presents, and she showered out among them Père Melchior's horn of comfits.

They dashed into the hut; they dragged the one little table out among the flowers; the cherries and cake were spread on it; and the miller's wife had given a big jug of milk, and Father Francis himself had sent some honeycomb.

The early roses were full of scent in the dew; the great gillyflowers breathed\out fragrance in the dusk; the goat came and nibbled the sweetbrier unrebuked; the children repeated the Flemish bread-grace, with clasped hands and reverent eyes, "Oh, dear little Jesus, come and sup with us, and bring your beautiful Mother, too; we will not forget you are God." Then, that said, they ate, and drank, and laughed, and picked cherries from each other's mouths like little blackbirds; the big white dog gnawed a crust at their feet; old Krebs who had a fiddle, and could play it, came out and trilled them rude and ready Flemish tunes, such as Teniers or Mieris might have jumped to before an alehouse at the Kermesse; Bébée and the children joined hands, and danced round together in the broad white moonlight, on the grass by the water-side; the idlers came and sat about, the women netting or spinning, and the men smoking a pipe before bedtime; the rough hearty Flemish bubbled like a brook in gossip, or rung like a horn over a jest; Bébée and the children, tired of their play, grew quiet, and chanted together the "Ave Maria Stella Virginis"; a nightingale among the willows sang to the sleeping swans.

All was happy, quiet, homely; lovely also in its simple way.

They went early to their beds, as people must do who rise at dawn.

Bébée leaned out a moment from her own little casement ere she too went to rest.

Through an open lattice there sounded the murmur of some little child's prayer; the wind sighed among the willows; the nightingales sang on in the dark -- all was still.

Hard work awaited her on the morrow, and on all the other days of the year.

She was only a little peasant -- she must sweep, and spin, and dig, and delve, to get daily her bit of black bread, -- but that night she was as happy as a little princess in a fairy tale; happy in her playmates, in her flowers, in her sixteen years, in her red shoes, in her silver buckles, because she was half a woman; happy in the dewy leaves, in the singing birds, in the hush of the night, in the sense of rest, in the fragrance of flowers, in the drifting changes of moon and cloud; happy because she was half a woman, because she was half a poet, because she was wholly a poet.

"Oh, dear swans, how good it is to be sixteen! -- how good it is to live at all! -- do you not tell the willows so?" said Bébée to the gleam of silver under the dark leaves by the water's side, which showed her where her friends were sleeping, with their snowy wings closed over their stately heads, and the veiled gold and ruby of their eyes.

The swans did not awake to answer.

Only the nightingale answered from the willows, with Desdemona's song.

But Bébée had never heard of Desdemona, and the willows had no sigh for her.

"Good night!" she said, softly, to all the green dewy sleeping world, and then she lay down and slept herself. -- The nightingale sang on, and the willows trembled.



Chapter V.


"If I could save a centime a day, I could buy a pair of stockings this time next year," thought Bébée, locking her shoes with her other treasures in her drawer the next morning, and taking her broom and pail to wash down her little palace.

But a centime a day is a great deal in Brabant, when one has not always enough for bare bread, and when, in the long chill winter, one must weave thread lace all through the short daylight for next to nothing at all; for there are so many women in Brabant, and every one of them, young or old, can make lace, and if one do not like the pitiful wage, one may leave it and go and die, for what the master lacemakers care or know; there will always be enough, many more than enough, to twist the thread round the bobbins, and weave the bridal veils, and the trains for the courts.

"And besides, if I can save a centime, the Varnhart children ought to have it," thought Bébée, as she swept the dust together. It was so selfish of her to be dreaming about a pair of stockings, when those little things often went for days on a stew of nettles.

So she looked at her own pretty feet, -- pretty and slender, and arched, rosy, and fair, and uncramped by the pressure of leather, -- and resigned her day-dream with a brave heart, as she put up her broom and went out to weed, and hoe, and trim, and prune the garden that had been for once neglected the night before.

"One could not move half so easily in stockings," she thought with true philosophy as she worked among the black, fresh, sweet-smelling mould, and kissed a rose now and then as she passed one.

When she got into the city that day, her rush-bottomed chair, which was always left upside down in case rain should fall in the night, was set ready for her, and on its seat was a gay, gilded box, such as rich people give away full of bonbons.

Bébée stood and looked from the box to the Broodhuis, from the Broodhuis to the box; she glanced around, but no one had come there so early as she, except the tinker, who was busy quarrelling with his wife and letting his smelting fire burn a hole in his breeches.

"The box was certainly for her, since it was set upon her chair?" -- Bébée pondered a moment; then little by little opened the lid.

Within, on a nest of rose-satin, were two pair of silk stockings! -- real silk! -- with the prettiest clocks worked up their sides in color!

Bébée gave a little scream, and stood still, the blood hot in her cheeks; no one heard her, the tinker's wife, who alone was near, having just wished Heaven to send a judgment on her husband, was busy putting out his smoking smallclothes. It is a way that women and wives have, and they never see the bathos of it.

The place filled gradually.

The customary crowds gathered. The business of the day began underneath the multitudinous tones of the chiming bells. Bébée's business began too; she put the box behind her with a beating heart, and tied up her flowers.

It was the fairies, of course! but they had never set a rush-bottomed chair on its legs before, and this action of theirs frightened her.

It was rather an empty morning. She sold little, and there was the more time to think.

About an hour after noon a voice addressed her, -- 

"Have you more moss-roses for me?"

Bébée looked up with a smile, and found some. It was her companion of the cathedral. She had thought much of the red shoes and the silver clasps, but she had thought nothing at all of him.

"You are not too proud to be paid to-day?" he said, giving her a silver franc; he would not alarm her with any more gold; she thanked him, and slipped it in her little leathern pouch, and went on sorting some clove-pinks.

"You do not seem to remember me?" he said, with a little sadness.

"Oh, I remember you," said Bébée, lifting her frank eyes. "But you know I speak to so many people, and they are all nothing to me."

"Who is anything to you?" It was softly and insidiously spoken, but it awoke no echo.

"Varnhart's children," she answered him, instantly. "And old Annémie by the wharfside -- and Tambour -- and Antoine's grave -- and the starling -- and, of course, above all, the flowers."

"And the fairies, I suppose? -- though they do nothing for you."

She looked at him eagerly, -- 

"They have done something to-day. I have found a box, and some stockings -- such beautiful stockings! Silk ones! Is it not very odd?"

"It is more odd they should have forgotten you so long. May I see them?"

"I cannot show them to you now. Those ladies are going to buy. But you can see them later -- if you wait."

"I will wait and paint the Broodhuis."

"So many people do that; you are a painter then?"

"Yes -- in a way."

He sat down on an edge of the stall, and spread his things there, and sketched, whilst the traffic went on around them. He was very many years older than she; handsome, with a dark, and changeful, and listless face; he wore brown velvet, and had a red ribbon at his throat; he looked a little as Egmont might have done when wooing Claire.

Bébée, as she sold the flowers and took the change fifty times in the hour, glanced at him now and then, and watched the movements of his hands, she could not have told why.

Always among men and women, always in the crowds of the streets, people were nothing to her; she went through them as through a field of standing corn, -- only in the field she would have tarried for poppies, and in the town she tarried for no one.

She dealt with men as with women, simply, truthfully, frankly, with the innocent fearlessness of a child. When they told her she was pretty, she smiled; it was just as they said that her flowers were sweet.

But this man's hands moved so swiftly; and as she saw her Broodhuis growing into color and form beneath them, she could not choose but look now and then, and twice she gave her change wrong.

He spoke to her rarely, and sketched on and on in rapid bold strokes the quaint graces and massive richness of the Maison du Roi.

There is no crowd so busy in Brabant that it will not find leisure to stare. The Fleming or the Walloon has nothing of the Frenchman's courtesy; he is rough and rude; he remains a peasant even when town bred, and the surly insolence of the "Gueux" is in him still. He is kindly to his fellows, though not to beasts; he is shrewd, patient, thrifty, industrious, and good in very many ways, but civil never.

A good score of them left off their occupations and clustered round the painter, staring, chattering, pushing, pointing, as though a brush had never been seen in all the land of Rubens.

Bébée, ashamed of her people, got up from her chair and rebuked them.

"Oh, men of Brussels; fie then for shame!" she called to them as clearly as a robin sings. "Did never you see a drawing before? and are there not saints and martyrs enough to look at in the galleries? and have you never some better thing to do than to gape wide-mouthed at a stranger? What laziness -- ah! Just worthy of a people who sleep and smoke while their dogs work for them! Go away, all of you; look, there comes the gendarme -- it will be the worse for you. Sir, sit under my stall; they will not dare trouble you then."

He moved under the awning, thanking her with a smile; and the people, laughing, shuffled unwillingly aside and let him paint on in peace. It was only little Bébée, but they had spoilt the child from her infancy, and were used to obey her.

The painter took a long time. He set about it with the bold ease of one used to all the intricacies of form and color, and he had the skill of a master. But he spent more than half the time looking idly at the humors of the populace or watching how the treasures of Bébée's garden went away one by one in the hands of strangers.

Meanwhile, ever and again, sitting on the edge of her stall, with his colors and brushes tossed out on the board, he talked to her, and, with the soft imperceptible skill of long practice in those arts, he drew out the details of her little simple life.

There were not always people to buy, and whilst she rested and sheltered the flowers from the sun, she answered him willingly, and in one of her longer rests showed him the wonderful stockings.

"Do you think it could be the fairies?" she asked him a little doubtfully.

It was easy to make her believe any fantastical nonsense; but her fairies were ethereal divinities. She could scarcely believe that they had laid that box on her chair.

"Impossible to doubt it!" he replied, unhesitatingly. "Given a belief in fairies at all, why should there be any limit to what they can do? It is the same with the saints, is it not?"

"Yes," said Bébée, thoughtfully.

The saints were mixed up in her imagination with the fairies in an intricacy that would have defied the best reasonings of Father Francis.

"Well, then, you will wear the stockings, will you not? Only, believe me, your feet are far prettier without them."

Bébée laughed happily, and took another peep in the cosy rose-satin nest. But her little face had a certain perplexity. Suddenly she turned on him.

"Did not you put them there?"

"I? -- never!"

"Are you quite sure?"

"Quite; but why ask?"

"Because," said Bébée, shutting the box resolutely and pushing it a little away, -- "because I would not take it if you did. You are a stranger, and a present is a debt, so Antoine always said."

"Why take a present then from the Varnhart children, or your old friend who gave you the clasps?"

"Ah, that is very different. When people are very, very poor, equally poor, the one with the other, little presents that they save for and make with such a difficulty are just things that are a pleasure; sacrifices; like your sitting up with a sick person at night, and then she sits up with you another year when you want it. Do you not know?"

"I know you talk very prettily. But why should you not take any one else's present, though he may not be poor?"

"Because I could not return it."

"Could you not?"

The smile in his eyes dazzled her a little; it was so strange, and yet had so much light in it; but she did not understand him one whit.

"No; how could I?" she said earnestly. "If I were to save for two years, I could not get francs enough to buy anything worth giving back; and I should be so unhappy, thinking of the debt of it always. Do tell me if you put those stockings there?"

"No"; he looked at her, and the trivial lie faltered and died away; the eyes, clear as crystal, questioned him so innocently. "Well, if I did?" he said, frankly; "you wished for them; what harm was there? Will you be so cruel as to refuse them from me?"

The tears sprang into Bébée's eyes. She was sorry to lose the beautiful box, but more sorry he had lied to her.

"It was very kind and good," she said, regretfully. "But I cannot think why you should have done it, as you had never known me at all. And, indeed, I could not take them, because Antoine would not let me if he were alive; and if I gave you a flower every day all the year round I should not pay you the worth of them, it would be quite impossible; and why should you tell me falsehoods about such a thing? A falsehood is never a thing for a man."

She shut the box and pushed it towards him, and turned to the selling of her bouquets. Her voice shook a little as she tied up a bunch of mignonette and told the price of it.

Those beautiful stockings! why had she ever seen them, and why had he told her a lie?

It made her heart heavy. For the first time in her brief life the Broodhuis seemed to frown between her and the sun.

Undisturbed, he painted on and did not look at her.

The day was nearly done. The people began to scatter. The shadows grew very long. He painted, not glancing once elsewhere than at his study. Bébée's baskets were quite empty.

She rose, and lingered, and regarded him wistfully: he was angered; perhaps she had been rude? Her little heart failed her.

If he would only look up!

But he did not look up; he kept his handsome dark face studiously over the canvas of the Broodhuis. She would have seen a smile in his eyes if he had lifted them; but he never raised his lids.

Bébée hesitated: take the stockings she would not; but perhaps she had refused them too roughly. She wished so that he would look up and save her speaking first; but he knew what he was about too warily and well to help her thus.

She waited awhile, then took one little red moss-rosebud that she had saved all day in a corner of her basket, and held it out to him frankly, shyly, as a peace offering.

"Was I rude? I did not mean to be. But I cannot take the stockings; and why did you tell me that falsehood?"

He took the rosebud and rose too, and smiled; but he did not meet her eyes.

"Let us forget the whole matter; it is not worth a sou. If you do not take the box, leave it; it is of no use to me."

"I cannot take it."

She knew she was doing right. How was it that he could make her feel as though she were acting wrongly?

"Leave it then, I say. You are not the first woman, my dear, who has quarrelled with a wish fulfilled. It is a way your sex has of rewarding gods and men. -- Here, you old witch, here is a treasure-trove for you. You can sell it for ten francs in the town anywhere."

As he spoke he tossed the casket and the stockings in it to an old decrepit woman, who was passing by with a baker's cart drawn by a dog; and, not staying to heed her astonishment, gathered his colors and easel together.

The tears swam in Bébée's eyes as she saw the box whirled through the air.

She had done right; she was sure she had done right.

He was a stranger, and she could never have repaid him; but he made her feel herself wayward and ungrateful, and it was hard to see the beautiful fairy gift borne away forever by the chuckling, hobbling, greedy old baker's woman. If he had only taken it himself, she would have been glad then to have been brave and to have done her duty.

But it was not in his design that she should be glad.

He saw her tears, but he seemed not to see them.

"Good night, Bébée," he said carelessly, as he sauntered aside from her. "Good night, my dear. To-morrow I will finish my painting; but I will not offend you by any more gifts."

Bébée lifted her drooped head, and looked him in the eyes eagerly, with a certain sturdy resolve and timid wistfulness intermingled in her look.

"Sir, see, you speak to me quite wrongly," she said with a quick accent, that had pride as well as pain in it. "Say it was kind to bring me what I wished for; yes, it was kind I know; but you never saw me till last night, and I cannot tell even your name; and it is very wrong to lie to any one, even to a little thing like me; and I am only Bébée, and cannot give you anything back, because I have only just enough to feed myself and the starling, and not always that in winter. I thank you very much for what you wished to do; but if I had taken those things, I think you would have thought me very mean and full of greed; and Antoine always said, 'Do not take what you cannot pay -- not ever what you cannot pay -- that is the way to walk with pure feet.' Perhaps I spoke ill, because they spoil me, and they say I am too swift to say my mind. But I am not thankless -- not thankless, indeed -- it is only I could not take what I cannot pay. That is all. You are angry still -- not now -- no?"

There was, anxiety in the pleading. What did it matter to her what a stranger thought?

And yet Bébée's heart was heavy as he laughed a little coldly, and bade her good day, and left her alone to go out of the city homewards. A sense of having done wrong weighed on her; of having been rude and ungrateful.

She had no heart for the children that evening. Mère Krebs was sitting out before her door shelling peas, and called to her to come in and have a drop of coffee. Krebs had come in from Vilvöorde fair, and brought a stock of rare good berries with him. But Bébée thanked her, and went on to her own garden to work.

She had always liked to sit out on the quaint wooden steps of the mill and under the red shadow of the sails, watching the swallows flutter to and fro in the sunset, and hearing the droll frogs croak in the rushes, while the old people told her tales of the time of how in their babyhood they had run out, fearful yet fascinated, to see the beautiful Scots Grays flash by in the murky night, and the endless line of guns and caissons crawl black as a snake through the summer dust and the trampled corn, going out past the woods to Waterloo.

But to-night she had no fancy for it: she wanted to be alone with the flowers.

Though, to be sure, they had been very heartless when Antoine's coffin had gone past them, still they had sympathy; the daisies smiled at her with their golden eyes, and the roses dropped tears on her hand, just as her mood might be; the flowers were closer friends, after all, than any human souls; and besides, she could say so much to them!

Flowers belong to fairyland; the flowers and the birds and the butterflies are all that the world has kept of its Golden Age; the only perfectly beautiful things on earth, joyous, innocent, half divine, useless, say they who are wiser than God.

Bébée went home and worked among her flowers.

A little laborious figure, with her petticoats twisted high, and her feet wet with the night dews, and her back bowed to the hoeing and clipping and raking among the blossoming plants.

"How late you are working to-night, Bébée!" one or two called out, as they passed the gate. She looked up and smiled; but went on working while the white moon rose.

She did not know what ailed her.

She went to bed without supper, leaving her bit of bread and bowl of goat's milk to make a meal for the fowls in the morning.

"Little ugly, shameful, naked feet!" she said to them, sitting on the edge of her mattress, and looking at them in the moonlight. They were very pretty feet, and would not have been half so pretty in silk hose and satin shoon; but she did not know that: he had told her she wanted those vanities.

She sat still a long while, her rosy feet swaying to and fro like two roses that grow on one stalk and hang down in the wind. The little lattice was open; the sweet and dusky garden was beyond; there was a hand's breadth of sky, in which a single star was shining; the leaves of the vine hid all the rest.

But for once she saw none of it.

She only saw the black Broodhuis; the red and gold sunset overhead; the gray stones, with the fallen rose leaves and crushed fruits; and in the shadows two dark, reproachful eyes, that looked at hers.

Had she been ungrateful?

The little tender, honest heart of her was troubled and oppressed. For once, that night she slept ill.



Chapter VI.


All the next day she sat under the yellow awning, but she sat alone.

It was market day; there were many strangers. Flowers were in demand. The copper pieces were ringing against one another all the hours through in her leathern bag. The cobbler was in such good humor that he forgot to quarrel with his wife. The fruit was in such plenty that they gave her a leaf-full of white and red currants for her noonday dinner. And the people split their sides at the Cheap John's jokes; he was so droll. No one saw the leaks in his kettles or the hole in his bellows, or the leg that was lacking to his milking stool.

Everybody was gay and merry that day. But Bébée's eyes looked wistfully over the throng, and did not find what they sought. Somehow the day seemed dull, and the square empty.

The stones and the timbers around seemed more than ever full of a thousand stories that they would not tell her because she knew nothing, and was only Bébée.

She had never known a dull hour before. She, a little bright, industrious, gay thing, whose hands were always full of work, and whose head was always full of fancies, even in the grimmest winter time, when she wove the lace in the gray, chilly workroom, with the frost on the casements, and the mice running out in their hunger over the bare brick floor.

That bare room was a sad enough place sometimes, when the old women would bewail how they starved on the pittance they gained, and the young women sighed for their aching heads and their failing eyesight, and the children dropped great tears on the bobbins, because they had come out without a crust to break their fast.

She had been sad there often for others, but she had never been dull -- not with this unfamiliar, desolate, dreary dulness, that seemed to take all the mirth out of the busy life around her, and all the color out of the blue sky above. Why, she had no idea herself. She wondered if she were going to be ill; she had never been ill in her life, being strong as a little bird that has never known cage or captivity.

When the day was done, Bébée gave a quick sigh as she looked across the square. She had so wanted to tell him that she was not ungrateful; and she had a little moss-rose ready, with a sprig of sweetbrier, and a tiny spray of maidenhair fern that grew under the willows, which she had kept covered up with a leaf of sycamore all the day long.

No one would have it now.

The child went out of the place sadly as the carillon rang. There was only the moss-rose in her basket, and the red and white currants that had been given her for her dinner.

She went along the twisting, many-colored, quaintly fashioned streets, till she came to the water-side.

It is very ancient there still, there are all manner of old buildings, black and brown and gray, peaked roofs, gabled windows, arched doors, crumbling bridges, twisted galleries leaning to touch the dark surface of the canal, dusky wharves crowded with barrels, and bales, and cattle, and timber, and all the various freightage that the good ships come and go with all the year round, to and from the ZuyderZee, and the Baltic water, and the wild Northumbrian shores, and the iron-bound Scottish headlands, and the pretty gray Norman seaports, and the white sandy dunes of Holland, with the toy towns and the straight poplar-trees.

Bébée was fond of watching the brigs and barges, that looked so big to her, with their national flags flying, and their tall masts standing thick as grass, and their tawny sails flapping in the wind, and about them the sweet, strong smell of that strange, unknown thing, the sea.

Sometimes the sailors would talk with her; sometimes some old salt, sitting astride of a cask, would tell her a mariner's tale of far-away lands and mysteries of the deep; sometimes some curly-headed cabin-boy would give her a shell or a plume of seaweed, and try and make her understand what the wonderful wild water was like, which was not quiet and sluggish and dusky as this canal was, but was forever changing and moving, and curling and leaping, and making itself now blue as her eyes, now black as that thunder-cloud, now white as the snow that the winter wind tossed, now pearl hued and opaline as the convolvulus that blew in her own garden.

And Bébée would listen, with the shell in her lap, and try to understand, and gaze at the ships and then at the sky beyond them, and try to figure to herself those strange countries to which these ships were always going, and saw in fancy all the blossoming orchard province of green France, and all the fir-clothed hills and rushing rivers of the snow-locked Swedish shore, and saw too, doubtless, many lands that had no place at all except in dreamland, and were more beautiful even than the beauty of the earth, as poets' countries are, to their own sorrow, oftentimes.

But this dull day Bébée did not go down upon the wharf; she did not want the sailors' tales; she saw the masts and the bits of bunting that streamed from them, and they made her restless, which they had never done before.

Instead she went in at a dark old door and climbed up a steep staircase that went up and up, as though she were mounting St. Gudule's belfry towers; and at the top of it entered a little chamber in the roof, where one square unglazed hole that served for light looked out upon the canal, with all its crowded craft, from the dainty schooner yacht, fresh as gilding and holystone could make her, that was running for pleasure to the Scheldt, to the rude, clumsy coal barge, black as night, that bore the rough diamonds of Belgium to the snow-buried roofs of Christiania and Stromstad.

In the little dark attic there was a very old woman in a red petticoat and a high cap, who sat against the window, and pricked out lace patterns with a pin on thick paper. She was eighty-five years old, and could hardly keep body and soul together.

Bébée, running to her, kissed her. "Oh, mother Annémie, look here! Beautiful red and white currants, and a roll; I saved them for you. They are the first currants we have seen this year. Me? oh, for me, I have eaten more than are good! You know I pick fruit like a sparrow, always. Dear mother Annémie, are you better? Are you quite sure you are better to-day?"

The little old withered woman, brown as a walnut and meagre as a rush, took the currants, and smiled with a childish glee, and began to eat them, blessing the child with each crumb she broke off the bread.

"Why had you not a grandmother of your own, my little one?" she mumbled. "How good you would have been to her, Bébée!"

"Yes," said Bébée seriously, but her mind could not grasp the idea. It was easier for her to believe the fanciful lily parentage of Antoine's stories. "How much work have you done, Annémie? Oh, all that? all that? But there is enough for a week. You work too early and too late, you dear Annémie."

"Nay, Bébée, when one has to get one's bread that cannot be. But I am afraid my eyes are failing. That rose now, is it well done?"

"Beautifully done. Would the Baës take them if they were not? You know he is one that cuts every centime in four pieces."

"Ah! sharp enough, sharp enough, that is true. But I am always afraid of my eyes. I do not see the flags out there so well as I used to do."

"Because the sun is so bright, Annémie; that is all. I myself, when I have been sitting all day in the place in the light, the flowers look pale to me. And you know it is not age with me, Annémie?"

The old woman and the young girl laughed together at that droll idea.

"You have a merry heart, dear little one," said old Annémie. "The saints keep it to you always."

"May I tidy the room a little?"

"To be sure, dear, and thank you too. I have not much time, you see; and somehow my back aches badly when I stoop."

"And it is so damp here for you, over all that water!" said Bébée as she swept and dusted and set to rights the tiny place, and put in a little broken pot a few sprays of honeysuckle and rosemary that she had brought with her. "It is so damp here. You should have come and lived in my hut with me, Annémie, and sat out under the vine all day, and looked after the chickens for me when I was in the town. They are such mischievous little souls; as soon as my back is turned one or other is sure to push through the roof, and get out among the flower-beds. Will you never change your mind, and live with me, Annémie? I am sure you would be happy, and the starling says your name quite plain, and he is such a funny bird to talk to; you never would tire of him. Will you never come? It is so bright there, and green and sweet smelling; and to think you never even have seen it! -- and the swans and all, -- it is a shame."

"No, dear," said old Annémie, eating her last bunch of currants. "You have said so so often, and you are good and mean it, that I know. But I could not leave the water. It would kill me. Out of this window you know I saw my Jeannot's brig go away -- away -- away -- till the masts were lost in the mists. Going with iron to Norway; the 'Fleur d'Epine' of this town, a good ship, and a sure, and her mate; and as proud as might be, and with a little blest Mary in lead round his throat. She was to be back in port in eight months, bringing timber. Eight months -- that brought Easter time. But she never came. Never, never, never, you know. I sat here watching them come and go, and my child sickened and died, and the summer passed, and the autumn, and all the while I looked -- looked -- looked; for the brigs are all much alike; and only her I always saw as soon as she hove in sight (because he tied a hank of flax to her mizzen-mast); and when he was home safe and sound I spun the hank into hose for him; that was a fancy of his, and for eleven voyages, one on another, he had never missed to tie the flax nor I to spin the hose. But the hank of flax I never saw this time; nor the brave brig; nor my good man with his sunny blue eyes. Only one day in winter, when the great blocks of ice were smashing hither and thither, a coaster came in and brought tidings of how off in the Danish waters they had come on a water-logged brig, and had boarded her, and had found her empty, and her hull riven in two, and her crew all drowned and dead beyond any manner of doubt. And on her stern there was her name painted white, the 'Fleur d'Epine,' of Brussels, as plain as name could be; and that was all we ever knew: what evil had struck her, or how they had perished, nobody ever told. Only the coaster brought that bit of beam away, with the 'Fleur d'Epine' writ clear upon it. But you see I never know my man is dead. Any day -- who can say? -- any one of those ships may bring him aboard of her, and he may leap out on the wharf there, and come running up the stairs as he used to do, and cry, in his merry voice, 'Annémie, Annémie, here is more flax to spin, here is more hose to weave!' For that was always his homeward word; no matter whether he had had fair weather or foul, he always knotted the flax to his masthead. So you see, dear, I could not leave here. For what if he came and found me away? He would say it was an odd fashion of mourning for him. And I could not do without the window, you know. I can watch all the brigs come in; and I can smell the shipping smell that I have loved all the days of my life; and I can see the lads heaving, and climbing, and furling, and mending their bits of canvas, and hauling their flags up and down. And then who can say? -- the sea never took him, I think -- I think I shall hear his voice before I die. For they do say that God is good."

Bébée, sweeping very noiselessly, listened, and her eyes grew wistful and wondering. She had heard the story a thousand times; always in different words, but always the same little tale, and she knew how old Annémie was deaf to all the bells that tolled the time, and blind to all the whiteness of her hair and all the wrinkles of her face, and only thought of her sea-slain lover as he had been in the days of her youth.

But this afternoon the familiar history had a new patheticalness for her, and as the old soul put aside with her palsied hand the square of canvas that screened the casement, and looked out, with her old dim sad eyes strained in the longing that God never answered, Bébée felt a strange chill at her own heart, and wondered to herself, -- 

"What can it be to care for another creature like that? It must be so terrible, and yet it must be beautiful too. Does every one suffer like that?"

She did not speak at all as she finished sweeping the bricks, and went down-stairs for a metal cruche full of water, and set over a little charcoal on the stove the old woman's brass soup kettle with her supper of stewing cabbage.

Annémie did not hear or notice; she was still looking out of the hole in the wall on to the masts, and the sails, and the water.

It was twilight.

From the barges and brigs there came the smell of the sea. The sailors were shouting to each other. The craft were crowded close, and lost in the growing darkness. On the other side of the canal the belfries were ringing for vespers.

"Eleven voyages one and another, and he never forgot to tie the flax to the mast," Annémie murmured, with her old wrinkled face leaning out into the gray air. "It used to fly there, -- one could see it coming up half a mile off, -- just a pale yellow flake on the wind, like a tress of my hair, he would say. No, no, I could not go away; he may come to-night, to-morrow, any time; he is not drowned, not my man; he was all I had, and God is good, they say."

Bébée listened and looked; then kissed the old shaking hand and took up the lace patterns and went softly out of the room without speaking.

When old Annémie watched at the window it was useless to seek for any word or sign of her: people said that she had never been quite right in her brain since that fatal winter noon sixty years before, when the coaster had brought into port the broken beam of the good brig "Fleur d'Epine."

Bébée did not know about that, nor heed whether her wits were right or not.

She had known the old creature in the lace-room where Annémie pricked out designs, and she had conceived a great regard and sorrow for her; and when Annémie had become too ailing and aged to go herself any longer to the lace-maker's place, Bébée had begged leave for her to have the patterns at home, and had carried them to and fro for her for the last three or four years, doing many other little useful services for the lone old soul as well, -- services which Annémie hardly perceived, she had grown so used to them, and her feeble intelligence was so sunk in the one absorbing idea that she must watch all the days through and all the years through for the coming of the dead man and the lost brig.

Bébée put the lace patterns in her basket, and trotted home, her sabots clattering on the stones.

"What it must be to care for any one like that!" she thought, and by some vague association of thought that she could not have pursued, she lifted the leaves and looked at the moss-rosebud.

It was quite dead.



Chapter VII.


As she got clear of the city and out on her country road, a shadow Fell across her in the evening light.

"Have you had a good day, little one?" asked a voice that made her stop with a curious vague expectancy and pleasure.

"It is you!" she said, with a little cry, as she saw her friend of the silk stockings leaning on a gate midway in the green and solitary road that leads to Laeken.

"Yes, it is I," he answered, as he joined her. "Have you forgiven me, Bébée?"

She looked at him with frank, appealing eyes, like those of a child in fault.

"Oh, I did not sleep all night!" she said, simply. "I thought I had been rude and ungrateful, and I could not be sure I had done right, though to have done otherwise would certainly have been wrong."

He laughed.

"Well, that is a clearer deduction than is to be drawn from most moral uncertainties. Do not think twice about the matter, my dear. I have not, I assure you."

"No!"

She was a little disappointed. It seemed such an immense thing to her; and she had lain awake all the night, turning it about in her little brain, and appealing vainly for help in it to the sixteen sleep-angels.

"No, indeed. And where are you going so fast, as if those wooden shoes of yours were sandals of Mercury?"

"Mercury -- is that a shoemaker?"

"No, my dear. He did a terrible bit of cobbling once, when he made Woman. But he did not shoe her feet with swiftness that I know of; she only runs away to be run after, and if you do not pursue her, she comes back -- always."

Bébée did not understand at all.

"I thought God made women," she said, a little awe-stricken.

"You call it God. People three thousand years ago called it Mercury or Hermes. Both mean the same thing, -- mere words to designate an unknown quality. Where are you going? Does your home lie here?"

"Yes, onward, quite far onward," said Bébée, wondering that he had forgotten all she had told him the day before about her hut, her garden, and her neighbors. "You did not come and finish your picture to-day: why was that? I had a rosebud for you, but it is dead now."

"I went to Anvers. You looked for me a little, then?"

"Oh, all day long. For I was so afraid I had been ungrateful."

"That is very pretty of you. Women are never grateful, my dear, except when they are very ill-treated. Mercury, whom we were talking of, gave them, among other gifts, a dog's heart."

Bébée felt bewildered; she did not reason about it, but the idle, shallow, cynical tone pained her by its levity and its unlikeness to the sweet, still, gray summer evening.

"Why are you in such a hurry?" he pursued. "The night is cool, and it is only seven o'clock. I will walk part of the way with you."

"I am in a hurry because I have Annémie's patterns to do," said Bébée, glad that he spoke of a thing that she knew how to answer. "You see, Annémie's hand shakes and her eyes are dim, and she pricks the pattern all awry and never perceives it; it would break her heart if one showed her so, but the Baës would not take them as they are; they are of no use at all. So I prick them out myself on fresh paper, and the Baës thinks it is all her doing, and pays her the same money, and she is quite content. And as I carry the patterns to and fro for her, because she cannot walk, it is easy to cheat her like that; and it is no harm to cheat so, you know." He was silent.

"You are a good little girl, Bébée, I can see." he said at last, with a graver sound in his voice. "And who is this Annémie for whom you do so much? an old woman, I suppose."

"Oh, yes, quite old; incredibly old. Her man was drowned at sea sixty years ago, and she watches for his brig still, night and morning."

"The dog's heart. No doubt he beat her, and had a wife in fifty other ports."

"Oh, no!" said Bébée, with a little cry, as though the word against the dead man hurt her. "She has told me so much of him. He was as good as good could be, and loved her so, and between the voyages they were so happy. Surely that must have been sixty years now, and she is so sorry still, and still will not believe that he was drowned."

He looked down on her with a smile that had a certain pity in it.

"Well, yes; there are women like that, I believe. But be very sure, my dear, he beat her. Of the two, one always holds the whip and uses it, the other crouches."

"I do not understand," said Bébée.

"No; but you will."

"I will? -- when?"

He smiled again.

"Oh -- to-morrow, perhaps, or next year -- or when Fate fancies."

"Or rather, when I choose," he thought to himself, and let his eyes rest with a certain pleasure on the little feet, that went beside him in the grass, and the pretty fair bosom that showed ever and again, as the frills of her linen bodice were blown back by the wind and her own quick motion.

Bébée looked also up at him; he was very handsome, and looked so to her, after the broad, blunt, characterless faces of the Walloon peasantry around her. He walked with an easy grace, he was clad in picture-like velvets, he had a beautiful poetic head, and eyes like deep brown waters, and a face like one of Jordaens' or Rembrandt's cavaliers in the galleries where she used to steal in of a Sunday, and look up at the paintings, and dream of what that world could be in which those people had lived.

"You are of the people of Rubes' country, are you not?" she asked him.

"Of what country, my dear?"

"Of the people that live in the gold frames," said Bébée, quite seriously. "In the galleries, you know. I know a charwoman that scrubs the floors of the Arenberg Palace, and she lets me in sometimes to look; and you are just like those great gentlemen in the gold frames, only you have not a hawk and a sword, and they always have. I used to wonder where they came from, for they are not like any of us one bit, and the charwoman -- she is Lisa Dredel, and lives in the street of the Pot d'Etain -- always said. 'Dear heart, they all belong to Rubes' land: we never see their like nowadays.' But you must come out of Rubes' land; at least, I think so, do you not?"

He caught her meaning; he knew that Rubes was the homely abbreviation of Rubens that all the Netherlanders used, and he guessed the idea that was reality to this little lonely fanciful mind.

"Perhaps I do," he answered her with a smile, for it was not worth his while to disabuse her thoughts of any imagination that glorified him to her. "Do you not want to see Rubes' world, little one? To see the gold and the grandeur, and the glitter of it all? -- never to toil or get tired? -- always to move in a pageant? -- always to live like the hawks in the paintings you talk of, with silver bells hung round you, and a hood all sewn with pearls?"

"No," said Bébée, simply. "I should like to see it, just to see it, as one looks through a grating into the king's grape-houses here. But I should not like to live in it. I love my hut, and the starling, and the chickens, and what would the garden do without me? and the children, and the old Annémie? I could not anyhow, anywhere, be any happier than I am. There is only one thing I wish."

"And what is that?"

"To know something; not to be so ignorant. Just look -- I can read a Little, it is true: my Hours, and the letters, and when Krebs brings in a newspaper I can read a little of it, not much. I know French well, because Antoine was French himself, and never did talk Flemish to me; and they being Netherlanders, cannot, of course, read the newspapers at all, and so think it very wonderful indeed in me. But what I want is to know things, to know all about what was before ever I was living. St. Gudule now -- they say it was built hundreds of years before; and Rubes again -- they say he was a painter king in Antwerpen before the oldest, oldest woman like Annémie ever began to count time. I am sure books tell you all those things, because I see the students coming and going with them; and when I saw once the millions of books in the Rue du Musée, I asked the keeper what use they were for, and he said, 'To make men wise, my dear.' But Gringoire Bac, the cobbler, who was with me, -- it was a fête day, -- Bac, he said, 'Do not you believe that, Bébée; they only muddle folks' brains; for one book tells them one thing, and another book another, and so on, till they are dazed with all the contrary lying; and if you see a bookish man, be sure you see a very poor creature who could not hoe a patch, or kill a pig, or stitch an upper-leather, were it ever so.' But I do not believe that Bac said right. Did he?"

"I am not sure. On the whole, I think it is the truest remark on literature I have ever heard, and one that shows great judgment in Bac. Well?"

"Well, sometimes, you know," said Bébée, not understanding his answer, but pursuing her thoughts confidentially, -- "sometimes I talk like this to the neighbors, and they laugh at me. Because Mère Krebs says that when one knows how to spin and sweep and make bread and say one's prayers and milk a goat or a cow, it is all a woman wants to know this side of heaven. But for me, I cannot help it, when I look at those windows in the cathedral, or at those beautiful twisted little spires that are all over our Hôtel de Ville, I want to know who the men were that made them, -- what they did and thought, -- how they looked and spoke, -- how they learned to shape stone into leaves and grasses like that, -- how they could imagine all those angel faces on the glass. When I go alone in the quite early morning or at night when it is still -- sometimes in winter I have to stay till it is dark over the lace -- I hear their feet come after me, and they whisper to me close, 'Look what beautiful things we have done, Bébée, and you all forget us quite. We did what never will die, but our names are as dead as the stones.' And then I am so sorry for them and ashamed. And I want to know more. Can you tell me?"

He looked at her earnestly; her eyes were shining, her cheeks were warm, her little mouth was tremulous with eagerness.

"Did any one ever speak to you in that way?" he asked her.

"No," she answered him. "It comes into my head of itself. Sometimes I think the cathedral angels put it there. For the angels must be tired, you know; always pointing to God and always seeing men turn away, I used to tell Antoine sometimes. But he used to shake his head and say that it was no use thinking; most likely St. Gudule and St. Michael had set the church down in the night all ready made, why not? God made the trees, and they were more wonderful, he thought, for his part. And so perhaps they are, but that is no answer. And I do want to know. I want some one who will tell me; and if you come out of Rubes' country as I think, no doubt you know everything, or remember it?"

He smiled.

"The free pass to Rubes' country lies in books, pretty one. Shall I give you some? -- nay, lend them, I mean, since giving you are too wilful to hear of without offence. You can read, you said?"

Bébée's eyes glowed as they lifted themselves to his.

"I can read -- not very fast, but that would come with doing it more and more, I think, just as spinning does; one knots the thread and breaks it a million times before one learns to spin as fine as cobwebs. I have read the stories of St. Anne, and of St. Catherine, and of St. Luven fifty times, but they are all the books that Father Francis has; and no one else has any among us."

"Very well. You shall have books of mine. Easy ones first, and then those that are more serious. But what time will you have? You do so much; you are like a little golden bee."

Bébée laughed happily.

"Oh! give me the books and I will find the time. It is light so early now. That gives one so many hours. In winter one has so few one must lie in bed, because to buy a candle you know one cannot afford except, of course, a taper now and then, as one's duty is, for our Lady or for the dead. And will you really, really, lend me books?"

"Really, I will. Yes. I will bring you one to the Grande Place to-morrow, or meet you on your road there with it. Do you know what poetry is, Bébée?"

"No."

"But your flowers talk to you?"

"Ah! always. But then no one else hears them ever but me; and so no one else ever believes."

"Well, poets are folks who hear the flowers talk as you do, and the trees, and the seas, and the beasts, and even the stones; but no one else ever hears these things, and so, when the poets write them out, the rest of the world say, 'That is very fine, no doubt, but only good for dreamers; it will bake no bread.' I will give you some poetry; for I think you care more about dreams than about bread."

"I do not know," said Bébée; and she did not know, for her dreams, like her youth, and her innocence, and her simplicity, and her strength, were all unconscious of themselves, as such things must be to be pure and true at all.

Bébée had grown up straight, and clean, and fragrant, and joyous as one of her own carnations; but she knew herself no more than the carnation knows its color and its root,

"No. you do not know," said he, with a sort of pity; and thought within himself, was it worth while to let her know?

If she did not know, these vague aspirations and imaginations would drop off from her with the years of her early youth, as the lime-flowers drop downwards with the summer heats. She would forget them. They would linger a little in her head, and, perhaps, always wake at some sunset hour or some angelus chime, but not to trouble her. Only to make her cradle song a little sadder and softer than most women's was. Unfed, they would sink away and bear no blossom.

She would grow into a simple, hardy, hardworking, God-fearing Flemish woman like the rest. She would marry, no doubt, some time, and rear her children honestly and well; and sit in the market stall every day, and spin and sew, and dig and wash, and sweep, and brave bad weather, and be content with poor food to the end of her harmless and laborious days -- poor little Bébée!

He saw her so clearly as she would be -- if he let her alone.

A little taller, a little broader, a little browner, less sweet of voice, less soft of skin, less flower-like in face; having learned to think only as her neighbors thought, of price of wood and cost of bread; laboring cheerily but hardly from daybreak to nightfall to fill hungry mouths: forgetting all things except the little curly-heads clustered round her soup-pot, and the year-old lips sucking at her breasts.

A blameless life, an eventless life, a life as clear as the dewdrop, and as colorless; a life opening, passing, ending in the little green wooded lane, by the bit of water where the swans made their nests under the willows; a life like the life of millions, a little purer, a little brighter, a little more tender, perhaps, than those lives usually are, but otherwise as like them as one ear of barley is like another as it rises from the soil, and blows in the wind, and turns brown in the strong summer sun, and then goes down to the sod again under the sickle.

He saw her just as she would be -- if he let her alone.

But should he leave her alone?

He cared nothing; only her eyes had such a pretty, frank, innocent look like a bird's in them, and she had been so brave and bold with him about those silken stockings; and this little ignorant, dreamful mind of hers was so like a blush rosebud, which looks so close-shut, and so sweet-smelling, and so tempting fold within fold, that a child will pull it open, forgetful that he will spoil it forever from being a full-grown rose, and that he will let the dust, and the sun, and the bee into its tender bosom -- and men are true children, and women are their rosebuds.

Thinking only of keeping well with this strange and beautiful wayfarer from that unknown paradise of Rubes' country, Bébée lifted up the vine-leaves of her basket.

"I took a flower for you to-day, but it is dead. Look; to-morrow, if you will be there, you shall have the best in all the garden."

"You wish to see me again then?" he asked her. Bébée looked at him with troubled eyes, but with a sweet frank faith that had no hesitation in it.

"Yes! you are not like anything I ever knew, and if you will only help me to learn a little. Sometimes I think I am not stupid, only ignorant; but I cannot be sure unless I try."

He smiled; he was listlessly amused; the day before he had tempted the child merely because she was pretty, and to tempt her in that way seemed the natural course of things, but now there was something in her that touched him differently; the end would be the same, but he would change the means.

The sun had set. There was a low, dull red glow still on the far edge of the plains -- that was all. In the distant cottages little lights were twinkling. The path grew dark.

"I will go away and let her alone," he thought. "Poor little soul! it would give itself lavishly, it would never be bought. I will let it alone; the mind will go to sleep and the body will keep healthy, and strong, and pure, as people call it. It would be a pity to play with both a day, and then throw them away as the boy threw the pear-blossom. She is a little clod of earth that has field flowers growing in it. I will let her alone, the flowers under the plough in due course will die, and she will be content among the other clods, -- if I let her alone."

At that moment there went across the dark fields, against the dusky red sky, a young man with a pile of brushwood on his back, and a hatchet in his hand.

"You are late, Bébée," he called to her in Flemish, and scowled at the stranger by her side.

"A good-looking lad; who is it?" said her companion.

"That is Jeannot, the son of old Sophie," she answered him. "He is so good -- oh, so good, you cannot think; he keeps his mother and three little sisters, and works so very, very hard in the forest, and yet he often finds time to dig my garden for me, and he chops all my wood in winter."

They had come to where the road goes up by the king's summer palace. They were under great hanging beeches and limes. There was a high gray wall, and over it the blossoming fruit boughs hung. In a ditch full of long grass little kids bleated by their mothers. Away on the left went the green fields of colza, and beetroot, and trefoil, with big forest trees here and there in their midst, and, against the blue low line of the far horizon, red mill-sails, and gray church spires; dreamy plaintive bells far away somewhere were ringing the sad Flemish carillon.

He paused and looked at her.

"I must bid you good night, Bébée; you are near your home now."

She paused too and looked at him.

"But I shall see you to-morrow?"

There was the wistful, eager, anxious unconsciousness of appeal as when the night before she had asked him if he were angry.

He hesitated a moment. If he said no, and went away out of the city wherever his listless and changeful whim called him, he knew how it would be with her; he knew what her life would be as surely as he knew the peach would come out of the peach-flower rosy on the wall there: life in the little hut; among the neighbors; sleepy and safe and soulless; -- if he let her alone.

If he stayed and saw her on the morrow he knew, too, the end as surely as he knew that the branch of white pear-blossom, which in carelessness he had knocked down with a stone on the grass yonder, would fade in the night and would never bring forth its sweet, simple fruit in the sunshine.

To leave the peach-flower to come to maturity and be plucked by a peasant, or to pull down the pear-blossom and rifle the buds?

Carelessly and languidly he balanced the question with himself, whilst Bébée, forgetful of the lace patterns and the flight of the hours, stood looking at him with anxious and pleading eyes, thinking only -- was he angry again, or would he really bring her the books and make her wise, and let her know the stories of the past?

"Shall I see you to-morrow?" she said wistfully.

Should she? -- if he left the peach-blossom safe on the wall, Jeannot the woodcutter would come by and by and gather the fruit.

If he left the clod of earth in its pasture with all its daisies untouched, this black-browed young peasant would cut it round with his hatchet and carry it to his wicker cage, that the homely brown lark of his love might sing to it some stupid wood note under a cottage eave.

The sight of the strong young forester going over the darkened fields against the dull red skies was as a feather that suffices to sway to one side a balance that hangs on a hair.

He had been inclined to leave her alone when he saw in his fancy the clean, simple, mindless, honest life that her fanciful girlhood would settle down into as time should go on. But when in the figure of the woodman there was painted visibly on the dusky sky that end for her which he had foreseen, he was not indifferent to it; he resented it; he was stirred to a vague desire to render it impossible.

If Jeannot had not gone by across the fields he would have left her and let her alone from that night thenceforwards; as it was, -- 

"Good night, Bébée," he said to her. "Tomorrow I will finish the Broodhuis and bring you your first book. Do not dream too much, or you will prick your lace patterns all awry. Good night, pretty one."

Then he turned and went back through the green dim lanes to the city.

Bébée stood a moment looking after him, with a happy smile; then she picked up the fallen pear-blossom, and ran home as fast as her feet would take her.

That night she worked very late watering her flowers, and trimming them, and then ironing out a little clean white cap for the morrow; and then sitting down under the open lattice to prick out all old Annémie's designs by the strong light of the full moon that flooded her hut with its radiance.

But she sang all the time she worked, and the gay, pretty, wordless songs floated across the water and across the fields, and woke some old people in their beds as they lay with their windows open, and they turned and crossed themselves, and said, "Dear heart! -- this is the eve of the Ascension, and the angels are so near we hear them."

But it was no angel; only the thing that is nearer heaven than anything else, -- a little human heart that is happy and innocent.

Bébée had only one sorrow that night. The pear-blossoms were all dead; and no care could call them back even for an hour's blooming.

"He did not think when he struck them down," she said to herself, regretfully.



Chapter VIII.


"Can I do any work for you, Bébée?" said black Jeannot in the daybreak, pushing her gate open timidly with one hand.

"There is none to do, Jeannot. They want so little in this time of the year -- the flowers," said she, lifting her head from the sweet-peas she was tying up to their sticks.

The woodman did not answer; he leaned over the half-open wicket, and swayed it backwards and forwards under his bare arm. He was a good, harmless, gentle fellow, swarthy as charcoal and simple as a child, and quite ignorant, having spent all his days in the great Soignies forests making fagots when he was a little lad, and hewing down trees or burning charcoal as he grew to manhood.

"Who was that seigneur with you last night, Bébée?" he asked, after a long silence, watching her as she moved.

Bébée's eyes grew very soft, but they looked up frankly.

"I am not sure -- I think he is a painter -- a great painter prince, I mean -- as Rubes was in Antwerpen; he wanted roses the night before last in the cathedral."

"But he was walking with you?"

"He was in the lane as I came home last night -- yes."

"What does he give you for your roses?"

"Oh! he pays me well. How is your mother this day, Jeannot?"

"You do not like to talk of him?"

"Why should you want to talk of him? He is nothing to you."

"Did you really see him only two days ago, Bébée?"

"Oh, Jeannot! did I ever tell a falsehood? You would not say that to one of your little sisters."

The forester swayed the gate to and fro drearily under his folded arms.

Bébée, not regarding him, cut her flowers, and filled her baskets, and did her other work, and set a ladder against the hut and climbed on its low roof to seek for eggs, the hens having green tastes sometimes for the rushes and lichens of its thatch. She found two eggs, which she promised herself to take to Annémie, and looking round as she sat on the edge of the roof, with one foot on the highest rung of the ladder, saw that Jeannot was still at the gate.

"You will be late in the forest, Jeannot," she cried to him. "It is such a long, long way in and out. Why do you look so sulky? and you are kicking the wicket to pieces."

"I do not like you to talk with strangers," said Jeannot, sullenly and sadly.

Bébée laughed as she sat on the edge of the thatch, and looked at the shining gray skies of the early day, and the dew-wet garden, and the green fields beyond, with happy eyes that made the familiar scene transfigured to her.

"Oh, Jeannot, what nonsense! As if I do not talk to a million strangers every summer! as if I could ever sell a flower if I did not! You are cross this morning; that is what it is."

"Do you know the man's name?" said Jeannot, suddenly.

Bébée felt her cheeks grow warm as with some noonday heat of sunshine. She thought it was with anger against blundering Jeannot's curiosity.

"No! and what would his name be to us, if I did know it? I cannot ask people's names because they buy my roses."

"As if it were only roses!"

There was the length of the garden between them, and Bébée did not hear as she sat on the edge of her roof with that light dreamful enjoyment of air and sky and coolness, and all the beauty of the dawning day, which the sweet vague sense of a personal happiness will bring with it to the dullest and the coldest.

"You are cross, Jeannot, that is what it is," she said, after a while. "You should not be cross; you are too big and strong and good. Go in and get my bowl of bread and milk for me, and hand it to me up here. It is so pleasant. It is as nice as being perched on an apple-tree."

Jeannot went in obediently and handed up her breakfast to her, looking at her with shy, worshipping eyes. But his face was overcast, and he sighed heavily as he took up his hatchet and turned away; for he was the sole support of his mother and sisters, and if he did not do his work in Soignies they would starve at home.

"You will be seeing that stranger again?" he asked her.

"Yes!" she answered with a glad triumph in her eyes; not thinking at all of him as she spoke. "You ought to go, Jeannot, now; you are so late. I will come and see your mother to-morrow. And do not be cross, you dear big Jeannot. Days are too short to snip them up into little bits by bad temper; it is only a stupid sheep-shearer that spoils the fleece by snapping at it sharp and hard; that is what Father Francis says."

Bébée, having delivered her little piece of wisdom, broke her bread into her milk and ate it, lifting her face to the fresh wind and tossing crumbs to the wheeling swallows, and watching the rose-bushes nod and toss below in the breeze, and thinking vaguely how happy a thing it was to live.

Jeannot looked up at her, then went on his slow sad way through the wet lavender-shrubs and the opening buds of the lilies.

"You will only think of that stranger, Bébée, never of any of us -- never again," he said; and wearily opened the little gate and went through it, and down the daybreak stillness of the lane. It was a foolish thing to say; but when were lovers ever wise?

Bébée did not heed; she did not understand herself or him; she only knew that she was happy; when one knows that, one does not want to seek much further.

She sat on the thatch and took her bread and milk in the gray clear air, with the swallows circling above her head, and one or two of them even resting a second on the edge of the bowl to peck at the food from the big wooden spoon; they had known her all the sixteen summers of her life, and were her playfellows, only they would never tell her anything of what they saw in winter over the seas. That was her only quarrel with them. Swallows do not tell their secrets They have the weird of Procne on them all.

The sun came and touched the lichens of the roof into gold.

Bébée smiled at it gayly as it rose above the tops of the trees, and shone on all the little villages scattered over the plains.

"Ah, dear Sun!" she cried to it. "I am going to be wise. I am going into great Rubes' country. I am going to hear of the Past and the Future. I am going to listen to what the Poets say. The swallows never would tell me anything; but now I shall know as much as they know. Are you not glad for me, O Sun?"

The Sun came over the trees, and heard and said nothing. If he had answered at all he must have said, -- 

"The only time when a human soul is either wise or happy is in that one single moment when the hour of my own shining or of the moon's beaming seems to that single soul to be past and present and future, to be at once the creation and the end of all things. Faust knew that; so will you."

But the Sun shone on and held his peace. He sees all things ripen and fall. He can wait. He knows the end. It is always the same.

He brings the fruit out of the peach-flower, and rounds it and touches it into ruddiest rose and softest gold: but the sun knows well that the peach must drop -- whether into the basket to be eaten by kings, or on to the turf to be eaten by ants. What matter which very much after all?

The Sun is not a cynic; he is only wise because he is Life and he is Death, the creator and the corrupter of all things.



Chapter IX.


But Bébée, who only saw in the sun the sign of daily work, the brightness of the face of the world, the friend of the flowers, the harvest-man of the poor, the playmate of the birds and butterflies, the kindly light that the waking birds and the ringing carillon welcomed, -- Bébée, who was not at all afraid of him, smiled at his rays and saw in them only fairest promise of a cloudless midsummer day as she gave her last crumb to the swallows, dropped down off the thatch, and busied herself in making bread that Mère Krebs would bake for her, until it was time to cut her flowers and go down into the town.

When her loaves were made and she had run over with them to the mill-house and back again, she attired herself with more heed than usual, and ran to look at her own face in the mirror of the deep well-water -- other glass she had none.

She was used to hear herself called pretty; bat she had never thought about it at all till now. The people loved her; she had always believed that they had only said it as a sort of kindness, as they said, "God keep you." But now -- 

"He told me I was like a flower," she thought to herself, and hung over the well to see. She did not know very well what he had meant; but the sentence stirred in her heart as a little bird under tremulous leaves.

She waited ten minutes full, leaning and looking down, while her eyes, that were like the blue iris, smiled back to her from the brown depths below. Then she went and kneeled down before the old shrine in the wall of the garden.

"Dear and holy Mother of Jesus, I do thank you that you made me a little good to look at," she said, softly. "Keep me as you keep the flowers, and let my face be always fair, because it is a pleasure to be a pleasure. Ah, dear Mother, I say it so badly, and it sounds so vain, I know. But I do not think you will be angry, will you? And I am going to try to be wise."

Then she murmured an ave or two, to be in form as it were, and then rose and ran along the lanes with her baskets, and brushed the dew lightly over her bare feet, and sang a little Flemish song for very joyousness, as the birds sing in the apple bough.

She got the money for Annémie and took it to her with fresh patterns to prick, and the new-laid eggs.

"I wonder what he meant by a dog's heart?" she thought to herself, as she left the old woman sitting by the hole in the roof pricking out the parchment in all faith that she earned her money, and looking every now and then through the forests of masts for the brig with the hank of flax flying, -- the brig that had foundered fifty long years before in the northern seas, and in the days of her youth.

"What is the dog's heart?" thought Bébée; she had seen a dog she knew -- a dog which all his life long had dragged heavy loads under brutal stripes along the streets of Brussels -- stretch himself on the grave of his taskmaster and refuse to eat, and persist in lying there until he died, though he had no memory except of stripes, and no tie to the dead except pain and sorrow. Was it a heart like this that he meant?

"Was her sailor, indeed, so good to her?" she asked an old gossip of Annémie's, as she went down the stairs.

The old soul stopped to think with difficulty of such a far-off time, and resting her brass flagon of milk on the steep step.

"Eh, no; not that I ever saw," she answered at length. "He was fond of her -- very fond; but he was a wilful one, and he beat her sometimes when he got tired of being on land. But women must not mind that, you know, my dear, if only a man's heart is right. Things fret them, and then they belabor what they love best; it is a way they have."

"But she speaks of him as of an angel nearly!" said Bébée, bewildered.

The old woman took up her flagon, with a smile flitting across her wintry face.

"Ay, dear; when the frost kills your brave rose-bush, root and bud, do you think of the thorns that pricked you, or only of the fair, sweet-smelling things that flowered all your summer?"

Bébée went away thoughtfully out of the old crazy water-washed house by the quay; life seemed growing very strange and intricate and knotted about her, like the threads of lace that a bad fairy has entangled in the night.



Chapter X.


Her stranger from Rubes' land was a great man in a certain world. He had become great when young, which is perhaps a misfortune. It indisposes men to be great at their maturity. He was famous at twenty, by a picture hectic in color, perfect in drawing, that made Paris at his feet. He became more famous by verses, by plays, by political follies, and by social successes. He was faithful, however, to his first love in art. He was a great painter, and year by year proved afresh the cunning of his hand. Purists said his pictures had no soul in them. It was not wonderful if they had none. He always painted soulless vice; indeed, he saw very little else.

One year he had some political trouble. He wrote a witty pamphlet that hurt where it was perilous to aim. He laughed and crossed the border, riding into the green Ardennes one sunny evening. He had a name of some power and sufficient wealth; he did not feel long exile. Meanwhile he told himself he would go and look at Scheffer's Gretchen.

The King of Thule is better; but people talk most of the Gretchen. He had never seen either.

He went in leisurely, travelling up the bright Meuse River, and across the monotony of the plains, then green with wheat a foot high, and musical with the many bells of the Easter kermesses in the quaint old-world villages.

There was something so novel, so sleepy, so harmless, so mediaeval, in the Flemish life, that it soothed him. He had been swimming all his life in salt sea-fed rapids; this sluggish, dull, canal water, mirroring between its rushes a life that had scarcely changed for centuries, had a charm for him.

He stayed awhile in Antwerpen. The town is ugly and beautiful; it is like a dull quaint grés de Flandre jug, that has precious stones set inside its rim. It is a burgher ledger of bales and barrels, of sale and barter, of loss and gain; but in the heart of it there are illuminated leaves of missal vellum, all gold and color, and monkish story and heroic ballad, that could only have been executed in the days when Art was a religion.

He gazed himself into an homage of Rubens, whom before he had slighted, never having known (for, unless you have seen Antwerp, it is as absurd to say that you have seen Rubens, as it is to think that you have seen Murillo out of Seville, or Raffaelle out of Rome); and he studied the Gretchen carefully, delicately, sympathetically, for he loved Scheffer; but though he tried, he failed to care for her.

"She is only a peasant; she is not a poem," he said to himself; "I will paint a Gretchen for the Salon of next year."

But it was hard for him to portray a Gretchen. All his pictures were Phryne, -- Phryne in triumph, in ruin, in a palace, in a poor-house, on a bed of roses, on a hospital mattress; Phryne laughing with a belt of jewels about her supple waist; Phryne lying with the stones of the dead-house under her naked limbs, -- but always Phryne. Phryne, who living had death in her smile; Phryne, who lifeless had blank despair on her face; Phryne, a thing that lived furiously every second of her days, but Phryne a thing that once being dead was carrion that never could live again.

Phryne has many painters in this school, as many as Catherine and Cecilia had in the schools of the Renaissance, and he was chief amidst them.

How could he paint Gretchen if the pure Scheffer missed? Not even if, like the artist monks of old, he steeped his brushes all Lent through in holy water.

And in holy water he did not believe.

One evening, having left Antwerpen ringing its innumerable bells over the grave of its dead Art, he leaned out of the casement of an absent friend's old palace in the Brabant street that is named after Mary of Burgundy; an old casement crusted with quaint carvings, and gilded round in Spanish fashion, with many gargoyles and griffins, and illegible scutcheons.

Leaning there, wondering with himself whether he would wait awhile and paint quietly in this dim street, haunted with the shades of Memling and Maes, and Otto Veneris and Philip de Champagne, or whether he would go into the East and seek new types, and lie under the red Egyptian heavens and create a true Cleopatra, which no man has ever done yet, -- young Cleopatra, ankle-deep in roses and fresh from Cesar's kisses, -- leaning there, he saw a little peasant go by below, with two little white feet in two wooden shoes, and a face that had the pure and simple radiance of a flower.

"There is my Gretchen," he thought to himself, and went down and followed her into the cathedral. If he could get what was in her face, he would get what Scheffer could not.

A little later walking by her in the green lanes, he meditated, "It is the face of Gretchen, but not the soul -- the Red Mouse has never passed this child's lips. Nevertheless -- "

"Nevertheless -- " he said to himself, and smiled.

For he, the painter all his life long of Phryne living and of Phryne dead, believed that every daughter of Eve either vomits the Red Mouse or swallows it.

It makes so little difference which, -- either way the Red Mouse has been there the evening towards this little rush-covered hut, he forgot the Red Mouse, and began vaguely to see that there are creatures of his mother's sex from whom the beast of the Brocken slinks away.

But he still said to himself, "Nevertheless." "Nevertheless," -- for he knew well that when the steel cuts the silk, when the hound hunts the fawn, when the snake wooes the bird, when the king covets the vineyard, there is only one end possible at any time. It is the strong against the weak, the fierce against the feeble, the subtle against the simple, the master against the slave; there is no equality in the contest and no justice -- it is merely inevitable, and the issue of it is written.



Chapter XI.


The next day she had her promised book hidden under the vine-leaves of her empty basket as she went homeward, and though she had not seen him very long or spoken to him very much, she was happy.

The golden gates of knowledge had just opened to her; she saw a faint, far-off glimpse of the Hesperides gardens within; of the dragon she had never heard, and had no fear.

"Might I know your name?" she had asked him wistfully, as she had given him the rosebud, and taken the volume in return that day.

"They call me Flamen."

"It is your name?"

"Yes, for the world. You must call me Victor, as other women do. Why do you want my name?"

"Jeannot asked it of me."

"Oh, Jeannot asked it, did he?"

"Yes; besides," said Bébée, with her eyes very soft and very serious, and her happy voice hushed, -- "besides, I want to pray for you of course, every day; and if I do not know your name, how can I make Our Lady rightly understand? The flowers know you without a name, but she might not, because so very many are always beseeching her, and you see she has all the world to look after."

He had looked at her with a curious look, and had bade her farewell, and let her go home alone that night.

Her work was quickly done, and by the light of the moon she spread her book on her lap in the porch of the hut and began her new delight.

The children had come and pulled at her skirts and begged her to play. But Bébée had shaken her head.

"I am going to learn to be very wise, dear," she told them; "I shall not have time to dance or to play."

"But people are not merry when they are wise, Bébée," said Franz, the biggest boy.

"Perhaps not," said Bébée: "but one cannot be everything, you know, Franz."

"But surely, you would rather be merry than anything else?"

"I think there is something better, Franz. I am not sure; I want to find out; I will tell you when I know."

"Who has put that into your head, Bébée?"

"The angels in the cathedral," she told them; and the children were awed and left her, and went away to play blind-man's-buff by themselves, on the grass by the swan's water.

"But for all that the angels have said it," said Franz to his sisters, "I cannot see what good it will be to her to be wise, if she will not care any longer afterwards for almond gingerbread and currant cake."

It was the little tale of "Paul and Virginia" that he had given her to begin her studies with: but it was a grand copy, full of beautiful drawings nearly at every page.

It was hard work for her to read at first, but the drawings enticed and helped her, and she soon sank breathlessly into the charm of the story. Many words she did not know; many passages were beyond her comprehension; she was absolutely ignorant, and had nothing but the force of her own fancy to aid her.

But though stumbling at every step, as a lame child through a flowery hillside in summer, she was happy as the child would be, because of the sweet, strange air that was blowing about her, and the blossoms that she could gather into her hand, so rare, so wonderful, and yet withal so familiar, because they were blossoms.

With her fingers buried in her curls, with her book on her knee, with the moon rays white and strong on the page, Bébée sat entranced as the hours went by; the children's play shouts died away; the babble of the gossip at the house doors ceased; people went by and called good night to her; the little huts shut up one by one, like the white and purple convolvulus cups in the hedges.

Bébée did not stir, nor did she hear them; she was deaf even to the singing of the nightingales in the willows, where she sat in her little thatch above, and the wet garden-ways beyond her.

A heavy step came tramping down the lane. A voice called to her, -- 

"What are you doing, Bébée, there, this time of the night? It is on the strike of twelve."

She started as if she were doing some evil thing, and stretched her arms out, and looked around with blinded, wondering eyes, as if she had been rudely wakened from her sleep.

"What are you doing up so late?" asked Jeannot; he was coming from the forest in the dead of night to bring food for his family; he lost his sleep thus often, but he never thought that he did anything except his duty in those long, dark, tiring tramps to and fro between Soignies and Laeken.

Bébée shut her book and smiled with dreaming eyes, that saw him not at all.

"I was reading -- and, Jeannot, his name is Flamen for the world, but I may call him Victor."

"What do I care for his name?"

"You asked it this morning."

"More fool I. Why do you read? Reading is not for poor folk like you and me."

Bébée smiled up at the white clear moon that sailed above the woods.

She was not awake out of her dream. She only dimly heard the words he spoke.

"You are a little peasant," said Jeannot roughly, as he paused at the gate. "It is all you can do to get your bread. You have no one to stand between you and hunger. How will it be with you when the slug gets your roses, and the snail your carnations, and your hens die of damp, and your lace is all wove awry, because your head runs on reading and folly, and you are spoilt for all simple pleasures and for all honest work?"

She smiled, still looking up at the moon, with the dropping ivy touching her hair.

"You are cross, dear Jeannot. Good night."

A moment afterwards the little rickety door was shut, and the rusty bolt drawn within it; Jeannot stood in the cool summer night all alone, and knew how stupid he had been in his wrath.

He leaned on the gate a minute; then crossed the garden as softly as his wooden shoes would let him. He tapped gently on the shutter of the lattice.

"Bébée -- Bébée -- just listen. I spoke roughly, dear -- I know I have no right. I am sorry. Will you be friends with me again? -- do be friends again."

She opened the shutter a little way, so that he could see her pretty mouth speaking, "we are friends -- we will always be friends, of course -- only you do not know. Good night."

He went away with a heavy heart and a long-drawn step. He would have preferred that she should have been angry with him.

Bébée, left alone, let the clothes drop off her pretty round shoulders and her rosy limbs, and shook out her coils of hair, and kissed the book, and laid it under her head, and went to sleep with a smile on her face.

Only, as she slept, her ringers moved as if she were counting her beads, and her lips murmured, -- 

"Oh, dear Holy Mother, you have so much to think of -- yes. I know -- all the poor, and all the little children. But take care of him; he is called Flamen, and he lives in the street of Mary of Burgundy; you cannot miss him; and if you will look for him always, and have a heed that the angels never leave him, I will give you my great cactus glower -- my only one -- on your Feast of Roses this very year. Oh, dear Mother, you will not forget!"



Chapter XII.


Bébée was a dreamer in her way, and aspired to be a scholar too. But all the same, she was not a little fool.

She had been reared in hardy, simple, honest ways of living, and would have thought it as shameful as a theft to have owed her bread to other folk.

So, though she had a wakeful, restless night, full of strange fantasies, none the less was she out in her garden by daybreak; none the less did she sweep out her floor and make her mash for the fowls, and wash out her bit of linen and hang it to dry on a line among the tall, flaunting hollyhocks that were so proud of themselves because they reached to the roof.

"What do you want with books, Bébée?" said Reine, the sabot-maker's wife, across the privet hedge, as she also hung out her linen. "Franz told me you were reading last night. It is the silver buckles have done that: one mischief always begets another."

"Where is the mischief, good Reine?" said Bébée, who was always prettily behaved with her elders, though, when pushed to it, she could hold her own.

"The mischief will be in discontent," said the sabot-maker's wife. "People live on their own little patch, and think it is the world; that is as it should be -- everybody within his own, like a nut in its shell. But when you get reading, you hear of a swarm of things you never saw, and you fret because you cannot see them, and you dream, and dream, and a hole is burnt in your soup-pot, and your dough is as heavy as lead. You are like bees that leave their own clover fields to buzz themselves dead against the glass of a hothouse."

Bébée smiled, reaching to spread out her linen. But she said nothing.

"What good is it talking to them?" she thought; "they do not know."

Already the neighbors and friends of her infancy seemed so far, far away; creatures of a distant world, that she had long left; it was no use talking, they never would understand.

"Antoine should never have taught you your letters," said Reine, groaning under the great blue shirts she was hanging on high among the leaves. "I told him so at the time. I said, 'The child is a good child, and spins, and sews, and sweeps, rare and fine for her age; why go and spoil her?' But he was always headstrong. Not a child of mine knows a letter, the saints be praised! nor a word of any tongue but our own good Flemish. You should have been brought up the same. You would have come to no trouble then."

"I am in no trouble, dear Reine," said Bébée, scattering the potato-peels to the clacking poultry, and she smiled into the faces of the golden oxlips that nodded to her back again in sunshiny sympathy.

"Not yet," said Reine, hanging her last shirt.

But Bébée was not hearing; she was calling the chickens, and telling the oxlips how pretty they looked in the borders; and in her heart she was counting the minutes till the old Dutch cuckoo-clock at Mère Krebs's -- the only clock in the lane -- should crow out the hour at which she went down to the city.

She loved the hut, the birds, the flowers; but they were little to her now compared with the dark golden picturesque square, the changing crowds, the frowning roofs, the gray stones, and colors and shadows of the throngs for one face and for one smile.

"He is sure to be there," she thought, and started half an hour earlier than was her wont. She wanted to tell him all her rapture in the book; no one else could understand.

But all the day through he never came.

Bébée sat with a sick heart and a parched little throat, selling her flowers and straining her eyes through the tumult of the square.

The whole day went by, and there was no sign of him.

The flowers had sold well: it was a feast day; her pouch was full of pence -- what was that to her?

She went and prayed in the cathedral, but it seemed cold, and desolate, and empty; even the storied windows seemed dark.

"Perhaps he is gore out of the city," she thought; and a terror fell on her that frightened her, it was so unlike any fear that she had ever known -- even the fear when she had seen death on old Antoine's face had been nothing like this.

Going home through the streets, she passed the café of the Trois Frères that looks out on the trees of the park, and that has flowers in its balconies, and pleasant windows that stand open to let the sounds of the soldiers' music enter. She saw him in one of the windows. There were amber and scarlet and black; silks and satins and velvets. There was a fan painted and jewelled. There were women's faces. There was a heap of purple fruit and glittering sweetmeats. He laughed there. His beautiful Murillo head was dark against the white and gold within.

Bébée looked up, -- paused a second, -- then went onward, with a thorn in her heart.

He Had not seen her.

"It is natural, of course -- he has his world -- he does not think often of me -- there is no reason why he should be as good as he is," she said to herself as she went slowly over the stones.

She had the dog's soul -- only she did not know it.

But the tears Fell down her cheeks, as she walked.

It looked so bright in there, so gay, with the sound of the music coming in through the trees, and those women, -- she had seen such women before; sometimes in the winter nights, going home from the lacework, she had stopped at the doors of the palaces, or of the opera house, when the carriages were setting down their brilliant burdens; and sometimes on the great feast days she had seen the people of the court going out to some gala at the theatre, or some great review of troops, or some ceremonial of foreign sovereigns; but she had never thought about them before; she had never wondered whether velvet was better to wear than woollen serge, or-diamonds lighter on the head than a little cap of linen.

But now -- 

Those women seemed to her so dazzling, so wondrously, so superhumanly beautiful; they seemed like some of those new dahlia flowers, rose and purple and gold, that outblazed the sun on the south border of her little garden, and blanched all the soft color out of the homely roses, and pimpernels, and sweet-williams, and double-stocks, that had bloomed there ever since the days of Waterloo.

But the dahlias had no scent; and Bébée wondered if these women had any heart in them, -- they looked all laughter, and glitter, and vanity. To the child, whose dreams of womanhood were evolved from the face of the Mary of the Assumption, of the Susannah of Mieris, and of that Angel in the blue coif whose face has a light as of the sun, -- to her who had dreamed her way into vague perceptions of her own sex's maidenhood and maternity by help of those great pictures which had been before her sight from infancy, there was some taint, some artifice, some want, some harshness in these jewelled women; she could not have reasoned about it, but she felt it, as she felt that the grand dahlias missed a flower's divinity, being scentless.

She was a little bit of wild thyme herself; hardy, fragrant, clean, tender, flowering by the wayside, full of honey, though only nourished on the turf and the stones, these gaudy, brilliant, ruby-bright, scarlet-mantled dahlias hurt her with a dim sense of pain and shame.

Fasting, next day at sunrise she confessed to Father Francis: -- 

"I saw beautiful rich women, and I envied them; and I could not pray to Mary last night for thinking of them, for I hated them so much."

But she did not say, -- 

"I hated them because they were with him."

Out of the purest little soul, Love entering drives forth Candor.

"That is not like you at all, Bébée," said the good old man, as she knelt at his feet on the bricks of his little bare study, where all the books he ever spelt out were treatises on the art of bee-keeping.

"My dear, you never were covetous at all, nor did you ever seem to care for the things of the world. I wish Jehan had not given you those silver buckles; I think they have set your little soul on vanities."

"It is not the buckles; I am not covetous," said Bébée; and then her face grew warm. She did not know why. and she did not hear the rest of Father Francis's admonitions.



Chapter XIII.


But the next noon-time brought him to the market stall, and the next also, and so the summer days slipped away, and Bébée was quite happy if she saw him in the morning time, to give him a fresh rose, or at evening by the gates, or under the beech-trees, when he brought her a new book, and sauntered awhile up the green lane beside her.

An innocent, unconscious love like Bébée's wants so little food to make it all content. Such mere trifles are beautiful and sweet to it. Such slender stray gleams of light suffice to make a broad, bright golden noon of perfect joy around it.

All the delirium, and fever, and desire, and despair, that are in maturer passion, are far away from it: far as is the flash of the meteor across sultry skies from the blue forget-me-not down in the brown meadow brook.

It was very wonderful to Bébée that he, this stranger from Rubes' fairyland, could come at all to keep pace with her little clattering wooden shoes over the dust and the grass in the dim twilight time. The days went by in a trance of sweet amaze, and she kept count of the hours no more by the cuckoo-clock of the mill-house, or the deep chimes of the Brussels belfries; but only by such moments as brought her a word from his lips, or even a glimpse of him from afar, across the crowded square.

She sat up half the nights reading the books he gave her, studying the long cruel polysyllables, and spelling slowly through the phrases that seemed to her so cramped and tangled, and which yet were a pleasure to unravel forsake of the thought they held.

For Bébée, ignorant little simple soul that she was, had a mind in her that was eager, observant, quick to acquire, skilful to retain; and it would happen in certain times that Flamen, speaking to her of the things which he gave to her to read, would think to himself that this child had more wisdom than was often to be found in schools.

Meanwhile he pondered various studies in various stages of a Gretchen, and made love to Bébée -- made love at least by his eyes and by his voice, not hurrying his pleasant task, but hovering about her softly, and mindful not to scare her, as a man will gently lower his hand over a poised butterfly that he seeks to kill, and which one single movement, a thought too quick, may scare away to safety.

Bébée knew where he lived in the street of Mary of Burgundy: in an old palace that belonged to a great Flemish noble, who never dwelt there himself; but to ask anything about him -- why he was there? what his rank was? why he stayed in the city at all? -- was a sort of treason that never entered her thoughts.

Psyche, if she had been as simple and loyal as Bébée was, would never have lighted her own candle; but even Psyche would not have borrowed any one else's lamp to lighten the love darkness.

To Bébée he was sacred, unapproachable, unquestionable; he was a wonderful, perfect happiness that had fallen into her life; he was a gift of God, as the sun was.

She took his going and coming as she took that of the sun, never dreaming of reproaching his absence, never dreaming of asking if in the empty night he shone on any other worlds than hers.

It was hardly so much a faith with her as an instinct; faith must reason ere it know itself to be faith. Bébée never reasoned any more than her roses did.

The good folks in the market place watched her a little anxiously; they thought ill of that little moss-rose that every day found its way to one wearer only; but after all they did not see much, and the neighbors nothing at all. For he never went home to her, nor with her, and most of the time that he spent with Bébée was in the quiet evening shadows, as she went up with her empty basket through the deserted country roads.

Bébée was all day long in the city, indeed, as other girls were, but with her it had always been different. Antoine had always been with her up to the day of his death; and after his death she had sat in the same place, surrounded by the people she had known from infancy, and an insult to her would have been answered by a stroke from the cobbler's strap or from the tinker's hammer. There was one girl only who ever tried to do her any harm -- a good-looking stout wench, who stood at the corner of the Montagne de la Cour with a stall of fruit in the summer time, and in winter time drove a milk cart over the snow. This girl would get at her sometimes, and talk of the students, and tell her how good it was to get out of the town on a holiday, and go to any one of the villages where there was Kermesse and dance, and drink the little blue wine, and have trinkets bought for one, and come home in the moonlight in a char-à-banc, with the horns sounding, and the lads singing, and the ribbons flying from the old horse's ears.

"She is such a little close sly thing!" thought the fruit girl, sulkily. To vice, innocence must always seem only a superior kind of chicanery.

"We dance almost every evening, the children and I," Bébée had answered when urged fifty times by this girl to go to fairs, and balls at the wine shops. "That does just as well. And I have seen Kermesse once at Malines -- it was beautiful. I went with Mère Dax, but it cost a great deal I know, though she did not let me pay."

"You little fool!" the fruit girl would say, and grin, and eat a pear.

But the good honest old women who sat about in the Grande Place, hearing, had always taken the fruit girl to task, when they got her by herself.

"Leave the child alone, you mischievous one," said they. "Be content with being base yourself. Look you, Lisette; she is not one like you to make eyes at the law students, and pester the painter lads for a day's outing. Let her be, or we will tell your mother how you leave the fruit for the gutter children to pick and thieve, while you are stealing up the stairs into that young French fellow's chamber. Oh, oh! a fine beating you will get when she knows!"

Lisette's mother was a fierce and strong old Brabantoise who exacted heavy reckoning with her daughter for every single plum and peach that she sent out of her dark sweet-smelling fruit shop to be sunned in the streets, and under the students' love-glances.

So the girl took heed, and left Bébée alone.

"What should I want her to come with us for?" she reasoned with herself. "She is twice as pretty as I am; Jules might take to her instead -- who knows?"

So that she was at once savage and yet triumphant when she saw, as she thought, Bébée drifting down the high flood of temptation.

"Oh, oh, you dainty one!" she cried one day to her. "So you would not take the nuts and mulberries that do for us common folk, because you had a mind for a fine pine out of the hothouses! That was all, was it? Eh, well; I do not begrudge you. Only take care; remember, the nuts and mulberries last through summer and autumn, and there are heaps of them on every fair-stall and street corner; but the pine, that is eaten in a day, one springtime, and its like does not grow in the hedges. You will have your mouth full of sugar an hour, -- and then, eh! -- you will go famished all the year."

"I do not understand," said Bébée, looking up, with her thoughts far away, and scarcely hearing the words spoken to her.

"Oh, pretty little fool! you understand well enough," said Lisette, grinning, as she rubbed up a melon. "Does he give you fine things? You might let me see."

"No one gives me anything."

"Chut! you want me to believe that. Why Jules is only a lad, and his father is a silk mercer, and only gives him a hundred francs a month, but Jules buys me all I want -- somehow -- or do you think I would take the trouble to set my cap straight when he goes by? He gave me these ear-rings, look. I wish you would let me see what you get."

But Bébée had gone away -- unheeding -- dreaming of Juliet and of Jeanne d'Arc, of whom he had told her tales.

He made sketches of her sometimes, but seldom pleased himself.

It was not so easy as he had imagined that it would prove to portray this little flower-like face, with the clear eyes and the child's open brow. He who had painted Phryne so long and faithfully had got a taint on his brush -- he could not paint this pure, bright, rosy dawn -- he who had always painted the glare of midnight gas on rouge or rags. Yet he felt that if he could transfer to canvas the light that was on Bébée's face he would get what Scheffer had missed. For a time it eluded him. You shall paint a gold and glistening brocade, or a fan of peacock's feathers, to perfection, and yet, perhaps, the dewy whiteness of the humble little field daisy shall baffle and escape you.

He felt, too, that he must catch her expression flying as he would do the flash of a swallow's wing across a blue sky; he knew that Bébée, forced to studied attitudes in an atelier, would be no longer the ideal that he wanted.

More than once he came and filled in more fully his various designs in the little hut garden, among the sweet gray lavender and the golden disks of the sunflowers; and more than once Bébée was missed from her place in the front of the Broodhuis.

The Varnhart children would gather now and then open-mouthed at the wicket, and Mère Krebs would shake her head as she went by on her sheepskin saddle, and mutter that the child's head would be turned by vanity; and old Jehan would lean on his stick and peer through the sweetbrier, and wonder stupidly if this strange man who could make Bébée's face beam over again upon that panel of wood could not give him back his dead daughter who had been pushed away under the black earth so long, long before, when the red mill had been brave and new, the red mill that the boys and girls called old.

But except these, no one noticed much.

Painters were no rare sights in Brabant.

The people were used to see them coming and going, making pictures of mud and stones, and ducks and sheep, and of all common and silly things.

"What does he pay you, Bébée?" they used to ask, with the shrewd Flemish thought after the main chance.

"Nothing," Bébée would answer, with a quick color in her face; and they would reply in contemptuous reproof, "Careless little fool; you should make enough to buy you wood all winter. When the man from Ghent painted Trine and her cow, he gave her a whole gold bit for standing still so long in the clover. The Krebs would be sure to lend you her cow, if it be the cow that makes the difference."

Bébée was silent, weeding her carnation bed; -- what could she tell them that they would understand?

She seemed so far away from them all -- those good friends of her childhood -- now that this wonderful new world of his giving had opened to her sight.

She lived in a dream.

Whether she sat in the market place taking copper coins, or in the moonlight with a book on her knees, it was all the same. Her feet ran, her tongue spoke, her hands worked; she did not neglect her goat or her garden, she did not forsake her house labor or her good deeds to old Annémie; but all the while she only heard one voice, she only felt one touch, she only saw one face.

Here and there -- one in a million -- there is a female thing that can love like this, once and forever.

Such an one is dedicated, birth upwards, to the Mater Dolorosa.

He had something nearer akin to affection for her than he had ever had in his life for anything, but he was never in love with her -- no more in love with her than with the moss-rosebuds that she fastened in his breast. Yet he played with her, because she was such a little, soft, tempting female thing; and because, to see her face flush, and her heart heave, to feel her fresh feelings stir into life, and to watch her changes from shyness to confidence, and from frankness again into fear, was a natural pastime in the lazy golden weather.

That he spared her as far as he did, -- when after all she would have married Jeannot anyhow, -- and that he sketched her face in the open air, and never entered her hut and never beguiled her to his own old palace in the city, was a new virtue in himself for which he hardly knew whether to feel respect or ridicule; anyway, it seemed virtue to him.

So long as he did not seduce the body, it seemed to him that it could never matter how he slew the soul, -- the little, honest, happy, pure, frank soul, that amidst its poverty and hardships was like a robin's song to the winter sun.

"Hoot, toot, pretty innocent, so you are no better than the rest of us," hissed her enemy, Lisette, the fruit girl, against her as she went by the stall one evening as the sun set. "Prut! so it was no such purity after all that made you never look at the student lads and the soldiers, eh? You were so dainty of taste, you must needs pick and choose, and, Lord's sake, after all your coyness, to drop at a beckoning finger as one may say -- pong! -- in a minute, like an apple over-ripe! Oh hé, you sly one!"

Bébée flushed red, in a sort of instinct of offence; not sure what her fault was, but vaguely stung by the brutal words.

Bébée walked homeward by him, with her empty baskets: looked at him with grave wondering eyes.

"What did she mean? I do not understand. I must have done some wrong -- or she thinks so. Do you know?"

Flamen laughed, and answered her evasively, -- 

"You have done her the wrong of a fair skin when hers is brown, and a little foot while hers is as big as a trooper's; there is no greater sin, Bébée, possible in woman to woman."

"Hold your peace, you shrill jade," he added, in anger to the fruiterer, flinging at her a crown piece, that the girl caught, and bit with her teeth with a chuckle. "Do not heed her, Bébée. She is a coarse-tongued brute, and is jealous, no doubt."

"Jealous? -- of what?"

The word had no meaning to Bébée.

"That I am not a student or a soldier, as her lovers are."

As her lovers were! Bébée felt her face burn again. Was he her lover then? The child's innocent body and soul thrilled with a hot, sweet delight and fear commingled.

Bébée was not quite satisfied until she had knelt down that night and asked the Master of all poor maidens to see if there were any wickedness in her heart, hidden there like a bee in a rose, and if there were to take it out and make her worthier of this wonderful new happiness in her life.



Chapter XIV.


The next day, waking with a radiant little soul as a bird in a forest wakes in summer Bébée was all alone in the lane by the swans' water. In the gray of the dawn all the good folk except herself and lame old Jehan had tramped off to a pilgrimage, Liége way, which the bishop of the city had enjoined on all the faithful as a sacred duty.

Bébée doing her work, singing, thinking how good God was, and dreaming over a thousand fancies of the wonderful stories he had told her, and of the exquisite delight that would lie for her in watching for him all through the shining hours, Bébée felt her little heart leap like a squirrel as the voice that was the music of heaven to her called through the stillness, -- "Good day, pretty one! you are as early as the lark, Bébée. I go to Mayence, so I thought I would look at you one moment as I pass."

Bébée ran down through the wet grass in a tumult of joy. She had never seen him so early in the day -- never so early as this, when nobody was up and stirring except birds and beasts and peasant folk.

She did not know how pretty she looked herself; like a rain-washed wild rose; her feet gleaming with dew, her cheeks warm with health and joy; her sunny clustering hair free from the white cap and tumbling a little about her throat, because she had been stooping over the carnations.

Flamen loosed the wicket latch, and thought there might be better ways of spending the day than in the gray shadows of old Mechlin.

"Will you give me a draught of water?" he asked her as he crossed the garden.

"I will give you breakfast," said Bébée, happy as a bird. She felt no shame for the smallness of her home; no confusion at the poverty of her little place; such embarrassments are born of self-consciousness, and Bébée had no more self-consciousness than her own sweet, gray lavender-bush blowing against the door.

The lavender-bush has no splendor like the roses, has no colors like the hollyhocks; it is a simple, plain, gray thing that the bees love and that the cottagers cherish, and that keeps the moth from the homespun linen, and that goes with the dead to their graves.

It has many virtues and infinite sweetness, but it does not know it or think of it; and if the village girls ever tell it so, it fancies they only praise it out of kindness as they put its slender fragrant spears away in their warm bosoms. Bébée was like her lavender, and now that this beautiful Purple Emperor butterfly came from the golden sunbeams to find pleasure for a second in her freshness, she was only very grateful, as the lavender-bush was to the village girls.

"I will give you your breakfast," said Bébée, flushing rosily with pleasure, and putting away the ivy coils that he might enter.

"I have very little, you know," she added, wistfully. "Only goat's milk and bread; but if that will do -- and there is some honey -- and if you would eat a salad, I would cut one fresh."

He did enter, and glanced round him with a curious pity and wonder both in one.

It was such a little, small, square place; and its floor was of beaten clay; and its unceiled roof he could have touched; and its absolute poverty was so plain, -- and yet the child looked so happy in it, and was so like a flower, and was so dainty and fresh, and even so full of grace.

She stood and looked at him with frank and grateful eyes; she could hardly believe that he was here; he, the stranger of Rubes' land, in her own little rush-covered home.

But she was not embarrassed by it; she was glad and proud.

There is a dignity of peasants as well as of kings, -- the dignity that comes from all absence of effort, all freedom from pretence. Bébée had this, and she had more still than this: she had the absolute simplicity of childhood with her still.

Some women have it still when they are four-score.

She could have looked at him forever, she was so happy; she cared nothing now for those dazzling dahlias -- he had left them; he was actually here -- here in her own, little dear home, with the cocks looking in at the threshold, and the sweet-peas nodding at the lattice, and the starling crying, "Bonjour! Bonjour!"

"You are tired, I am sure you must be tired," she said, pulling her little bed forward for him to sit on, for there were only two wooden stools in the hut, and no chair at all.

Then she took his sketching-easel and brushes from his hand, and would have kneeled and taken the dust off his boots if he would have let her; and went hither and thither gladly and lightly, bringing him a wooden bowl of milk and the rest of the slender fare, and cutting as quick as thought fresh cresses and lettuce from her garden, and bringing him, as the crown of all, Father Francis's honey-comb on vine-leaves, with some pretty sprays of box and mignonette scattered about it -- doing all this with a swift, sweet grace that robbed the labor of all look of servitude, and looking at him ever and again with a smile that said as clearly as any words, "I cannot do much, but what I do, I do with all my heart."

There was something in the sight of her going and coming in those simple household errands, across the sunlit floor, that moved him as some mountain air sung on an alp by a girl driving her cows to pasture may move a listener who indifferent has heard the swell of the organ of La Hague, or the recitative of a great singer in San Carlo.

The gray lavender blowing at the house door has its charm for those who are tired of the camellias that float in the porcelain bowls of midnight suppers.

This man was not good. He was idle and vain, and amorous and cold, and had been spoiled by the world in which he had passed his days; but he had the temper of an artist: he had something, too, of a poet's fancy; he was vaguely touched and won by this simple soul that looked at him out of Bébée's eyes with some look that in all its simplicity had a divine gleam in it that made him half ashamed.

He had known women by the thousand, good women and bad; women whom he had dealt ill with and women who had dealt ill with him; but this he had not known -- this frank, fearless, tender, gay, grave, innocent, industrious little life, helping itself, feeding itself, defending itself, working for itself and for others, and vaguely seeking all the while some unseen light, some unknown god, with a blind faith so infinitely ignorant and yet so infinitely pathetic.

"All the people are gone on a pilgrimage," she explained to him when he asked her why her village was so silent this bright morning. "They are gone to pray for a fine harvest, and that she wants herself as well -- it costs seven francs apiece. They take their food with them; they go and laugh and eat in the fields. I think it is nonsense. One can say one's prayers just as well here. Mère Krebs thinks so too, but then she says, 'If I do not go, it will look ill; people will say I am irreligious; and as we make so much by flour, God would think it odd for me to be absent; and, besides, it is only seven francs there and back; and if it does please Heaven, that is cheap, you know. One will get it over and over again in Paradise.' That is what Mere Krebs says. But, for me, I think it is nonsense. It cannot please God to go by train and eat galette and waste a whole day in getting dusty.

"When I give the Virgin my cactus flower, I do give up a thing I love, and I let it wither on her altar instead of pleasing me in bloom here all the week, and then, of course, she sees that I have done it out of gratitude. But that is different: that I am sorry to do, and yet I am glad to do it out of love. Do you not know?"

"Yes, I know very well. But is the Virgin all that you love like this?"

"No; there is the garden, and there is Antoine -- he is dead, I know. But I think that we should love the dead all the better, not the less, because they cannot speak or say that they are angry; and perhaps one pains them very much when one neglects them, and if they are ever so sad, they cannot rise and rebuke one -- that is why I would rather forget the flowers for the Church than I would the flowers for his grave, because God can punish me, of course, if he like, but Antoine never can -- any more -- now."

"You are logical in your sentiment, my dear," said Flamen, who was more moved than he cared to feel. "The union is a rare one in your sex. Who taught you to reason?"

"No one. And I do not know what to be logical means. Is it that you laugh at me?"

"No. I do not laugh. And your pilgrims -- they are gone for all day?"

"Yes. They are gone to the Sacred Heart at St. Marie en Bois. It is on the way to Liége. They will come back at nightfall. And some of them will be sure to have drunk too much, and the children will get so cross. Prosper Bar, who is a Calvinist, always says, 'Do not mix up prayer and play; you would not cut a gherkin in your honey'; but I do not know why he called prayer a gherkin, because it is sweet enough -- sweeter than anything, I think. When I pray to the Virgin to let me see you next day, I go to bed quite happy, because she will do it, I know, if it will be good for me."

"But if it were not good for you, Bébée? Would you cease to wish it then?"

He rose as he spoke, and went across the floor and drew away her hand that was parting the flax, and took it in his own and stroked it, indulgently and carelessly, as a man may stroke the soft fur of a young cat.

Leaning against the little lattice and looking down on her with musing eyes, half smiling, half serious, half amorous, half sad, Bébée looked up with a sudden and delicious terror that ran through her as the charm of the snake's gaze runs through the bewildered bird.

"Would you cease to wish it if it were not good?" he asked again.

Bébée's face grew pale and troubled. She left her hand in his because she did not think any shame of his taking it. But the question suddenly flung the perplexity and darkness of doubt into the clearness of her pure child's conscience. All her ways had been straight and sunlit before her.

She had never had a divided duty.

The religion and the pleasure of her simple little life had always gone hand-in-hand, greeting one another, and never for an instant in conflict. In any hesitation of her own she had always gone to Father Francis, and he had disentangled the web for her and made all plain.

But here was a difficulty in which she could never go to Father Francis.

Right and wrong, duty and desire, were for the first time arrayed before her in their ghastly and unending warfare.

It frightened her with a certain breathless sense of peril -- the peril of a time when in lieu of that gentle Mother of Roses whom she kneeled to among the flowers, she would only see a dusky shadow looming between her and the beauty of life and the light of the sun.

What he said was quite vague to her. She attached no definite danger to his words. She only thought -- to see him was so great a joy -- if Mary forbade it, would she not take it if she could notwithstanding, always, always, always?

He kept her hand in his, and watched with contentment the changing play of the shade and sorrow, the fear and fascination, on her face.

"You do not know, Bébée?" he said at length, knowing well himself; so much better than ever she knew. "Well, dear, that is not flattering to me. But it is natural. The good Virgin of course gives you all you have, food, and clothes, and your garden, and your pretty plump chickens; and I am only a stranger. You could not offend her for me; that is not likely."

The child was cut to the heart by the sadness and humility of words of whose studied artifice she had no suspicion.

She thought that she seemed to him ungrateful and selfish, and yet all the mooring-ropes that held her little boat of life to the harbor of its simple religion seemed cut away, and she seemed drifting helpless and rudderless upon an unknown sea.

"I never did do wrong -- that I know," she said, timidly, and lifted her eyes to his with an unconscious appeal in them.

"But -- I do not see why it should be wrong to speak with you. You are good, and you lend me beautiful things out of other men's minds that will make me less ignorant: Our Lady could not be angry with that -- she must like it."

"Our Lady? -- oh, poor little simpleton! -- where will her reign be when Ignorance has once been cut down root and branch?" he thought to himself: but he only answered, -- 

"But whether she like it or not, Bébée? -- you beg the question, my dear; you are -- you are not so frank as usual -- think, and tell me honestly?"

He knew quite well, but it amused him to see the perplexed trouble that this, the first divided duty of her short years, brought with it.

Bébée looked at him, and loosened her hand from his, and sat quite still. Her lips had a little quiver in them.

"I think." she said at last, "I think -- if it be wrong, still I will wish it -- yes. Only I will not tell myself it is right. I will just say to Our Lady, 'I am wicked, perhaps, but I cannot help it' So, I will not deceive her at all; and perhaps in time she may forgive. But I think you only say it to try me. It cannot, I am sure, be wrong -- any more than it is to talk to Jeannot or to Bac."

He had driven her into the subtleties of doubt, but the honest little soul in her found a way out, as a flower in a cellar finds its way through the stones to light.

He plucked the ivy leaves and threw them at the chickens on the bricks without, with a certain impatience in the action. The simplicity and the directness of the answer disarmed him; he was almost ashamed to use against her the weapons of his habitual warfare. It was like a maître d'armes fencing with bare steel against a little naked child armed with a blest palm-sheaf.

When she had thus brought him all she had, and he to please her had sat down to the simple food, she gathered a spray of roses and set it in a pot beside him, then left him and went and stood at a little distance, waiting, with her hands lightly crossed on her chest, to see if there were anything that he might want.

He ate and drank well to please her, looking at her often as he did so.

"I break your bread, Bébée," he said, with a tone that seemed strange to her, -- "I break your bread. I must keep Arab faith with you."

"What is that?"

"I mean -- I must never betray you."

"Betray me How could you?"

"Well -- hurt you in any way."

"Ah, I am sure you would never do that."

He was silent, and looked at the spray of roses.

"Sit down and spin," he said impatiently. "I am ashamed to see you stand there, and a woman never looks so well as when she spins. Sit down, and I will eat the good things you have brought me. But I cannot if you stand and look."

"I beg your pardon. I did not know," she said, ashamed lest she should have seemed rude to him; and she drew out her wheel under the light of the lattice, and sat down to it, and began to disentangle the threads.

It was a pretty picture -- the low, square casement; the frame of ivy, the pink and white of the climbing sweet-peas: the girl's head; the cool, wet leaves: the old wooden spinning-wheel, that purred like a sleepy cat.

"I want to paint you as Gretchen, only it will be a shame." he said.

"Who is Gretchen?"

"You shall read of her by-and-by. And you live here all by yourself?"

"Since Antoine died -- yes."

"And are never dull?"

"I have no time, and I do not think I would be if I had time -- there is so much to think of, and one never can understand."

"But you must be very brave and laborious to do all your work yourself. Is it possible a child like you can spin, and wash, and bake, and garden, and do everything?"

"Oh, many do more than I. Babette's eldest daughter is only twelve, and she does much more, because she has all the children to look after; and they are very, very poor; they often have nothing but a stew of nettles and perhaps a few snails, days together."

"That is lean, bare, ugly, gruesome poverty; there is plenty of that everywhere. But you, Bébée -- you are an idyll."

Bébée looked across the hut and smiled, and broke her thread. She did not know what he meant, but if she were anything that pleased him, it was well.

"Who were those beautiful women?" she said suddenly, the color mounting into her cheeks.

"What women, my dear?"

"Those I saw at the window with you, the other night -- they had jewels."

"Oh! -- women, tiresome enough. If I had seen you, I would have dropped you some fruit. Poor little Bébée! Did you go by, and I never knew?"

"You were laughing -- "

"Was I?"

"Yes, and they were beautiful."

"In their own eyes; not in mine."

"No?"

She stopped her spinning and gazed at him with wistful, wondering eyes. Could it be that they were not beautiful to him? those deep red, glowing, sun-basked dahlia flowers?

"Do you know," she said very softly, with a flush of penitence that came and went, "when I saw them, I hated them; I confessed it to Father Francis next day. You seemed so content with, them, and they looked so gay and glad there -- and then the jewels! Somehow, I seemed to myself such a little thing, and so ugly and mean. And yet, do you know -- "

"And yet -- well?"

"They did not look to me good -- those women," said Bébée, thoughtfully, looking across at him in deprecation of his possible anger. "They were great people, I suppose, and they appeared very happy; but though I seemed nothing to myself after them, still I think I would not change."

"You are wise without books, Bébée."

"Oh, no, I am not wise at all. I only feel. And give me books; oh, pray, give me books! You do not know; I will learn so fast; and I will not neglect anything, that I promise. The neighbors and Jeannot say that I shall let the flowers die, and the hut get dirty, and never spin or prick Annémie's patterns; but that is untrue. I will do all, just as I have done, and more too, if only you will give me things to read, for I do think when one is happy, one ought to work more -- not less."

"But will these books make you happy? If you ask me the truth, I must tell you -- no. You are happy as you are, because you know nothing else than your own little life; for ignorance is happiness, Bébée, let sages, ancient and modern, say what they will. But when you know a little, you will want to know more: and when you know much, you will want to see much also, and then -- and then -- the thing will grow -- you will be no longer content. That is, you will be unhappy."

Bébée watched him with wistful eyes.

"Perhaps that is true. No doubt it is true, if you say it. But you know all the world seems full of voices that I hear, but that I cannot understand; it is with me as I should think it is with people who go to foreign countries and do not know the tongue that is spoken when they land; and it makes me unhappy, because I cannot comprehend, and so the books will not make me more so, but less. And as for being content -- when I thought you were gone away out of the city, last night, I thought I would never be able to pray any more, because I hated myself, and I almost hated the angels, and I told Mary that she was cruel, and she turned her face from me -- as it seemed, forever."

She spoke quite quietly and simply, spinning as she spoke, and looking across at him with earnest eyes, that begged him to believe her. She was saying the pure truth, but she did not know the force or the meaning of that truth.

He listened with a smile; it was not new to him; he knew her heart much better than she knew it herself, but there was an unconsciousness, and yet a strength, in the words that touched him though.

He threw the leaves away, irritably, and told her to leave off her spinning.

"Some day I shall paint you with that wheel as I painted the Broodhuis. Will you let me, Bébée?"

"Yes."

She answered him as she would have answered if he had told her to go on pilgrimage from one end of the Low Countries to the other.

"What were you going to do to-day?"

"I am going into the market with the flowers; I go every day."

"How much will you make?"

"Two or three francs, if I am lucky."

"And do you never have a holiday?"

"Oh, yes; but not often, you know, because it is on the fete days that the people want the most flowers."

"But in the winter?"

"Then I work at the lace."

"Do you never go into the woods?"

"I have been once or twice; but it loses a whole day."

"You are afraid of not earning?"

"Yes. Because I am afraid of owing people anything."

"Well, give up this one day, and we will make holiday. The people are out; they will not know. Come into the forest, and we will dine at a café in the woods; and we will be as poetic as you like, and I will tell you a tale of one called Rosalind, who pranked herself in boy's attire, all for love, in the Ardennes country yonder. Come, it is the very day for the forest; it will make me a lad again at Meudon, when the lilacs were in bloom. Poor Paris! Come."

"Do you mean it?"

The color was bright in her face, her heart was dancing, her little feet felt themselves already on the fresh green turf.

She had no thought that there could be any harm in it. She would have gone with Jeannot or old Bac.

"Of course I mean it. Come. I was going to Mayence to see the Magi and Van Dyck's Christ. We will go to Soignies instead, and study green leaves. I will paint your face by sunlight. It is the best way to paint you. You belong to the open air. So should Gretchen; or how else should she have the blue sky in her eyes?"

"But I have only wooden shoes!"

Her face was scarlet as she glanced at her feet; he who had wanted to give her the silk stockings -- how would he like to be seen walking abroad with those two clumsy, clattering, work-a-day, little sabots?

"Never mind. My dear, in my time I have had enough of satin shoes and of silver gilt heels; they click-clack as loud as yours, and cost much more to those who walk with them, not to mention that they will seldom deign to walk at all. Your wooden shoes are picturesque. Paganini made a violin out of a wooden shoe. Who knows what music may lurk in yours, only you have never heard it. Perhaps I have. It was Bac who gave you the red shoes that was the barbarian, not I. Come."

"You really mean it?"

"Come."

"But they will miss me at market."

"They will think you are gone on the pilgrimage: you need never tell them you have not."

"But if they ask me?"

"Does it never happen that you say any other thing than the truth?"

"Any other thing than the truth! Of course not. People take for granted that one tells truth; it would be very base to cheat them. Do you really mean that I may come? -- in the forest! -- and you will tell me stories like those you give me to read?"

"I will tell you a better story. Lock your hut, Bébée, and come."

"And to think you are not ashamed!"

"Ashamed?"

"Yes, because of my wooden shoes."

Was it possible? Bébée thought, as she ran out into the garden and locked the door behind her, and pushed the key under the waterbutt as usual, being quite content with that prudent precaution against robbers which had served Antoine all his days. Was it possible, this wonderful joy? -- her cheeks were like her roses, her eyes had a brilliance like the sun; the natural grace and mirth of the child blossomed in a thousand ways and gestures.

As she went by the shrine in the wall, she bent her knee a moment and made the sign of the cross; then she gathered a little moss-rose that nodded close under the border of the palisade, and turned and gave it to him.

"Look, she sends you this. She is not angry, you see, and it is much more pleasure when she is pleased -- do you not know?"

He shrank a little as her fingers touched him.

"What a pity you had no mother, Bébée!" he said, on an impulse of emotion, of which in Paris he would have been more ashamed than of any guilt.



Chapter XV.


In the deserted lane by the swans' water, under the willows, the horses waited to take him to Mechlin; little, quick, rough horses, with round brass bells, in the Flemish fashion, and gay harness, and a low char-à-banc, in which a wolf-skin and red rugs, and all a painter's many necessities, were tossed together.

He lifted her in, and the little horses flew fast through the green country, ringing chimes at each step, till they plunged into the deep glades of the woods of Cambre and Soignies.

Bébée sat breathless with delight.

She had never gone behind horses in all her life, except once or twice in a wagon when the tired teamsters had dragged a load of corn across the plains, or when the miller's old gray mare had hobbled wearily before a cart-load of noisy, happy, mischievous children going home from the masses and fairs, and flags, and flowers, and church banners, and puppet-shows, and lighted altars, and whirling merry-go-rounds of the Fête Dieu.

She had never known what it was to sail as on the wings of the wind along broad roads, with yellow wheat-lands, and green hedges, and wayside trees, and little villages, and reedy canal water, all flying by her to the sing-song of the joyous bells.

"Oh, how good it is to live!" she cried, clapping her hands in a very ecstasy, as the clear morning broadened into gold and the west wind rose and blew from the sands by the sea.

"Yes -- it is good -- if one did not tire so soon," said he, watching her with a listless pleasure.

But she did not hear; she was beyond the reach of any power to sadden her; she was watching the white oxen that stood on the purple brow of the just reapen lands, and the rosy clouds that blew like a shower of apple-blossoms across the sky to the south.

There was a sad darkling Calvary on the edge of the harvest-field that looked black against the blue sky; its shadow fell across the road, but she did not see it: she was looking at the sun.

There is not much change in the great Soignies woods. They are aisles on aisles of beautiful green trees, crossing and recrossing; tunnels of dark foliage that look endless; long avenues of beech, of oak, of elm, or of fir, with the bracken and the brushwood growing dense between; a delicious forest growth everywhere, shady even at noon, and by a little past midday dusky as evening; with the forest fragrance, sweet and dewy, all about, and under the fern the stirring of wild game, and the white gleam of little rabbits, and the sound of the wings of birds.

Soignies is not legend-haunted like the Black Forest, nor king-haunted like Fontainebleau, nor sovereign of two historic streams like the brave woods of Heidelberg; nor wild and romantic, arid broken with black rocks, and poetized by the shade of Jaques, and swept through by a perfect river, like its neighbors of Ardennes; nor throned aloft on mighty mountains like the majestic oak glades of the Swabian hills of the ivory carvers.

Soignies is only a Flemish forest in a plain, throwing its shadows over corn-fields and cattle pastures, with no panorama beyond it and no wonders in its depth. But it is a fresh, bold, beautiful forest for all that.

It has only green leaves to give, -- green leaves always, league after league; but there is about it that vague mystery which all forests have, and this universe of leaves seems boundless, and Pan might dwell in it, and St. Hubert, and John Keats.

Bébée, in her rare holidays with the Bac children or with Jeannot's sisters, had never penetrated farther than the glades of the Cambre, and had never entered the heart of the true forest, which is much still what it must have been in the old days when the burghers of Brabant cut their yew bows and their pike staves from it to use against the hosts of Spain.

To Bébée it was as an enchanted land, and every play of light and shade, every hare speeding across the paths, every thrush singing in the leaves, every little dog-rose or harebell that blossomed in the thickets, was to her a treasure, a picture, a poem, a delight.

He had seen girls thus in the woods of Vincennes and of Versailles in the student days of his youth: little work-girls fresh from châlets of the Jura or from vine-hung huts of the Loire, who had brought their poor little charms to perish in Paris; and who dwelt under the hot tiles and amidst the gilded shop signs till they were as pale and thin as their own starved balsams; and who, when they saw the green woods, laughed and cried a little, and thought of the broad sun-swept fields, and wished that they were back again behind their drove of cows, or weeding among the green grapes.

But those little work-girls had been mere homely daisies, and daisies already with the dust of the pavement and of the dancing-gardens upon them.

Bébée was as pure and fresh as these dew-wet dog-roses that she found in the thickets of thorn.

He had meant to treat her as he had used to do those work-girls -- a little wine, a little wooing, a little folly and passion, idle as a butterfly and brief as a rainbow -- one midsummer day and night -- then a handful of gold, a caress, a good-morrow, and forgetfulness ever afterwards -- that was what he had meant when he had brought her out to the forest of Soignies.

But -- she was different, this child.

He made the great sketch of her for his Gretchen, sitting on a moss-grown trunk, with marguerites in her hand; he sent for their breakfast far into the woods, and saw her set her pearly teeth into early peaches and costly sweetmeats; he wandered with her hither and thither, and told her tales out of the poets and talked to her in the dreamy, cynical, poetical manner that was characteristic of him, being half artificial and half sorrowful, as his temper was.

But Bébée, all unconscious, intoxicated with happiness, and yet touched by it into that vague sadness which the summer sun brings with it even to young things, if they have soul in them, -- Bébée said to him what the work-girls of Paris never had done.

Beautiful things: things fantastic, ignorant, absurd, very simple, very unreasonable oftentimes, but things beautiful always, and sometimes even very wise by a wisdom not of the world; by a certain light divine that does shine now and then as through an alabaster lamp, through minds that have no grossness to obscure them.

Her words were not equal to the burden of her thoughts at times, but he knew how to take the pearl of the thought from the broken shell and tangled sea-weed of her simple, untutored speech.

"If there be a God anywhere," he thought to himself, "this little Fleming is very near him."

She was so near that, although he had no belief in any God, he could not deal with her as he had used to do with the work-girls in the primrose paths of old Vincennes.



Chapter XVI.


"To be Gretchen, you must count the leaves of your daisies," he said to her, as he painted, -- painted her just as she was, with her two little white feet in the wooden shoes, and the thick green leaves behind; the simplest picture possible, the dress of gray -- only cool dark gray -- with white linen bodice, and no color anywhere except in the green of the foliage; but where he meant the wonder and the charm of it to lie was in the upraised, serious, child-like face, and the gaze of the grave, smiling eyes.

It was Gretchen, spinning, out in the open air among the flowers. Gretchen, with the tall dog-daisies growing up about her feet, among the thyme and the roses, before she had had need to gather, one to ask her future of its parted leaves.

The Gretchen of Scheffer tells no tale; she is a fair-haired, hard-working, simple-minded peasant, with whom neither angels nor devils have anything to do, and whose eyes never can open to either hell or heaven. But the Gretchen of Flamen said much more than this: looking at it, men would sigh from shame, and women weep from sorrow.

"Count the daisies?" echoed Bébée. "Oh, I know what you mean. A little -- much -- passionately -- until death -- not at all. What the girls say when they want to see if any one loves them? Is that it?"

She looked at him without any consciousness, except as she loved the flowers.

"Do you think the daisies know?" she went on, seriously, parting their petals with her fingers. "Flowers do know many things -- that is certain."

"Ask them for yourself."

"Ask them what?"

"How much -- any one -- loves you?"

"Oh, but every one loves me; there is no one that is bad. Antoine used to say to me. 'Never think of yourself, Bébée; always think of other people, so every one will love you.' And I always try to do that, and every one does."

"But that is not the love the daisy tells of to your sex."

"No?"

"No; the girls that you see count the flowers -- they are thinking, not of all the village, but of some one unlike all the rest, whose shadow falls across theirs in the moonlight! You know that?"

"Ah, yes -- and they marry afterwards -- yes."

She said it softly, musingly, with no embarrassment; it was an unreal, remote thing to her, and yet it stirred her heart a little with a vague trouble that was infinitely sweet.

There is little talk of love in the lives of the poor; they have no space for it; love to them means more mouths to feed, more wooden shoes to buy, more hands to dive into the meagre bag of coppers. Now and then a girl of the commune had been married, and had ploughing in the fields or to her lace-weaving in the city. Bébée had thought little of it.

"They marry or they do not marry. That is as it may be," said Flamen, with a smile. "Bébée, I must paint you as Gretchen before she made a love-dial of the daisies. What is the story? Oh, I have told you stories enough. Gretchen's you would not understand, just yet."

"But what did the daisies say to her?"

"My dear, the daisies always say the same thing, because daisies always tell the truth and know men. The daisies always say 'a little'; it is the girl's ear that tricks her, and makes her hear 'till death,' -- a folly and falsehood of which the daisy is not guilty."

"But who says it if the daisy does not?"

"Ah, the devil perhaps -- who knows? He has so much to do in these things."

But Bébée did not smile; she had a look of horror in her blue eyes; she belonged to a peasantry who believed in exorcising the fiend by the aid of the cross, and who not so very many generations before had driven him out of human bodies by rack and flame.

She looked with a little wistful fear on the white, golden-eyed marguerites that lay on her lap.

"Do you think the fiend is in these?" she whispered, with awe in her voice.

Flamen smiled. "When you count them he will be there, no doubt."

Bébée threw them with a shudder on the grass.

"Have I spoilt your holiday, dear?" he said, with a certain self-reproach.

She was silent a minute, then she gathered up the daisies again, and stroked them and put them to her lips.

"It is not they that do wrong. You say the girls' ears deceive them. It is the girls who want a lie and will not believe a truth because it humbles them; it is the girls that are to blame, not the daisies. As for me, I will not ask the daisies anything ever, so the fiend will not enter into them."

"Nor into you. Poor little Bébée!"

"Why, you pity me for that?"

"Yes. Because, if women never see the serpent's face, neither do they ever scent the smell of the paradise roses; and it will be hard for you to die without a single rose d'amour in your pretty breast, poor little Bébée?"

"I do not understand. But you frighten me a little."

He rose and left his easel and threw himself at her feet on the grass; he took the little wooden shoes in his hands as reverently as he would have taken the broidered shoes of a duchess; he looked up at her with tender, smiling eyes.

"Poor little Bébée!" he said again. "Did I frighten you indeed? Nay, that was very base of me. We will not spoil our summer holiday. There is no such thing as a fiend, my dear. There are only men -- such as I am. Say the daisy spell over for me, Bébée. See if I do not love you a little, just as you love your flowers."

She smiled, and the happy laughter came again over her face.

"Oh, I am sure you care for me a little," she said, softly, "or you would not be so good and get me books and give me pleasure; and I do not want the daisies to tell me that, because you say it yourself, which is better."

"Much better." he answered her dreamily, and lay there in the grass, holding the little wooden shoes in his hands.

He was not in love with her. He was in no haste. He preferred to play with her softly, slowly, as one separates the leaves of a rose, to see the deep rose of its heart.

Her own ignorance of what she felt had a charm for him. He liked to lift the veil from her eyes by gentle degrees, watching each new pulse-beat, each fresh instinct tremble into life.

It was an old, old story to him; he knew each chapter and verse to weariness, though there still was no other story that he still read as often. But to her it was so new.

To him it was a long beaten track; he knew every turn of it; he recognized every wayside blossom; he had passed over a thousand times each tremulous bridge; he knew so well beforehand where each shadow would fall, and where each fresh bud would blossom, and where each harvest would be reaped.

But to her it was so new.

She followed him as a blind child a man that guides her through a garden and reads her a wonder tale.

He was good to her, that was all she knew. When he touched her ever so lightly she felt a happiness so perfect, and yet so unintelligible, that she could have wished to die in it.

And in her humility and her ignorance she wondered always how he -- so great, so wise, so beautiful -- could have thought it ever worth his while to leave the paradise of Rubes' land to wait with her under her little rush-thatched roof, and bring her here to see the green leaves and the living things of the forest.

As they went, a man was going under the trees with a load of wood upon his back. Bébée gave a little cry of recognition.

"Oh, look, that is Jeannot! How he will wonder to see me here!"

Flamen drew her a little downward, so that the forester passed onward without perceiving them.

"Why do you do that?" said Bébée. "Shall I not speak to him?"

"Why? To have all your neighbors chatter of your feast in the forest? It is not worth while."

"Ah, but I always tell them everything," said Bébée. whose imagination had been already busy with the wonders that she would unfold to Mère Krebs and the Varnhart children.

"Then you will see but little of me, my dear. Learn to be silent, Bébée. It is a woman's first duty, though her hardest."

"Is it?"

She did not speak for some time. She could not imagine a state of things in which she would not narrate the little daily miracles of her life to the good old garrulous women and the little open-mouthed romps. And yet -- she lifted her eyes to his.

"I am glad you have told me that," she said. "Though indeed. I do not see why one should not say what one does, yet -- somehow -- I do not like to talk about you. It is like the pictures in the galleries, and the music in the cathedral, and the great still evenings, when the fields are all silent, and it is as if Christ walked abroad in them; I do not know how to talk of those things to the others -- only to you -- and I do not like to talk about you to them -- do you not know?"

"Yes, I know. But what affinity have I. Bébée, to your thoughts of your God walking in His cornfields?"

Bébée's eyes glanced down through the green aisle of the forests, with the musing seriousness in them that was like the child-angels of Botticelli's dreams.

"I cannot tell you very well. But when I am in the fields at evening and think of Christ. I feel so happy, and of such good will to all the rest, and I seem to see heaven quite plain through the beautiful gray air where the stars are -- and so I feel when I am with you -- that is all. Only -- "

"Only what?"

"Only in those evenings, when I was all alone, heaven seemed up there, where the stars are, and I longed for wings; but now, it is here, and I would only shut my wings if I had them, and not stir."

He looked at her, and took, her hands and kissed them -- but reverently -- as a believer may kiss a shrine. In that moment to Flamen she was sacred; in that moment he could no more have hurt her with passion than he could have hurt her with a blow.

It was an emotion with him, and did not endure. But whilst it lasted, it was true.



Chapter XVII.


Then he took her to dine at one of the wooden cafés under the trees. There was a little sheet of water in front of it and a gay garden around. There was a balcony and a wooden stairway; there were long trellised arbors, and little white tables, and great rosebushes like her own at home. They had an arbor all to themselves; a cool sweet-smelling bower of green, with a glimpse of scarlet from the flowers of some twisting beans.

They had a meal, the like of which she had never seen; such a huge melon in the centre of it, and curious wines, and coffee or cream in silver pots, or what looked like silver to her -- "just like the altar-vases in the church," she said to herself.

"If only the Varnhart children were here!" she cried; but he did not echo the wish.

It was just sunset. There was a golden glow on the little bit of water. On the other side of the garden some one was playing a guitar. Under a lime-tree some girls were swinging, crying, Higher! higher! at each toss.

In a longer avenue of trellised green, at a long table, there was a noisy party of students and girls of the city; their laughter was mellowed by distance as it came over the breadth of the garden, and they sang, with fresh shrill Flemish voices, songs from an opera bouffe of La Monnaie.

It was all pretty, and gay, and pleasant.

There was everywhere about an air of light-hearted enjoyment. Bébée sat with a wondering look in her wide-opened eyes, and all the natural instincts of her youth, that were like curled-up fruit buds in her, unclosed softly to the light of joy.

"Is life always like this in your Rubes' land?" she asked him; that vague far-away country of which she never asked him anything more definite, and which yet was so clear before her fancy.

"Yes," he made answer to her. "Only -- instead of those leaves, flowers and pomegranates; and in lieu of that tinkling guitar, a voice whose notes are esteemed like king's jewels; and in place of those little green arbors, great white palaces, cool and still, with ilex woods and orange groves and sapphire seas beyond them. Would you like to come there, Bébée? -- and wear laces such as you weave, and hear singing and laughter all night long, and never work any more in the mould of the garden, or spin any more at that tiresome wheel, or go any more out in the wind, and the rain, and the winter mud to the market?"

Bébée listened, leaning her round elbows on the table, and her warm cheeks on her hands, as a child gravely listens to a fairy story. But the sumptuous picture, and the sensuous phrase he had chosen, passed by her.

It is of no use to tempt the little chaffinch of the woods with a ruby instead of a cherry. The bird is made to feed on the brown berries, on the morning dews, on the scarlet hips of roses, and the blossoms of the wind-tossed pear boughs; the gem, though it be a monarch's, will only strike hard and tasteless on its beak.

"I would like to see it all," said Bébée, musingly trying to follow out her thoughts. "But as for the garden work and the spinning -- that I do not want to leave, because I have done it all my life; and I do not think I should care to wear lace -- it would tear very soon; one would be afraid to run; and do you see I know how it is made -- all that lace. I know how blind the eyes get over it, and how the hearts ache; I know how the old women starve, and the little children cry; I know that there is not a sprig of it that is not stitched with pain; the great ladies do not think, I dare say, because they have never worked at it or watched the others: but I have. And so, you see, I think if I wore it I should feel sad, and if a nail caught on it I should feel as if it were tearing the flesh of my friends. Perhaps I say it badly; but that is what I feel."

"You do not say it badly -- you speak well, for you speak from the heart," he answered her, and felt a tinge of shame that he had tempted her with the gold and purple of a baser world than any that she knew.

"And yet you want to see new lands?" he pursued. "What is it you want to see there?"

"Ah, quite other things than these," cried Bébée, still leaning her cheeks on her hands. "That dancing and singing is very pretty and merry, but it is just as good when old Claude fiddles and the children skip. This wine, you tell me, is something very great; but fresh milk is much nicer, I think. It is not these kind of things I want -- I want to know all about the people who lived before us; I want to know what the stars are, and what the wind is; I want to know where the lark goes when you lose him out of sight against the sun; I want to know how the old artists got to see God, that they could paint him and all his angels as they have done; I want to know how the voices got into the bells, and how they can make one's heart beat, hanging up there as they do, all alone among the jackdaws; I want to know what it is when I walk in the fields in the morning, and it is all gray and soft and still, and the corn-crake cries in the wheat, and the little mice run home to their holes, that makes me so glad and yet so sorrowful, as if I were so very near God, and yet so all alone, and such a little thing; because you see the mouse she has her hole, and the crake her own people, but I -- "

Her voice faltered a little and stopped: she had never before thought out into words her own loneliness; from the long green arbor the voices of the girls and the students sang, -- 

"Ah! le doux son d'un baiser tendre!"

Flamen was silent. The poet in him -- and in an artist there is always more or less of the poet -- kept him back from ridicule, nay, moved him to pity and respect.

They were absurdly simple words no doubt, had little wisdom in them, and were quite childish in their utterance, and yet they moved him curiously as a man very base and callous may at times be moved by the look in a dying deer's eyes, or by the sound of a song that some lost love once sang.

He rose and drew her hands away, and took her small face between his own hands instead.

"Poor little Bébée!" he said gently, looking down on her with a breath that was almost a sigh. "Poor little Bébée! -- to envy the corncrake and the mouse!"

She was a little startled; her cheeks grew very warm under his touch, but her eyes looked still into his without fear.

He stooped and touched her forehead with his lips, gently and without passion, almost reverently; she grew rose-hued as the bright bean-flowers, up to the light gold ripples of her hair; she trembled a little and drew back, but she was not alarmed nor yet ashamed; she was too simple of heart to feel the fear that is born of passion and of consciousness.

It was as Jeannot kissed his sister Marie, who was fifteen years old and sold milk for the Krebs people in the villages with a little green cart and a yellow dog -- no more.

And yet the sunny arbor leaves and the glimpse of the blue sky swam round her indistinctly, and the sounds of the guitar grew dull upon her ear and were lost as in a rushing hiss of water, because of the great sudden unintelligible happiness that seemed to bear her little life away on it as a sea wave bears a young child off its feet.

"You do not feel alone now, Bébée?" he whispered to her.

"No!" she answered him softly under her breath, and sat still, while all her body quivered like a leaf.

No; how could she ever be alone now that this sweet, soft, unutterable touch would always be in memory upon her; how could she wish ever again now to be the corn-crake in the summer corn or the gray mouse in the hedge of hawthorn?

At that moment a student went by past the entrance of the arbor; he had a sash round his loins and a paper feather in his cap; he was playing a fife and dancing; he glanced in as he went.

"It is time to go home, Bébée," said Flamen.



Chapter XVIII.


So it came to pass that Bébée's day in the big forest came and went as simply almost as any day that she had played away with the Varnhart children under the beech shadows of Cambre woods.

And when he took her to her hut at sunset before the pilgrims had returned there was a great bewildered tumult of happiness in her heart, but there was no memory with her that prevented her from looking at the shrine in the wall as she passed it, and saying with a quick gesture of the cross on brow and bosom, -- 

"Ah, dear Holy Mother, how good you have been! and I am back again, you see, and I will work harder than ever because of all this joy that you have given me."

And she took another moss-rose and changed it for that of the morning, which was faded, and said to Flamen. -- 

"Look -- she sends you this. Now do you know what I mean? One is more content when She is content."

He did not answer, but he held her hands against him a moment as they fastened in the rose bud.

"Not a word to the pilgrims, Bébée -- you remember?"

"Yes, I will remember. I do not tell them every time I pray -- it will be like being silent about that -- it will be no more wrong than that."

But there was a touch of anxiety in the words; she was not quite certain; she wanted to be reassured. Instinct moved her not to speak of him; but habit made it seem wrong to her to have any secret from the people who had been about her from her birth.

He did not reassure her; her anxiety was pretty to watch, and he left the trouble in her heart like a bee in the chalice of a lily. Besides, the little wicket gate was between them; he was musing whether he would push it open once more.

Her fate was in the balance, though she did not dream it: he had dealt with her tenderly, honestly, sacredly all that day -- almost as much so as stupid Jeannot could have done. He had been touched by her trust in him, and by the unconscious beauty of her fancies, into a mood that was unlike all his life and habits. But after all, he said to himself -- 

After all! -- 

Where he stood in the golden evening he saw the rosy curled mouth, the soft troubled eves, the little brown hands that still tried to fasten the rosebud, the young peach-like skin where the wind stirred the bodice; -- she was only a little Flemish peasant, this poor little Bébée, a little thing of the fields and the streets, for all the dreams of God that abode with her. After all -- soon or late -- the end would be always the same. What matter!

She would weep a little to-morrow, and she would not kneel any more at the shrine in the garden wall; and then -- and then -- she would stay here and marry the good boor Jeannot, just the same after a while; or drift away after him to Paris, and leave her two little wooden shoes, and her visions of Christ in the fields at evening, behind her forevermore, and do as all the others did, and take not only silken stockings but the Cinderella slipper that is called Gold, which brings all other good things in its train; -- what matter!

He had meant this from the first, because she was so pretty, and those little wooden sabots ran so lithely over the stones; though he was not in love with her, but only idly stretched his hand for her as a child by instinct stretches to a fruit that hangs in the sun a little rosier and a little nearer than the rest.

What matter -- he said to himself -- she loved him, poor little soul, though she did not know it; and there would always be Jeannot glad enough of a handful of bright French gold.

He pushed the gate gently against her; her hands fastened the rosebud and drew open the latch themselves.

"Will you come in a little?" she said, with the happy light in her face. "You must not stay long, because the flowers must be watered, and then there are Annémie's patterns -- they must be done or she will have no money and so no food -- but if you would come in for a little? And see, if you wait a minute I will show you the roses that I shall cut to-morrow the first thing, and take down to St. Guido to Our Lady's altar in thank-offering for to-day. I should like you to choose them -- you yourself -- and if you would just touch them I should feel as if you gave them to her too. Will you?"

She spoke with the pretty outspoken frankness of her habitual speech, just tempered and broken with the happy, timid hesitation, the curious sense at once of closer nearness and of greater distance, that had come on her since he had kissed her among the bright beanflowers.

He turned from her quickly.

"No, dear, no. Gather your roses alone, Bébée; if I touch them their leaves will fall."

Then, with a hurriedly backward glance down the dusky lane to see that none were looking, he bent his head and kissed her again quickly and with a sort of shame, and swung the gate behind him and went away through the boughs and the shadows.



Chapter XIX.


Bébée looked after him wistfully till his figure was lost in the gloom.

The village was very quiet; a dog barking afar off and a cow lowing in the meadow were the only living things that made their presence heard; the pilgrims had not returned.

She leaned on the gate a few minutes in that indistinct, dreamy happiness which is the prerogative of innocent love.

"How wonderful it is that he should give a thought to me!" she said again and again to herself. It was as if a king had stooped for a little knot of daisied grass to set it in his crown where the great diamonds should be.

She did not reason. She did not question. She did not look beyond that hour -- such is the privilege of youth.

"How I will read! How I will learn! How wise I will try to be; and how good, if I can!" she thought, swaying the little gate lightly under her weight, and looking with glad eyes at the goats as they frisked with their young in the pasture on the other side of the big trees, whilst one by one the stars came out, and an owl hooted from the palace woods, and the frogs croaked good-nights in the rushes.

Then, like a little day laborer as she was, with the habit of toil and the need of the poor upon her from her birth up, she shut down the latch of the gate, kissed it where his hand had rested, and went to the well to draw its nightly draught for the dry garden.

"Oh, dear roses!" she said to them as she rained the silvery showers over their nodding heads. "Oh, dear roses! -- tell me -- was ever anybody so happy as I am? Oh, if you say 'yes' I shall tell you you lie; silly flowers that were only born yesterday!"

But the roses shook the water off them in the wind, and said, as she wished them to say, -- 

"No -- no one -- ever before, Bébée -- no one ever before."

For roses, like everything else upon earth, only speak what our own heart puts into them.

An old man went past up the lane; old Jehan, who was too ailing and aged to make one of the pilgrimage. He looked at the little quick-moving form, grayish white in the starlight, with the dark copper vessel balanced on her head, going to and fro betwixt the well and the garden.

"You did not go to the pilgrimage, poor little one!" he said across the sweetbrier hedge. "Nay, that was too bad; work, work, work -- thy pretty back should not be bent double yet. You want a holiday, Bébée; well, the Fête Dieu is near. Jeannot shall take you, and maybe I can find a few sous for gingerbread and merry-go-rounds. You sit dull in the market all day; you want a feast."

Bébée colored behind the hedge, and ran in and brought three new-laid eggs that she had left in the flour-bin in the early morning, and thrust them on him through a break in the brier. It was the first time she had ever done anything of which she might not speak: she was ashamed, and yet the secret was so sweet to her.

"I am very happy, Jehan, thank God!" she murmured, with a tremulous breath and a shine in her eyes that the old man's ears and sight were too dull to discern.

"So was she" muttered Jehan, as he thrust the eggs into his old patched blue blouse, -- "so was she. And then a stumble -- a blow in the lane there -- a horse's kick -- and all was over. All over, my pretty one -- for ever and ever."



Chapter XX.


On a sudden impulse Flamen, going through the woodland shadows to the city, paused and turned back; all his impulses were quick and swayed him now hither, now thither, in many contrary ways.

He knew that the hour was come -- that he must leave her and spare her, as to himself he phrased it, or teach her the love words that the daisies whisper to women.

And why not? -- anyway she would marry Jeannot.

He, half-way to the town, walked back again and paused a moment at the gate; an emotion half pitiful, half cynical, stirred in him.

Anyway he would leave her in a few days: Paris had again opened her arms to him; his old life awaited him; women who claimed him by imperious, amorous demands reproached him; and after all this day he had got the Gretchen of his ideal, a great picture for the future of his fame.

As he would leave her anyway so soon, he would leave her unscathed -- poor little field flower -- he could never take it with him to blossom or wither in Paris.

His world would laugh too utterly if he made for himself a mistress out of a little Fleming in two wooden shoes. Besides -- 

Besides, something that was half weak and half noble moved him not to lead this child, in her trust and her ignorance, into ways that when she awakened from her trance would seem to her shameful and full of sorrow. For he knew that Bébée was not as others are.

He turned back and knocked at the hut door and opened it.

Bébée was just beginning to undress herself; she had taken off her white kerchief and her wooden shoes; her pretty shoulders and her little neck shone white in the moon; her feet were bare on the mud floor.

She started with a cry and threw the handkerchief again on her shoulders, but there was no fear of him; only the unconscious instinct of her girlhood.

He thought for a moment that he would not go away until the morrow -- 

"Did you want me?" said Bébée softly, with happy eyes of surprise and yet a little startled, fearing some evil might have happened to him that he should have returned thus.

"No; I do not want you, dear," he said gently; no -- he did not want her, poor little soul; she wanted him, but he -- there were so many of these things in his life, and he liked her too well to love her.

"No, dear, I did not want you," said Flamen, drawing her arms about him, and feeling her flutter like a little bird, while the moonlight came in through the green leaves and fell in fanciful patterns on the floor. "But I came to say -- you have had one happy day. Wholly happy, have you not, poor little Bébée?"

"Ah, yes!" she sighed rather than said the answer in her wondrous gladness; drawn there close to him, with the softness of his lips upon her. Could he have come back only to ask that?

"Well, that is something. You will remember it always, Bébée?" he murmured in his unconscious cruelty. "I did not wish to spoil your cloudless pleasure, dear -- for you care for me a little, do you not? -- so I came back to tell you only now, that I go away for a little while to-morrow."

"Go away!"

She trembled in his arms and turned cold as ice; a great terror and darkness fell upon her; she had never thought that he would ever go away. He caressed her, and played with her as a boy may with a bird before he wrings its neck.

"You will come back?"

He kissed her: "Surely."

"To-morrow?"

"Nay -- not so soon."

"In a week?"

"Hardly."

"In a month, then?"

"Perhaps."

"Before winter, anyway?"

He looked aside from the beseeching, tearful, candid eyes, and kissed her hair and her throat, and said, "Yes, dear -- beyond a doubt."

She clung to him, crying silently; he wished that women would not weep.

"Come, Bébée, listen," he said coaxingly, thinking to break the bitterness to her. "This is not wise, and it gives me pain. There is so much for you to do. You know so little. There is so much to learn. I will leave you many books, and you must grow quite learned in my absence. The Virgin is all very well in her way, but she cannot teach us much, poor lady. For her kingdom is called Ignorance. You must teach yourself. I leave you that to do. The days will go by quickly if you are laborious and patient. Do you love me, little one?"

For an answer she kissed his hand.

"You are a busy little Bébée always," he said, with his lips caressing her soft brown arms that were round his neck. "But you must be busier than ever whilst I am gone. So you will forget. No, no, I do not mean that: -- I mean so the time will pass quickest. And I shall finish your picture, Bébée, and all Paris will see you, and the great ladies will envy the little girl with her two wooden shoes. Ah! that does not please you? -- you care for none of these vanities. No. Poor little Bébée, why did God make you, or Chance breathe life into you? You are so far away from us all. It was cruel. What harm has your poor little soul ever done that, pure as a flower, it should have been sent to the hell of this world?"

She clung to him, sobbing without sound. "You will come back? You will come back?" she moaned, clasping him closer and closer.

Flamen's own eyes grew dim. But he lied to her: "I will -- I promise."

It was so much easier to say so, and it would break her sorrow. So he thought.

For the moment again he was tempted to take her with him -- but, he resisted it -- he would tire, and she would cling to him forever.

There was a long silence. The bleating of the little kid in the shed without was the only sound; the gray lavender blew to and fro.

Her arms were close about his throat; he kissed them again, and kissed her eyes, her cheek, her mouth; then put her from him quickly and went out.

She ran to him, and threw herself on the damp ground and held him there, and leaned her forehead on his feet. But though he looked at her with wet eyes, he did not yield, and he still said, -- 

"I will come back soon -- very soon; be quiet, dear, let me go."

Then he kissed her once more many times, and put her gently within the door and closed it.

A low, sharp, sudden cry reached him, went to his heart, but he did not turn; he went on through the wet, green little garden, and the curling leaves, where he had found peace and had left desolation.



Chapter XXI.


"I will let her alone, and she will marry Jeannot," thought Flamen; and he believed himself a good man for once in his life, and pitied himself for having become a sentimentalist.

She would marry Jeannot, and bear many children, as those people always did; and ruddy little peasants would cling about these pretty, soft, little breasts of hers; and she would love them after the manner of such women, and be very content clattering over the stones in her wooden shoes; and growing brown and stout, and more careful after money, and ceasing to dream of unknown things, and not seeing God at all in the fields, but looking low and beholding only the ears of the gleaning wheat and the feet of the tottering children; and so gaining her bread, and losing her soul, and stooping nearer and nearer to earth till she dropped into it like one of her own wind-blown wall-flowers when the bee has sucked out all its sweetness and the heats have scorched up all its bloom: -- yes, of course, she would marry Jeannot and end so!

Meanwhile he had his Gretchen, and that was the one great matter.

So he left the street of Mary of Burgundy, and went on his way out of the chiming city as its matin bells were rung, and took with him a certain regret, and the only innocent affection that had ever awakened in him; and thought of his self-negation with half admiration and half derision; and so drifted away into the whirlpool of his amorous, cynical, changeful, passionate, callous, many-colored life, and said to himself as he saw the last line of the low green plains shine against the sun, "She will marry Jeannot -- of course, she will marry Jeannot. And my Gretchen is greater than Scheffer's."

What else mattered very much, after all, except what they would say in Paris of Gretchen?



Chapter XXII.


People saw that Bébée had grown very quiet. But that was all they saw.

Her little face was pale as she sat among her glowing autumn blossoms, by the side of the cobbler's stall; and when the Varnhart children cried at the gate to her to come and play, she would answer gently that she was too busy to have play-time now.

The fruit girl of the Montagne de la Cour hooted after her, "Gone so soon? -- oh hé! what did I say? -- a fine pine is sugar in the teeth a second only, but the brown nuts you may crack all the seasons round. Well, did you make good harvest while it lasted? has Jeannot a fat bridal portion promised?"

And old Jehan, who was the tenderest soul of them all in the lane by the swans' water, would come and look at her wistfully as she worked among the flowers, and would say to her, -- 

"Dear little one, there is some trouble: does it come of that painted picture? You never laugh now, Bébée, and that is bad. A girl's laugh is pretty to hear; my girl laughed like little bells ringing -- and then it stopped, all at once; they said she was dead. But you are not dead, Bébée. And yet you are so silent; one would say you were."

But to the mocking of the fruit girl, as to the tenderness of old Jehan, Bébée answered nothing; the lines of her pretty curled mouth grew grave and sad, and in her eyes there was a wistful, bewildered, pathetic appeal like the look in the eyes of a beaten dog, which, while it aches with pain, does not cease to love its master.

One resolve upheld and made her feet firm on the stones of the streets and her lips mute under all they said to her. She would learn all she could, and be good, and patient, and wise, if trying could make her wise, and so do his will in all things -- until he should come back.

"You are not gay, Bébée," said Annémie, who grew so blind that she could scarce see the flags at the mastheads, and who still thought that she pricked the lace patterns and earned her bread. "You are not gay, dear. Has any lad gone to sea that your heart goes away with, and do you watch for his ship coming in with the coasters? It is weary work waiting; but it is all the men think us fit for, child. They may set sail as they like; every new port has new faces for them; but we are to sit still and to pray if we like, and never murmur, be the voyage ever so long, but be ready with a smile and a kiss, a fresh pipe of tobacco, and a dry pair of socks; -- that is a man. We may have cried our hearts out; we must have ready the pipe and the socks, or, 'Is that what you call love?' they grumble. You want mortal patience if you love a man, -- it is like a fretful child that thumps you when your breast is bare to it. Still, be you patient, dear, just as I am, just as I am."

And Bébée would shudder as she swept the cobwebs from the garret walls, -- patient as she was, she who had sat here fifty years watching for a dead man and for a wrecked ship.



Chapter XXIII.


The wheat was reapen in the fields, and the brown earth turned afresh. The white and purple chrysanthemums bloomed against the flowerless rose-bushes, and the little gray Michaelmas daisy flourished where the dead carnations had spread their glories. Leaves began to fall and chilly winds to sigh among the willows; the squirrels began to store away their nuts, and the poor to pick up the broken bare boughs.

"He said he would come before winter," thought Bébée, every day when she rose and felt each morning cooler and grayer than the one before it; winter was near.

Her little feet already were cold in their wooden shoes; and the robin already sang in the twigs of the sear sweetbrier; but she had the brave sweet faith which nothing kills, and she did not doubt -- oh! no, she did not doubt, she was only tired.

Tired of the strange, sleepless, feverish nights; tired of the long, dull, empty days: tired of watching down the barren, leafless lane: tired of hearkening breathless to each step on the rustling dead leaves; tired of looking always, always, always, into the ruddy autumn evenings and the cold autumn starlight, and never hearing what she listened for, never seeing what she sought; tired as a child may be lost in a wood, and wearily wearing its small strength and breaking its young heart in search of the track forever missed, of the home forever beyond the horizon.

Still she did her work and kept her courage.

She took her way into the town with her basket full of the ruby and amber of the dusky autumn blossoms, and when those failed, and the garden was quite desolate, except for a promise of haws and of holly, she went, as she had always done, to the lace-room, and gained her bread and the chickens' corn each day by winding the thread round the bobbins; and at nightfall when she had plodded home through the darksome roads and over the sodden turf, and had lit her rushlight and sat down to her books, with her hand buried in her hair, and her eyes smarting from the strain of the lace-work and her heart aching with that new and deadly pain which never left her now, she would read -- read -- read -- read, and try and store her brain with knowledge, and try and grasp these vast new meanings of life that the books opened to her, and try and grow less ignorant against he should return.

There was much she could not understand, bait there was also much she could.

Her mind was delicate and quick, her intelligence swift and strong; she bought old books at bookstalls with pence that she saved by going without her dinner. The keeper of the stall, a shrewd old soul, explained some hard points to her, and chose good volumes for her, and lent others to this solitary little student in her wooden shoes and with her pale child's face.

So she toiled hard and learned much, and grew taller and very thin, and got a look in her eyes like a lost dog's, and yet never lost heart or wandered in the task that he had set her, or in her faith in his return.

"Burn the books, Bébée," whispered the children again and again, clinging to her skirts. "Burn the wicked, silent things. Since you have had them you never sing, or romp, or laugh, and you look so white -- so white."

Bébée kissed them, but kept to her books.

Jeannot going by from the forest night after night saw the light twinkling in the hut window, and sometimes crept softly up and looked through the chinks of the wooden shutter, and saw her leaning over some big old volume with her pretty brows drawn together, and her mouth shut close in earnest effort, and he would curse the man who had changed her so and go away with rage in his breast and tears in his eyes, not daring to say anything, but knowing that never would Bébée's little brown hand lie in love within his own.

Nor even in friendship, for he had rashly spoken rough words against the stranger from Rubes' land, and Bébée ever since then had passed him by with a grave, simple greeting, and when he had brought her in timid gifts a barrow-load of fagots, had thanked him, but had bidden him take the wood home to his mother.

"You think evil things of me, Bébée?" good Jeannot had pleaded, with a sob in his voice; and she had answered gently, -- 

"No; but do not speak to me, that is all."

Then he had cursed her absent lover, and Bébée gone within and closed her door.

She had no idea that the people thought ill of her. They were cold to her, and such coldness made her heart ache a little more. But the one great love in her possessed her so strongly that all other things were half unreal.

She did her daily housework from sheer habit, and she studied because he had told her to do it, and because with the sweet, stubborn, credulous faith of her youth, she never doubted that he would return.

Otherwise there was no perception of real life in her; she dreamed and prayed, and prayed and dreamed, and never ceased to do either one or the other, even when she was scattering potato-peels to the fowls, or shaking carrots loose of the soil, or sweeping the snow from her hut door, or going out in the raw dark dawn as the single little sad bell of St. Guido tolled through the stillness for the first mass.

For though even Father Francis looked angered at her because he thought she was stubborn, and hid some truth and some shame from him at confession, yet she went resolutely and oftener than ever to kneel in the dusty, dusky, crumbling old church, for it was all she could do for him who was absent -- so she thought -- and she did not feel quite so far away from him when she was beseeching Christ to have care of his soul and of his body.

All her pretty dreams were dead.

She never heard any story in the robin's song, or saw any promise in the sunset clouds, or fancied that angels came about her in the night -- never now.

The fields were gray and sad; the birds were little brown things; the stars were cold and far off; the people she had used to care for were like mere shadows that went by her meaningless and without interest, and all she thought of was the one step that never came: all she wanted was the one touch she never felt.

"You have done wrong, Bébée, and you will not own it," said the few neighbors who ever spoke to her.

Bébée looked at them with wistful, uncomprehending eyes.

"I have done no wrong," she said gently, but no one believed her.

A girl did not shut herself up and wane pale and thin for nothing, so they reasoned. She might have sinned as she had liked if she had been sensible after it, and married Jeannot.

But to fret mutely, and shut her lips, and seem as though she had done nothing, -- that was guilt indeed.

For her village, in its small way, thought as the big world thinks.



Chapter XXIV.


Full winter came.

The snow was deep, and the winds drove the people with whips of ice along the dreary country roads and the steep streets of the city. The bells of the dogs and the mules sounded sadly through the white misty silence of the Flemish plains, and the weary horses slipped and fell on the frozen ruts and on the jagged stones in the little frost-shut Flemish towns. Still the Flemish folk were gay enough in many places.

There were fairs and kermesses; there were puppet plays and church feasts; there were sledges on the plains and skates on the canals; there were warm woollen hoods and ruddy wood fires; there were tales of demons and saints, and bowls of hot onion soup; sugar images for the little children, and blessed beads for the maidens clasped on rosy throats with lovers' kisses; and in the city itself there was the high tide of the winter pomp and mirth, with festal scenes in the churches, and balls at the palaces, and all manner of gay things in toys and jewels, and music playing cheerily under the leafless trees, and flashes of scarlet cloth, and shining furs, and happy faces, and golden curls, in the carriages that climbed the Montagne de la Cour, and filled the big place around the statue of stout Godfrey.

In the little village above St. Guido, Bébée's neighbors were merry too, in their simple way.

The women worked away wearily at their lace in the dim winter light, and made a wretched living by it, but all the same they got penny playthings for their babies, and a bit of cake for their Sunday-hearth. They drew together in homely and cordial friendship, and of an afternoon when dusk fell wove their lace in company in Mère Krebs's mill-house kitchen with the children and the dogs at their feet on the bricks, so that one big fire might serve for all, and all be lighted with one big rush candle, and all be beguiled by chit-chat and songs, stories of spirits, and whispers of ghosts, and now and then when the wind howled at its worst, a paternoster or two said in common for the men toiling in the barges or drifting up the Scheldt.

In these gatherings Bébée's face was missed, and the blithe soft sound of her voice, like a young thrush singing, was never heard.

The people looked in, and saw her sitting over a great open book; often her hearth had no fire.

Then the children grew tired of asking her to play; and their elders began to shake their heads; she was so pale and so quiet, there must be some evil in it -- so they began to think.

Little by little people dropped away from her. Who knew, the gossips said, what shame or sin the child might not have on her sick little soul?

True, Bébée worked hard just the same, and just the same was seen trudging to and fro in the dusk of dawns and afternoons in her two little wooden shoes. She was gentle and laborious, and gave the children her goat's milk, and the old women the brambles of her garden.

But they grew afraid of her -- afraid of that sad, changeless, far-away look in her eves, and of the mute weariness that was on her -- and, being perplexed, were sure, like all ignorant creatures, that what was secret must be also vile.

So they hung aloof, and let her alone, and by and by scarcely nodded as they passed her but said to Jeannot, -- 

"You were spared a bad thing, lad: the child was that grand painter's light-o'-love, that is plain to see. The mischief all comes of the stuff old Antoine filled her head with -- a stray little by-blow of chickweed that he cockered up like a rare carnation. Oh! do not fly in a rage, Jeannot; the child is no good, and would have made an honest man rue. Take heart of grace, and praise the saints, and marry Katto's Lisa."

But Jeannot would never listen to the slanderers, and would never look at Lisa, even though the door of the little hut was always closed against him; and whenever he met Bébée on the highway she never seemed to see him more than she saw the snow that her sabots were treading.

One night in the midwinter-time old Annémie died.

Bébée found her in the twilight with her head against the garret window, and her left side all shrivelled and useless. She had a little sense left, and a few fleeting breaths to draw.

"Look for the brig," she muttered. "You will not see the flag at the masthead for the fog to-night; but his socks are dry and his pipe is ready. Keep looking -- keep looking -- she will be in port to-night."

But her dead sailor never came into port; she went to him. The poor, weakened, faithful old body of her was laid in the graveyard of the poor, and the ships came and went under the empty garret window, and Bébée was all alone.

She had no more anything to work for, or any bond with the lives of others. She could live on the roots of her garden and the sale of her hens' eggs, and she could change the turnips and carrots that grew in a little strip of her ground for the quantity of bread that she needed.

So she gave herself up to the books, and drew herself more and more within from the outer world. She did not know that the neighbors thought very evil of her; she had only one idea in her mind -- to be more worthy of him against he should return.

The winter passed away somehow, she did not know how.

It was a long, cold, white blank of frozen silence: that was all. She studied hard, and had got a quaint, strange, deep, scattered knowledge out of her old books; her face had lost all its roundness and color, but, instead, the forehead had gained breadth and the eyes had the dim fire of a student's.

Every night when she shut her volumes she thought, -- 

"I am a little nearer him. I know a little more."

Just so every morning, when she bathed her hands in the chilly water, she thought to herself, "I will make my skin as soft as I can for him, that it may be like the ladies' he has loved."

Love to be perfect must be a religion, as well as a passion. Bébée's was so. Like George Herbert's serving-maiden, she swept no specks of dirt away from a floor without doing it to the service of her lord.

Only Bébée's lord was a king of earth, made of earth's dust and vanities.

But what did she know of that?



Chapter XXV.


The winter went by, and the snow-drops and crocus and pale hepatica smiled at her from the black clods. Every other springtime Bébée had run with fleet feet under the budding trees down into the city, and had sold sweet little wet bunches of violets and brier before all the snow was melted from the eaves of the Broodhuis.

"The winter is gone," the townspeople used to say; "look, there is Bébée with the flowers."

But this year they did not see the little figure itself like a rosy crocus standing against the brown timbers of the Maison de Roi.

Bébée had not heart to pluck a single blossom of them all. She let them all live, and tended them so that the little garden should look its best and brightest to him when his hand should lift its latch.

Only he was so long coming -- so very long; the violets died away, and the first rosebuds came in their stead, and still Bébée looked every dawn and every nightfall vainly down the empty road.

Nothing kills young creatures like the bitterness of waiting.

Pain they will bear, and privation they will pass through, fire and water and storm will not appall them, nor wrath of heaven and earth, but waiting -- the long, tedious, sickly, friendless days, that drop one by one in their eternal sameness into the weary past, these kill slowly but surely, as the slow dropping of water frets away rock.

The summer came.

Nearly a year had gone by. Bébée worked early and late. The garden bloomed like one big rose, and the neighbors shook their heads to see the flowers blossom and fall without bringing in a single coin.

She herself spoke less seldom than ever; and now when old Jehan, who never had understood the evil thoughts of his neighbors, asked her what ailed her that she looked so pale and never stirred down to the city, now her courage failed her, and the tears brimmed over her eyes, and she could not call up a brave brief word to answer him. For the time was so long, and she was so tired.

Still she never doubted that her lover would comeback: he had said he would come: she was as sure that he would come as she was sure that God came in the midst of the people when the silver bell rang and the Host was borne by on high.

Bébée did not heed much, but she vaguely-felt the isolation she was left in: as a child too young to reason feels cold and feels hunger.

"No one wants me here now that Annémie is gone," she thought to herself, as the sweet green spring days unfolded themselves one by one like the buds of the brier-rose hedges.

And now and then even the loyal little soul of her gave way, and sobbing on her lonely bed in the long dark nights, she would cry out against him, "Oh, why not have left me alone? I was so happy -- so happy!"

And then she would reproach herself with treason to him and ingratitude, and hate herself and feel guilty in her own sight to have thus sinned against him in thought for one single instant.

For there are natures in which the generosity of love is so strong that it feels its own just pain to be disloyalty; and Bébée's was one of them. And if he had killed her she would have died hoping only that no moan had escaped her under the blow that ever could accuse him.

These natures, utterly innocent by force of self-accusation and self-abasement, suffer at once the torment of the victim and the criminal.



Chapter XXVI.


One day in the May weather she sat within doors with a great book upon her table, but no sight for it in her aching eyes. The starling hopped to and fro on the sunny floor; the bees boomed in the porch; the tinkle of sheep's bells came in on the stillness. All was peaceful and happy except the little weary, breaking, desolate heart that beat in her like a caged bird's.

"He will come; I am sure he will come," she said to herself; but she was so tired, and it was so long -- oh, dear God! -- so very long.

A hand tapped at the lattice. The shrill voice of Reine, the sabot-maker's wife, broken with anguish, called through the hanging ivy, -- 

"Bébée, you are a wicked one, they say, but the only one there is at home in the village this day. Get you to town for the love of Heaven, and send Doctor Max hither, for my pet, my flower, my child lies dying, and not a soul near, and she black as a coal with choking -- go, go, go! -- and Mary will forgive you your sins. Save the little one, dear Bébée, do you hear? and I will pray God and speak fair the neighbors for you. Go!"

Bébée rose up, startled by the now unfamiliar sound of a human voice, and looked at the breathless mother with eyes of pitying wonder.

"Surely I will go," she said, gently; "but there is no need to bribe me. I have not sinned greatly -- that I know."

Then she went out quickly and ran through the lanes and into the city for the sick child, and found the wise man, and sent him, and did the errand rather in a sort of sorrowful sympathetic instinct than in any reasoning consciousness of doing good.

When she was moving through the once familiar and happy ways as the sun was setting on the golden fronts of the old houses, and the chimes were ringing from the many towers, a strange sense of unreality, of non-existence, fell upon her.

Could it be she? -- she indeed -- who had gone there the year before the gladdest thing that the earth bore, with no care except to shelter her flowers from the wind, and keep the freshest blossoms for the burgomaster's housewife?

She did not think thus to herself; but a vague doubt that she could ever have been the little gay, laborious, happy Bébée, with troops of friends and endless joys for every day that dawned, came over her as she went by the black front of the Broodhuis.

The strong voice of Lisa, the fruit girl, jarred on her as she passed the stall under its yellow awning that was flapping sullenly in the evening wind.

"Oh hé, little fool," the mocking voice cried, "the rind of the fine pine is full of prickles, and stings the lips when the taste is gone? -- to be sure -- crack common nuts like me and you are never wanting -- hazels grow free in every copse. Prut, tut! your grand lover lies a-dying; so the students read out of this just now; and you such a simpleton as not to get a roll of napoleons out of him before he went to rot in Paris. I dare say he was poor as sparrows, if one knew the truth. He was only a painter after all."

Lisa tossed her as she spoke a torn sheet, in which she was wrapping gentians: it was a piece of newspaper some three weeks old, and in it there was a single line or so which said that the artist Flamen, whose Gretchen was the wonder of the Salon of the year, lay sick unto death in his rooms in Paris.

Bébée stood and read; the strong ruddy western light upon the type, the taunting laughter of the fruit girl on her ear.

A bitter shriek rang from her that made even the cruelty of Lisa's mirth stop in a sudden terror.

She stood staring like a thing changed to stone down on the one name that to her rilled all the universe.

"Ill -- he is ill -- do you hear?" she echoed piteously, looking at Lisa; "and you say he is poor?"

"Poor? for sure! is he not a painter?" said the fruit girl, roughly. She judged by her own penniless student lads; and she was angered with herself for feeling sorrow for this little silly thing that she had loved to torture.

"You have been bad and base to me; but now -- I bless you, I love you, I will pray for you," said Bébée, in a swift broken breath, and with a look upon her face that startled into pain her callous enemy.

Then without another word, she thrust the paper in her bosom, and ran out of the square breathless with haste and with a great resolve.

He was ill -- and he was poor! The brave little soul of her leaped at once to action. He was sick, and far away; and poor they said. All danger and all difficulty faded to nothing before the vision of his need.

Bébée was only a little foundling who ran about in wooden shoes; but she had the "dog's soul" in her -- the soul that will follow faithfully though to receive a curse, that will defend loyally though to meet a blow, and that will die mutely loving to the last.

She went home, how she never knew; and without the delay of a moment packed up a change of linen, and fed the fowls and took the key of the hut down to old Jehan's cabin. The old man was only half-witted by reason of his affliction for his dead daughter, but he was shrewd enough to understand what she wanted of him, and honest enough to do it.

"I am going into the city," she said to him: "and if I am not back to-night, will you feed the starling and the hens, and water the flowers for me?"

Old Jehan put his head out of his lattice: it was seven in the evening, and he was going to bed.

"What are you after, little one?" he asked: going to show the fine buckles at a students' ball? Nay, fie; that is not like you."

"I am going to -- pray -- dear Jehan," she answered, with a sob in her throat and the first falsehood she ever had told. "Do what I ask you -- do for your dead daughter's sake -- or the birds and the flowers will die of hunger and thirst. Take the key and promise me."

He took the key, and promised.

"Do not let them see those buckles shine; they will rob you," he added.

Bébée ran from him fast; every moment that was lost was so precious and so terrible. To pause a second for fear's sake never occurred to her. She went forth as fearlessly as a young swallow, born in northern April days, flies forth on instinct to new lands and over unknown seas when autumn falls.

Necessity and action breathed new life into her. The hardy and brave peasant ways of her were awoke once more. She had been strong to wait silently with the young life in her dying out drop by drop in the heart-sickness of long delay. She was strong now to throw herself into strange countries and dim perils and immeasurable miseries, on the sole chance that she might be of service to him.

A few human souls here and there can love like dogs. Bébée's was one.



Chapter XXVII.


It was dark. The May days are short in the north lands of the Scheldt.

She had her little winter cloak of frieze and her wooden shoes and her little white cap with the sunny curls rippling out of it in their pretty rebellion. She had her little lantern too; and her bundle, and she had put a few fresh eggs in her basket, with some sweet herbs and the palm-sheaf that Father Francis had blessed last Easter; for who could tell, she thought, how ill he might not be, or how poor?

She hardly gave a look to the hut as she ran by its garden gate; all her heart was on in front, in the vague far-off country where he lay sick unto death.

She ran fast through the familiar lanes into the city. She was not very sure where Paris was, but she had the name clear and firm, and she knew that people were always coming and going thence and thither, so that she had no fear she should not find it.

She went straight to the big, busy, bewildering place in the Leopold quarter where the iron horses fumed every day and night along the iron ways. She had never been there before, but she knew it was by that great highway that the traffic to Paris was carried on, and she knew that it would carry people also as well.

There were bells clanging, lights flashing, and crowds pushing and shouting, as she ran up -- a little gray figure, with the lantern-spark glimmering like any tiny glow-worm astray in a gas-lit city.

"To Paris?" she asked, entreatingly, going where she saw others going, to a little grated wicket in a wall.

"Twenty-seven francs -- quick!" they demanded of her. Bébée gave a great cry, and stood still, trembling and trying not to sob aloud. She had never thought of money; she had forgotten that youth and strength and love and willing feet and piteous prayers, -- all went for nothing as this world is made.

A hope flashed on her and a glad thought. She loosed the silver buckles, and held them out.

"Would you take these? They are worth much more."

There was a derisive laughter; some one bade her with an oath begone; rough shoulders jostled her away. She stretched her arms out piteously.

"Take me -- oh, pray take me! I will go with the sheep, with the cattle -- only, only take me!"

But in the rush and roar none heeded her; some thief snatched the silver buckles from her hand, and made off with them and was lost in the throng; a great iron beast rushed by her, snorting flame and bellowing smoke; there was a roll like thunder, and all was dark; the night express had passed on its way to Paris.

Bébée stood still, crushed for a moment with the noise and the cruelty and the sense of absolute desolation; she scarcely noticed that the buckles had been stolen; she had only one thought -- to get to Paris.

"Can I never go without money?" she asked at the wicket; the man there glanced a moment, with a touch of pity, at the little wistful face.

"The least is twenty francs -- surely you must know that?" he said, and shut his grating with a clang.

Bébée turned away and went out of the great cruel, tumultuous place; her heart ached and her brain was giddy, but the sturdy courage of her nature rose to need.

"There is no way at all to go without money to Paris, I suppose?" she asked of an old woman whom she knew a little, who sold nuts and little pictures of saints and wooden playthings under the trees, in the avenue hard by.

The old woman shook her head.

"Eh? -- no, dear. There is nothing to be done anywhere in the world without money. Look, I cannot get a litre of nuts to sell unless I pay beforehand."

"Would it be far to walk?"

"Far! Holy Jesus! It is right away in the heart of France -- over two hundred miles, they say; straight out through the forest. Not but what my son did walk it once; -- and he a shoemaker, who knows what walking costs; and he is well-to-do there now -- not that he ever writes. When they want nothing people never write."

"And he walked into Paris?"

"Yes, ten years ago. He had nothing but a few sous and an ash stick, and he had a fancy to try his luck there. And after all our feet were given us to travel with. If you go there and you see him, tell him to send me something -- I am tired of selling nuts."

Bébée said nothing, but went on her road; since there was no other way but to walk, she would take that way; the distance and the hardship did not appall two little feet that were used to traverse so many miles of sun-baked summer dust and of frozen winter mud unblenchingly year after year.

The time it would take made her heart sink indeed. He was ill. God knew what might happen. But neither the length of leagues nor the fatigue of body daunted her. She only saw his eyes dim with pain and his lips burned with fever.

She would walk twenty miles a day, and then, perhaps, she might get lifts here and there on hay wagons or in pedlers' carts; people had always used to be kind to her. Anyhow she counted she might reach Paris well in fifteen days.

She sat under a shrine in a by street a moment, and counted the copper pieces she had on her; they were few, and the poor pretty buckles that she might have sold to get money were stolen.

She had some twenty sous and a dozen eggs; she thought she might live on that; she had wanted to take the eggs to him, but after all, to keep life in her until she could reach Paris was the one great thing.

"What a blessing it is to have been born poor; and to have lived hardly -- one wants so little!" she thought to herself.

Then she put up the sous in the linen bosom of her gown, and trimmed her little lantern and knelt down in the quiet darkness and prayed a moment, with the hot agonized tears rolling down her face, and then rose and stepped out bravely in the cool of the night, on the great southwest road towards Paris.

The thought never once crossed her to turn back, and go again into the shelter of her own little hut among the flowers. He was sick there, dying, for anything she knew; that was the only thing she remembered.

It was a clear, starlit night, and everywhere the fragrance of the spring was borne in from the wide green plains, and the streams where the rushes were blowing.

She walked ten miles easily, the beautiful gray shadow all about her. She had never been so far from home in all her life, except to that one Kermesse at Mechlin. But she was not afraid.

With the movement, and the air, and the sense that she was going to him, which made her happy even in her misery, something of the old, sweet, lost fancies came to her.

She smiled at the stars through her tears, and as the poplars swayed and murmured in the wind, they looked to her like the wings and the swords of a host of angels.

Her way lay out through the forest, and in that sweet green woodland she was not afraid -- no more afraid than the fawns were.

At Boitsfort she shrank a little, indeed. Here there were the open-air restaurants, and the café gardens all alight for the pleasure-seekers from the city; here there were music and laughter, and horses with brass bells, and bright colors on high in the wooden balconies, and below among the blossoming hawthorn hedges. She had to go through it all, and she shuddered a little as she ran, thinking of that one priceless, deathless forest day when he had kissed her first.

But the pleasure-people were all busied with their mirth and mischief, and took no notice of the little gray figure in the starry night. She went on along the grassy roads, under the high arching trees, with the hoot of the owls and the cry of the rabbits on the stillness.

At Groenendael, in the heart of the forest midnight was striking as she entered the village. Every one was asleep. The lights were all out The old ruined priory frowned dark under the clouds.

She shivered a little again, and began to feel chill and tired, yet did not dare to knock at any one of the closed house doors -- she had no money.

So she walked on her first ten unknown miles, meeting a few people only, and being altogether unmolested -- a small gray figure, trotting in two little wooden shoes.

They thought her a peasant going to a fair or a lace mill, and no one did her more harm than to wish her good night in rough Flemish.

When the dawn began to whiten above the plains of the east, she saw an empty cow-shed filled with hay; she was a little tired, and lay down and rested an hour or two, as a young lamb might have lain on the dried clover, for she knew that she must keep her strength and husband her power, or never reach across the dreary length of the foreign land to Paris.

But by full sunrise she was on her way again, bathing her face in a brook and buying a sou's worth of bread and flet-milk at the first cottage that she passed in bright, leaf-bowered Hoey-laert.

The forest was still all around her, with its exquisite life of bough and blossom, and murmur of insect and of bird. She told her beads, praying as she went, and was almost happy.

God would not let him die. Oh, no, not till she had kissed him once more, and could die with him.

The hares ran across the path, and the blue butterflies flew above-head. There was purple gloom of pine wood, and sparkling verdure of aspen and elm. There were distant church carillons ringing, and straight golden shafts of sunshine streaming.

She was quite sure God would not let him die.

She hoped that he might be very poor. At times he had talked as if he were, and then she might be of so much use. She knew how to deal with fever and suffering. She had sat up many a night with the children of the village. The gray sisters had taught her many of their ways of battling with disease; and she could make fresh cool drinks, and she could brew beautiful remedies from simple herbs. There was so much that she might do; her fancy played with it almost happily. And then, only to touch his hand, only to hear his voice; her heart rose at the thought, as a lark to its morning song.

At Rixensart, buried in its greenery, as she went through it in morning light, some peasants greeted her cheerily, and called to her to rest in a house porch, and gave her honey and bread. She could not eat much; her tongue was parched and her throat was dry, but the kindness was precious to her, and she went on her road the stronger for it.

"It is a long way to walk to Paris," said the woman, with some curious wonder. Bébée smiled, though her eyes grew wet.

"She has the look of the little Gesù," said the Rixensart people; and they watched her away with a vague timid pity.

So she went on through Ottignies and La Roche to Villers, and left the great woods and the city chimes behind her, and came through the green abbey valleys through Tilly and Ligny, and Fleurus, and so into the coal and iron fields that lie round Charleroi.

Here her heart grew sick, and her courage sank under the noise and the haste, before the blackness and the hideousness. She had never seen anything like it. She thought it was hell, with the naked, swearing, fighting people, and the red fires leaping night and day. Nevertheless, if hell it were, since it lay betwixt her and him, she found force to brave and cross it.

The miners and glass-blowers and nail-makers, rough and fierce and hard, frightened her. The women did not look like women, and the children ran and yelled at her, and set their dogs upon her. The soil was thick with dust like soot, and the trees were seared and brown. There was no peace in the place, and no loveliness. Eighty thousand folks toiled together in the hopeless Tophet, and swarmed, and struggled, and labored, and multiplied, in joyless and endless wrestling against hunger and death.

She got through it somehow, hiding often from the ferocious youngsters, and going sleepless rather than lie in those dens of filth; but she seemed so many, many years older when Charleroi lay at last behind her, -- so many, many years older than when she had sat and spun in the garden at home.

When she was once in the valley of the Sambre she was more herself again, only she felt weaker than she had ever done, because she only dared to spend one of her sous each day, and one sou got so little food.

In the woods and fields about Alne she began to breathe again, like a bird loosed to the air after being shut in a wooden trap. Green corn, green boughs, green turf, mellow chimes of church bells, humming of golden bees, cradle songs of women spinning, homely odors of little herb gardens and of orchard trees under cottage walls, -- these had been around her all her life; she only breathed freely among them.

She often felt tired, and her wooden shoes were wearing so thin that the hot dust of the road at noonday burnt her feet through them. Sometimes, too, she felt a curious brief faintness, such as she had never known, for the lack of food and the long fatigue began to tell even on her hardy little body.

But she went on bravely, rarely doing less than her twenty miles a day, and sometimes more, walking often in the night to save time, and lying down in cow-sheds or under haystacks in the noontide.

For the most part people were kind to her; they saw she was so very young and so poor.

Women would give her leave to bathe herself in their bedchambers, and children would ask her to wait on the village bench under the chestnut-tree, while they brought her their pet lamb or their tumbler pigeons to look at, but, for the most part -- unless she was very, very tired -- she would not wait. It took her so long, and who could tell how it fared with him in Paris?

Into the little churches, scattered over the wide countries between Charleroi and Erquelinnes, she would turn aside, indeed; but, then, that was only to say a prayer for him; that was not loss to him, but gain.

So she walked on until she reached the frontier of France. She began to get a little giddy; she began to see the blue sky and the green level always swirling round her as if some one were spinning them to frighten her, but still she would not be afraid; she went on, and on, and on, till she set her last step on the soil of Flanders.

Here a new, strange, terrible, incomprehensible obstacle opposed her: she had no papers; they thrust her back and spoke to her as if she were a criminal. She could not understand what they could mean. She had never heard of these laws and rules. She vaguely comprehended that she must not enter France, and stunned and heartbroken she dropped down under a tree, and for the first time sobbed as if her very life would weep itself away.

She could see nothing, understand nothing. There were the same road, the same hedges, the same fields, the same white cottages, and peasants in blue shirts and dun-hued oxen in the wagons. She saw no mark, no difference, ere they told her where she stood was Belgium, and where they stood was France, and that she must not pass from one into the other.

The men took no notice of her. They went back into their guard-house, and smoked and drank. A cat sunned herself under a scarlet bean. The white clouds sailed on before a southerly sky. She might die here -- he there -- and nothing seemed to care.

After a while an old hawker came up; he was travelling with wooden clocks from the Black Forest. He stopped and looked at her, and asked her what she ailed.

She knelt down at his feet in the dust.

"Oh, help me!" she cried to him. "Oh, pray, help me! I have walked all the way from Brussels -- that is my country -- and now they will not let me pass that house where the soldiers are. They say I have no papers. What papers should I have? I do not know. When one has done no harm, and does not owe a sou anywhere, and has walked all the way -- Is it money that they want? I have none; and they stole my silver clasps in Brussels; and if I do not get to Paris I must die -- die without seeing him again -- ever again, dear God!"

She dropped her head upon the dust and crouched and sobbed there, her courage broken by this new barrier that she had never dreamed would come between herself and Paris.

The old hawker looked at her thoughtfully. He had seen much of men and women, and knew truth from counterfeit, and he was moved by the child's agony.

He stooped and whispered in her ear, -- 

"Get up quick, and I will pass you. It is against the law, and I may go to prison for it. Never mind; one must risk something in this world, or else be a cur. My daughter has stayed behind in Marbais sweethearting; her name is on my passport, and her age and face will do for yours. Get up and follow me close, and I will get you through. Poor little soul! Whatever your woe is it is real enough, and you are such a young and pretty thing. Get up, the guards are in their house, they have not seen; follow me, and you must not speak a word; they must take you for a German, dumb as wood."

She got up and obeyed him, not comprehending, but only vaguely seeing that he was friendly to her, and would pass her over into France.

The old man made a little comedy at the barrier, and scolded her as though she were his daughter for losing her way as she came to meet him, and then crying like a baby.

The guards looked at her carelessly, joked the hawker on her pretty face, looked the papers over, and let her through, believing her the child of the clock-maker of the Hartz. Some lies are blessed as truth.

"I have done wrong in the law, but not before God, I think, little one," said the pedler. "Nay, do not thank me, or go on like that; we are in sight of the customs men still, and if they suspected, it would be the four walls of a cell only that you and I should see to-night. And now tell me your story, poor maiden: why are you on foot through a strange country?"

But Bébée would not tell him her story: she was confused and dazed still. She did not know rightly what had happened to her; but she could not talk of herself, nor of why she travelled thus to Paris.

The old hawker got cross at her silence, and called her an unthankful jade, and wished that he had left her to her fate, and parted company with her at two cross-roads, saying his path did not lie with hers; and then when he had done that, was sorry, and being a tenderhearted soul, hobbled back, and would fain press a five-franc piece on her; and Bébée, refusing it all the while, kissed his old brown hands and blessed him, and broke away from him, and so went on again solitary towards St. Quentin.

The country was very flat and poor, and yet the plains had a likeness in them to her own wide Brabant downs, where the tall green wheat was blowing and the barges dropping down the sluggish streams.

She was very footsore; very weary; very hungry so often; but she was in France -- in his country; and her spirit rose with the sense of that nearness to him.

After all, God was so good to her; there were fine bright days and nights; a few showers had fallen, but merely passing ones; the air was so cool and so balmy that it served her almost as food; and she seldom found people so unkind that they refused for her single little sou to give her a crust of bread and let her lie in an outhouse.

After all, God was very good; and by the sixteenth or seventeenth day she would be in the city of Paris.

She was a little light-headed at times from insufficient nourishment: especially after waking from strange dreams in unfamiliar places; sometimes the soil felt tremulous under her, and the sky spun round; but she struggled against the feeling, and kept a brave heart, and tried to be afraid of nothing.

Sometimes at night she thought she saw old Annémie. "But what if I do?" she said to herself; "Annémie never will hurt me."

And now, as she grew nearer her goal, her natural buoyancy of spirit returned as it had never done to her since the evening that he had kissed and left her. As her body grew lighter and more exhausted, her fancy grew keener and more dominant. All things of the earth and air spoke to her as she went along as they had used to do. All that she had learned from the books in the long cold months came to her clear and wonderful. She was not so very ignorant now -- ignorant, indeed, beside him -- but still knowing something that would make her able to read to him if he liked it, and to understand if he talked of grave things.

She had no fixed thought of what she would be to him when she reached him.

She fancied she would wait on him, and tend him, and make him well, and be caressed by him, and get all gracious pretty things of leaf and blossom about him, and kneel at his feet, and be quite happy if he only touched her now and then with his lips; -- her thoughts went no further than that; -- her love for him was of that intensity and absorption in which nothing But itself is remembered.

When a creature loves much, even when it is as little and as simple a soul as Bébée, the world and all its people and all its laws and ways are as naught. They cease to exist; they are as though they had never been.

Whoever recollects an outside world may play with passion, or may idle with sentiment, but does not love.

She did not hear what the villagers said to her. She did not see the streets of the towns as she passed them. She kept herself clean always, and broke fast now and then by sheer instinct of habit, nothing more. She had no perception what she did, except of walking -- walking -- walking always, and seeing the white road go by like pale ribbons unrolled.

She got a dreamy, intense, sleepless light in her blue eyes that frightened some of those she passed. They thought she had been fever-stricken, and was not in her senses.

So she went across the dreary lowlands, wearing out her little sabots, but not wearing out her patience and her courage.

She was very dusty and jaded. Her woollen skirt was stained with weather and torn with briers. But she had managed always to wash her cap white in brook water, and she had managed always to keep her pretty bright curls soft and silken -- for he had liked them so much, and he would soon draw them through his hand again. So she told herself a thousand times to give her strength when the mist would come over her sight, and the earth would seem to tremble as she went. On the fifteenth day from the night when she had left her hut by the swans' water, Bébée saw Paris.

Shining away in the sun; white and gold; among woods and gardens she saw Paris.

She was so tired -- oh, so tired -- but she could not rest now. There were bells ringing always in her ears, and a heavy pain always in her head. But what of that? -- she was so near to him.

"Are you ill, you little thing?" a woman asked her who was gathering early cherries in the outskirts of the great city.

Bébée looked at her and smiled: "I do not know -- I am happy."

And she went onward.

It was evening. The sun had set. She had not eaten for twenty-four hours. But she could not pause for anything now. She crossed the gleaming river, and she heard the cathedral chimes. Paris in all its glory was about her, but she took no more note of it than a pigeon that flies through it intent on reaching home.

No one looked at or stopped her; a little dusty peasant with a bundle on a stick over her shoulder.

The click-clack of her wooden shoes on the hot pavements made none look up; little rustics came up every day like this to make their fortunes in Paris. Some grew into golden painted silken flowers, the convolvuli of their brief summer days; and some drifted into the Seine water, rusted, wind-tossed, fallen leaves, that were wanted of no man. Anyhow it was so common to see them, pretty but homely things, with their noisy shoes and their little all in a bundle, that no one even looked once at Bébée.

She was not bewildered. As she had gone through her own city, only thinking of the roses in her basket and of old Annémie in her garret, so she went through Paris, only thinking of him for whose sake she had come thither.

Now that she was really in his home she was happy, -- happy though her head ached with that dull odd pain, and all the sunny glare went round and round like a great gilded humming-top, such as the babies clapped their hands at, at the Kermesse.

She was happy: she felt sure now that God would not let him die till she got to him. She was quite glad that he had left her all that long, terrible winter, for she had learned so much and was so much more fitted to be with him.

Weary as she was, and strange as the pain in her head made her feel, she was happy, very happy; a warm flush came on her little pale cheeks as she thought how soon he would kiss them, her whole body thrilled with the old sweet nameless joy that she had sickened for in vain so long.

Though she saw nothing else that was around her, she saw some little knots of moss-roses that a girl was selling on the quay, as she used to sell them in front of the Maison du Roi. She had only two sous left, but she stopped and bought two little rosebuds to take to him. He had used to care for them so much in the summer in Brabant.

The girl who sold them told her the way to the street he lived in; it was not very far of the quay. She seemed to float on air, to have wings like the swallows, to hear beautiful musk all around. She felt for her beads, and said aves of praise. God was so good.

It was quite night when she reached the street, and sought the number of his house. She spoke his name softly, and trembling very much with joy, not with any fear, but it seemed to her too sacred a thing ever to utter aloud.

An old man looked out of a den by the door, and told her to go straight up the stairs to the third floor, and then turn to the right. The old man chuckled as he glanced after her, and listened to the wooden shoes pattering wearily up the broad stone steps.

Bébée climbed them -- ten, twenty, thirty, forty. "He must be very poor!" she thought, "to live so high"; and yet the place was wide and handsome, and had a look of riches. Her heart beat so fast, she felt suffocated; her limbs shook, her eyes had a red blood-like mist floating before them; but she thanked God each step she climbed; a moment, and she would look upon the only face she loved.

"He will be glad; oh, I am sure he will be glad!" she said to herself, as a fear that had never before come near her touched her for a moment -- if he should not care?

But even then, what did it matter? Since he was ill she should be there to watch him night and day; and when he was well again, if he should wish her to go away -- one could always die.

"But he will be glad -- oh, I know he will be glad!" she said to the rosebuds that she carried to him. "And if God will only let me save his life, what else do I want more?"

His name was written on a door before her. The handle of a bell hung down; she pulled it timidly. The door unclosed; she saw no one, and went through. There were low lights burning. There were heavy scents that were strange to her. There was a fantastic gloom from old armor, and old weapons, and old pictures in the dull rich chambers. The sound of her wooden shoes was lost in the softness and thickness of the carpets.

It was not the home of a poor man. A great terror froze her heart, -- if she were not wanted here?

She went quickly through three rooms, seeing no one and at the end of the third there were folding doors.

"It is I -- Bébée." she said softly, as she pushed them gently apart; and she held out the two moss-rosebuds.

Then the words died on her lips, and a great horror froze her, still and silent, there.

She saw the dusky room as in a dream. She saw him stretched on the bed, leaning on his elbow, laughing, and playing cards upon the lace coverlet. She saw women with loose shining hair and bare limbs, and rubies and diamonds glimmering red and white. She saw men lying about upon the couch, throwing dice and drinking and laughing one with another.

Beyond all she saw against the pillows of his bed a beautiful brown wicked looking thing like some velvet snake, who leaned over him as he threw down the painted cards upon the lace, and who had cast about his throat her curved bare arm with the great coils of dead gold all a-glitter on it.

And above it all there were odors of wines and flowers, clouds of smoke, shouts of laughter, music of shrill gay voices.

She stood like a frozen creature and saw -- the rosebuds' in her hand. Then with a great piercing cry she let the little roses fall, and turned and fled. At the sound he looked up and saw her, and shook his beautiful brown harlot off him with an oath.

But Bébée flew down through the empty chambers and the long stairway as a hare flies from the hounds; her tired feet never paused, her aching limbs never slackened; she ran on, and on, and on, into the lighted streets, into the fresh night air; on, and on, and on, straight to the river.

From its brink some man's strength caught and held her. She struggled with it.

"Let me die! let me die!" she shrieked to him, and strained from him to get at the cool gray silent water that waited for her there.

Then she lost all consciousness, and saw the stars no more.

When she came back to any sense of life, the stars were shining still, and the face of Jeannot was bending over her, wet with tears.

He had followed her to Paris when they had missed her first, and had come straight by train to the city, making sure it was thither she had come, and there had sought her many days, watching for her by the house of Flamen.

She shuddered away from him as he held her, and looked at him with blank, tearless eyes.

"Do not touch me -- take me home."

That was all she ever said to him. She never asked him or told him anything. She never noticed that it was strange that he should have been here upon the river-bank. He let her be, and took her silently in the cool night back by the iron ways to Brabant.



Chapter XXVIII.


She sat quite still and upright in the wagon with the dark lands rushing by her. She never spoke at all. She had a look that frightened him upon her face. When he tried to touch her hand, she shivered away from him.

The charcoal-burner, hardy and strong among forest-reared men, cowered like a child in a corner, and covered his eyes and wept.

So the night wore away.

She had no perception of anything that happened to her until she was led through her own little garden in the early day, and her starling cried to her, "Bonjour, Bonjour!" Even then she only looked about her in a bewildered way, and never spoke.

Were the sixteen days a dream?

She did not know.

The women whom Jeannot summoned, his mother and sisters, and Mère Krebs, and one or two others, weeping for what had been the hardness of their hearts against her, undressed her, and laid her down on her little bed, and opened the shutters to the radiance of the sun.

She let them do as they liked, only she seemed neither to hear nor speak, and she never spoke.

All that Jeannot could tell was that he had found her in Paris, and had saved her from the river.

The women were sorrowful, and reproached themselves. Perhaps she had done wrong, but they had been harsh, and she was so young.

The two little sabots with the holes worn through the soles touched them; and they blamed themselves for having shut their hearts and their doors against her as they saw the fixed blue eyes, without any light in them, and the pretty mouth closed close against either sob or smile.

After all she was Bébée -- the little bright blithe thing that had danced with their children, and sung to their singing, and brought them always the first roses of the year. If she had been led astray, they should have been gentler with her.

So they told themselves and each other.

What had she seen in that terrible Paris to change her like this? -- they could not tell She never spoke.

The cock crowed gayly to the sun. The lamb bleated in the meadow. The bees boomed among the pear-tree blossoms. The gray lavender blew in the open house door. The green leaves threw shifting shadows on the floor.

All things were just the same as they had been the year before, when she had woke to the joy of being a girl of sixteen.

But Bébée now lay quite still and silent on her little bed; as quiet as the waxen Gesù that they laid in the manger at the Nativity.

"If she would only speak!" the women and the children wailed, weeping sorely.

But she never spoke; nor did she seem to know any one of them. Not even the starling as he flew on her pillow and called her.

"Give her rest," they all said; and one by one moved away, being poor folk and hard working, and unable to lose a whole day.

Mère Krebs stayed with her, and Jeannot sat in the porch where her little spinning-wheel stood, and rocked himself to and fro; in vain agony, powerless.

He had done all he could, and it was of no avail.

Then people who had loved her, hearing, came up the green lanes from the city -- the cobbler and the tinman, and the old woman who sold saints' pictures by the Broodhuis. The Varnhart children hung about the garden wicket, frightened and sobbing. Old Jehan beat his knees with his hands, and said only over and over again, "Another dead -- another dead! -- the red mill and I see them all dead!"

The long golden day drifted away, and the swans swayed to and fro, and the willows grew silver in the sunshine.

Bébée, only, lay quite still and never spoke. The starling sat above her head; his wings drooped, and he was silent too.

Towards sunset Bébée raised herself and called aloud: they ran to her.

"Get me a rosebud -- one with the moss round it," she said to them.

They went out into the garden, and brought her one wet with dew.

She kissed it, and laid it in one of her little wooden shoes that stood upon the bed.

"Send them to him," she said wearily; "tell him I walked all the way."

Then her head drooped; then momentary consciousness died out: the old dull lifeless look crept over her face again like the shadow of death.

The starling spread his broad black wings above her head. She lay quite still once more. The women left the rosebud in the wooden shoe, not knowing what she meant.

Night fell. Mère Krebs watched beside her. Jeannot went down to the old church to beseech heaven with all his simple, ignorant, tortured soul. The villagers hovered about, talking in low sad voices, and wondering, and dropping one by one into their homes. They were sorry, very sorry; but what could they do?

It was quite night. The lights were put out in the lane. Jeannot, with Father Francis, prayed before the shrine of the Seven Sorrows. Mère Krebs slumbered in her rush-bottomed chair; she was old and worked hard. The starling was awake.

Bébée rose in her bed, and looked around, as she had done when she had asked for the moss-rosebud.

A sense of unutterable universal pain ached over all her body.

She did not see her little home, its four white walls, its lattice shining in the moon, its wooden bowls and plates, its oaken shelf and presses, its plain familiar things that once had been so dear, -- she did not see them; she only saw the brown woman with her arm about his throat.

She sat up in her bed and slipped her feet on to the floor; the pretty little rosy feet that he had used to want to clothe in silken stockings.

Poor little feet! she felt a curious compassion for them; they had served her so well, and they were so tired.

She sat up a moment with that curious dull agony, aching everywhere in body and in brain. She kissed the rosebud once more and laid it gently down in the wooden shoe. She did not see anything that was around her. She felt a great dulness that closed in on her, a great weight that was like iron on her head.

She thought she was in the strange, noisy, cruel city, with' the river close to her, and all her dead dreams drifting down it like murdered children, whilst that woman kissed him.

She slipped her feet on to the floor, and rose and stood upright. There was a door open to the moonlight -- the door where she had sat spinning and singing in a thousand happy days; the lavender blew; the tall, unbudded green lilies swayed in the wind; she looked at them, and knew none of them.

The night air drifted through her linen dress, and played on her bare arms, and lifted the curls of her hair; the same air that had played with her so many times out of mind when she had been a little tottering thing that measured its height by the red rosebush. But it brought her no sense of where she was.

All she saw was the woman who kissed him.

There was the water beyond; the kindly calm water, all green with the moss and the nests of the ouzels and the boughs of the hazels and willows, where the swans were asleep in the reeds, and the broad lilies spread wide and cool.

But she did not see any memory in it. She thought it was the cruel gray river in the strange white city: and she cried to it; and went out into the old familiar ways, and knew none of them; and ran feebly yet fleetly through the bushes and flowers, looking up once at the stars with a helpless broken blind look, like a thing that is dying.

"He does not want me!" she said to them; "he does not want me! -- other women kiss him there!"

Then with a low fluttering sound like a bird's when its wings are shot, and yet it tries to rise, she hovered a moment over the water, and stretched her arms out to it.

"He does not want me!" she murmured; "he does not want me -- and I am so tired. Dear God!"

Then she crept down, as a weary child creeps to its mother, and threw herself forward, and let the green dark waters take her where they had found her amidst the lilies, a little laughing yearling thing.

There she soon lay, quite quiet, with her face turned to the stars, and the starling poised above to watch her as she slept.

She had been only Bébée: the ways of God and man had been too hard for her.

When the messengers of Flamen came that day, they took him back a dead moss-rose and a pair of little wooden shoes worn through with walking.

"One creature loved me once," he says to women who wonder why the wooden shoes are there.

<eob>

At The Back Of The North Wind

By

George Macdonald



Chapter I

Diamond Makes The Acquaintance Of North Wind


There was once a little boy named Diamond and he slept in a low room over a coach house. In fact, his room was just a loft where they kept hay and straw and oats for the horses. Little Diamond's father was a coachman and he had named his boy after a favorite horse.

Diamond's father had built him a bed in the loft with boards all around it, because there was so little room in their own end of the coach house. So when little Diamond lay there in bed, he could hear the horses under him munching away in the dark or moving sleepily in their dreams. His father put old Diamond, the horse after whom he was named, in the stall under the bed because he was quiet and did not go to sleep standing, but lay down like a reasonable creature.

Little Diamond sometimes woke in the middle of the night and felt his bed shaking in the blasts of the north wind. Then he could not help wondering if the wind should blow the house down and he should fall down into the manger, whether old Diamond might not eat him up before he knew him in his night gown. And though old Diamond was quiet all night long, yet when he woke up he got up like an earthquake. Then little Diamond knew what o'clock it was, or at least what was to be done next, which was -- to go to sleep again as fast as he could!

Often there was hay at little Diamond's feet as he lay in bed, and hay at his head, piled up in great heaps to the very roof. Sometimes there was none at all. That was when they had used it all and had not yet bought more. Soon they bought more, and then it was only through a little lane with two or three turnings in it that he could reach his bed at all.

Sometimes when his mother undressed him in her room and told him to trot away to bed by himself, he would creep into the heart of the hay first. There he would lie, thinking how cold it was outside in the wind and how warm it would be inside his bed; and how he would go to his bed when he pleased; only he wouldn't just yet; he would get a little colder first. As he grew colder lying in the hay, his bed seemed to him to grow warmer. Then at last, he would scramble out of the hay, shoot like an arrow into his bed, cover himself up, snuggle down, and think what a happy boy he was!

He had not the least idea that the wind got in at a chink in the wall and blew about him all night. But the back of his bed was of boards only an inch thick, and on the other side of them was the north wind. Now these boards were soft and crumbly, and it happened that a soft part in them had worn away.

One night after he lay down, little Diamond found that a knot had come out of one of them and the wind was blowing in upon him. He jumped out of bed again, got a little wisp of hay, twisted it up and folded it in the middle. In this way, he made it into a cork and stuck it into the knot-hole to keep the wind out. But the wind began to blow loudly and angrily. Just as Diamond was falling asleep, out blew his hay cork and hit him on the nose!

It was just hard enough to wake him up and let him hear the wind whistling through the hole. He searched about for his hay cork, found it, and stuck it in harder. He was just dropping off to sleep once more, when pop! with an angry whistle behind it, the cork struck him again, this time on the cheek. Up he rose once more, got some more hay to make a new cork, and stuck it into the hole as hard as ever he could. But he was scarcely laid down again, before pop! it came on his forehead. So he gave it up, drew the bed-clothes over his head, and was soon fast asleep.

Next day, little Diamond forgot all about the hole. But his mother found it when she was making up his bed and pasted a piece of thick brown paper over it. So when Diamond snuggled down into his bed that night, he did not think of it at all. But before he dropped asleep, he heard a queer sound and lifted his head to listen. Was somebody talking to him? The wind was rising again and beginning to blow and whistle. Was it the wind? He moved about to find out who or what it was, and at last, happened to put his hand upon the knot-hole with the paper pasted over it. Against this he laid his ear and then he heard the voice quite distinctly.

"What do you mean, little boy, by closing up my window?"

"What window?" asked Diamond.

"You stuffed hay into it three times last night! I had to blow it out again three times!"

"You can't mean this little hole? It isn't a window. It is a hole in my bed."

"I did not say a window. I said it was my window!"

"But it can't be a window!" said Diamond. "Windows are holes to see out of."

"Well, that is just what I made this window for."

"But you are outside," answered Diamond. "You can't want a window."

"You are quite mistaken. Windows are to see out of, you say. Well, I am in my house, and I want windows to see out of."

"But you have made a window into my bed."

"Well, your mother has three windows into my dancing hall, and you have three into my garret."

"Dear me!" said Diamond. "Still you can hardly expect me to keep a window in my bed for you. Now, can you?"

"Come!" said the voice. "You just open that window!"

"Well," said Diamond, "mother says I should be obliging. Still it is rather hard. You see, the north wind will blow right in my face if I do!"

"I am the North Wind!" said the voice.

"O-o-oh!" said Diamond. "Then will you promise not to blow in my face if I open your window?"

"I cannot promise that," said the North Wind.

"But you will give me the tooth-ache. Mother has it already."

"But what is to become of me without a window!" cried the voice.

"I am sure I don't know. All I say is that it will be worse for me than for you."

"No, it will not," replied the voice. "You shall not be the worse for it -- I promise you that. You will be much the better for it. Just believe what I say, and do as I tell you."

"Well, I can pull the clothes over my head," said Diamond. So he felt around with his little sharp nails, got hold of one edge of the paper and tore it off. In came a long whistling stream of cold that struck his little naked chest. He scrambled and tumbled in under the bed-clothes and covered himself up. There was no paper between him and the voice now, and he felt -- not frightened exactly -- but a little queer.

"What a strange person this North Wind must be," thought Diamond, "to live in what they call 'Out-of-Doors,' I suppose, and make windows into people's beds."

Now the voice began again. He could hear it quite plainly, even with his head under the bed-clothes. It was still more gentle now, though it was six times as large and loud as before. And he thought it sounded a little like his mother's.

"What is your name, little boy?" it asked.

"Diamond," answered Diamond under the bed-clothes.

"What a funny name!"

"It is a very nice name," replied the boy.

"I am not so sure of that," said the voice.

"Well, I am!" returned Diamond. "I think it is a very pretty name."

"Diamond is a useless thing, rather," said the voice.

"That is not true. Diamond is very useful -- and as big as two -- and so quiet all night! But doesn't he make a jolly row in the morning, getting up on his four great legs! It is like thunder!"

"You do not seem to know what a diamond is!" cried the voice.

"Oh, don't I, just! Diamond is a great and good horse, and he sleeps right under me. He is old Diamond and I am young Diamond. Or, if you like it better, Mr. North Wind, if you are so particular, he is big Diamond and I am little Diamond. And I do not know which of us my father likes best!"

A beautiful laugh, soft and musical, sounded somewhere near him. But the boy kept his head under the clothes.

"I am not Mr. North Wind," said the voice.

"You told me you were the North Wind," cried Diamond.

"I did not say Mr. North Wind," said the voice.

"Well, I do say Mr. for my mother tells me always to be polite."

"Then let me tell you that I do not think it at all polite for you to say Mr. to me," answered the voice.

"Isn't it? Well, I am sorry then."

"But you ought to know better," said the voice. "You can't think it is polite to lie there with your head under the bed-clothes and never look to see what kind of a person you are talking to! I want you to come out with me."

"I want to go to sleep!" said Diamond.

"Will you take your head out of the bed-clothes?" said the voice a little angrily.

"No!" said Diamond crossly.

The moment he said the word a fierce blast of wind crashed in the wall and swept the clothes off him. He started up in a fright. Leaning over him was the large, beautiful, pale face of a woman. Her dark eyes had begun to flash a little but the rest of her face was very sweet and beautiful. What was very strange, though, was that away from her head streamed out her black hair in every direction like dark clouds. Soon it fell down about her again and then her face came out of it like the moon out of the clouds.

"Will you go with me now, little Diamond?" asked the North Wind bending over him and speaking very gently.

"Yes, yes!" cried Diamond, stretching out his arms toward her. "Yes, I will go with you, dear North Wind. I am not a bit afraid. I will go! But," he added, "how shall I get my clothes? They are in mother's room and the door is locked."

"Oh never mind your clothes. You will not be cold. Nobody is cold with the North Wind."

"I thought everybody was," said Diamond.

"That is a great mistake. People are not cold when they are with the North Wind -- only when they are against it. Now will you come?"

"Yes, dear North Wind. You are so beautiful I am quite ready to go with you."

"Ah, but I may not always look beautiful. If you see me with my face all black, don't be frightened. If you see me flapping wings like bat's wings, as big as the whole sky, don't be afraid. If you hear me raging, you must believe that I am just doing my work. Nay, Diamond, if I change into a serpent or a tiger, you must not let go your hold of me, for it will be I just the same. And now, come!"

She turned away and went so swiftly that she was gone before Diamond was more than started. When he finally got down the stairs and out into the yard, no one did he see. And there he stood with his bare feet on the hard stones of the paved yard.

"I dare say she is hiding somewhere to see what I will do," said Diamond. So around the end of the stable he went to see if he could find her. But at once, sharp as a knife, the wind came against his little chest and bare legs. And stronger and stronger the wind seemed to blow. It was so cold! All at once, he remembered that she had said that people were not cold if they went with the North Wind. So he turned his back and trotted again toward the yard and sure enough, he began to feel almost warm once more!

On and on, North Wind blew him and, presently, she seemed to shove him right against a small door in a wall. It opened and she blew him through it and out into the very middle of the lawn of the house next door. It was here that Mr. Coleman lived who was his father's master and who owned big Diamond. So little Diamond did not feel entirely strange, and then, too, there was a light in one window that looked friendly. As long as he could see that, Diamond could not feel quite alone or lonely. But all at once, the light went almost out. Then indeed, he felt that it was dreadful to be out in the night alone, when every body else was gone to bed! That was more than he could bear and it was not strange that he burst out crying.

Some one in the house heard the sound of his sobbing and came out and found him there. He was taken into the house and into a room which had a bright light and a warm fire in it. Beside this, he found Miss Coleman, the young lady daughter of the house, who was having her long dark hair brushed out before going to bed. Somehow in that state, she looked just like the beautiful North Wind that he had been searching for. Without stopping to think, he ran right into her arms for comfort.

After he was warmed and comforted, they took him back home and knocked on the door to arouse his mother, to come and get him. She was much surprised to see him, you may be sure. She carried him up to his bed again and tucked him snugly in. And there he fell fast asleep.



Chapter II

Diamond's First Trip With The North Wind


Diamond awoke very early the next morning and thought what a curious dream he had had. But the memory of it grew brighter and brighter until it did not look altogether like a dream. In fact he began to doubt whether he had not really been abroad in the wind at night.

All that week it was hard weather. The grass showed white in the morning with the hoar frost which clung to every blade. As Diamond's shoes were not good and his mother had not saved up quite enough money to get him the new pair she so much wanted for him, she would not let him run out. But at length, she brought home his new shoes. No sooner did she find that they fitted him, than she told him he might run out into the yard and amuse himself.

The sun was going down when he flew from the door like a bird from its cage. A great fire of sunset burned over the top of the gate that led to the stables. Above the fire in the sky, lay a large lake of green light, above that a golden cloud, and over that the blue of the wintry heavens. Diamond thought that next to his own home, he had never seen any place he would like so much to live in as that sky.

As he wandered about, he came to stand by the little door which opened upon the lawn of the house next door. That made him remember how the wind had driven him to this same spot on the night of his dream. So he thought he would just go in and see if things looked at all as they did then. But not a flower was to be seen in the beds on the lawn! Even the brave old chrysanthemums and Christmas roses had passed away before the frost. What? Yes! There was one. He ran and knelt down to look at it.

It was a primrose -- a tiny, tiny thing, but perfect in shape -- a baby wonder. As he stooped his face to see it close, a little wind began to blow. Two or three long leaves that stood up behind the flower shook and wavered and quivered. But the primrose lay still in the green hollow, looking up at the sky and not seeming to know at all that the wind was blowing. It looked like a golden eye that the black wintry earth had opened to look at the sky with.

That very same night, after Diamond had been asleep for a little, he awoke all at once in the dark.

"Open the window, Diamond," said a voice.

Now Diamond's mother had once more pasted up North Wind's window.

"Are you North Wind?" said Diamond. "I do not hear you blowing."

"No, but you hear me talking. Open the window for I haven't over much time."

"Yes," said Diamond. "But please, North Wind, where's the use? You left me all alone last time."

"That was your fault," returned North Wind. "I had work to do and you kept me waiting."

Diamond was already scratching at the paper like ten mice and, getting hold of the edge of it, tore it off. The next instant a young girl glided across the bed and stood on the floor.

"Oh, dear!" said Diamond quite dismayed. "I didn't know -- who are you, please?"

"I am North Wind."

"But you are no bigger than I am!"

"Do you think I care how big or how little I am? And of course, I am little this evening! Didn't you see me behind the leaves of the primrose? Didn't you see them blowing? Make haste, now, if you want to go with me! Dress as fast as you can and I will go and shake the leaves of the primrose till you come!"

"Don't hurt it!" said Diamond.

North Wind broke out into a little laugh like the breaking of silver bubbles and was gone in a moment. Diamond saw the gleam of something vanishing down the stair. He dressed himself as fast as ever he could and crept out into the yard, through the door in the wall, and away to the primrose. Behind it stood North Wind leaning over it.

"Come along!" she said jumping up and holding out her hand. She led him across the garden and with one bound was on top of the wall. Then she reached down her hand to Diamond. He gave a great spring and stood beside her.

Another bound, and they stood in the road by the river. It was full tide and the stars were shining clear in its depths. But they had not walked beside it far before its surface was covered with ripples and the stars had vanished. North Wind was now as tall as a full-grown girl. Her hair was flying about her head and the wind was blowing a breeze down the river. But she turned aside and went up a narrow lane.

"I have some rather disagreeable work to do to-night," she said. "And disagreeable work must be looked after first."

So saying, she laid hold of Diamond and began to run, gliding along faster and faster. She made many turnings and windings. Once they ran through a hall where they found both the front and back doors open. At the foot of the stair, North Wind stood still and Diamond, hearing a great growl, started in terror. There, instead of North Wind, was a huge wolf by his side! He let go his hold and the wolf bounded up the stair. The windows of the house rattled and shook and there came the sound of a fall.

"Surely," thought Diamond, "North Wind can't be eating one of the children!"

He started to rush up after her, but she met him on the stair, took him by the hand and hurried him out of the house.

"I hope you haven't eaten a baby, North Wind!" he said very solemnly.

North Wind laughed merrily and went tripping on faster. Her grassy robe swept and swirled about her steps. Wherever it passed over withered leaves, they went fleeing and whirling away and running on their edges all about her feet. "No, I did not eat a baby," she said, "as you would know if you had not let go of me. I merely scared an ugly nurse who was calling a child bad names. I flew at her throat and she tumbled over with a crash. I had to put on a bad shape before she could see me. I put on a wolf's shape for that is what she is growing to be inside."

They were now climbing the slope of a grassy ascent. At the top, North Wind stood and turned her face toward London. The stars were still shining clear and cold overhead. There was not a cloud to be seen.

"Now," said North Wind, "do not let go of me again. I might have lost you the last time, only I was not in a hurry then. Now I am in a hurry."

As she spoke, she was growing larger and larger. Her head went up and up toward the stars. As she grew, her hair, longer and longer, lifted itself from her head and went out in black waves. She put her hands behind her head and began weaving and knotting her hair together. Then she took up Diamond in her hands and threw him over her shoulder saying, "I have made a place for you in my hair. Get in, Diamond."

Diamond soon found the woven nest and crept into it. The next moment he was rising in the air. North Wind grew towering up to the place of the clouds. Her hair went streaming out from her till it spread like a mist over the stars. She flung herself abroad in space. Diamond made a little place through the woven meshes of her hair and peeped through that, for he did not dare look over the top of his nest.

The earth was rushing past like a river or a sea below him. Trees and water and green grass hurried away beneath. Now there was nothing but the roofs of houses sweeping along like a great torrent of stones and rocks. Chimneys fell and tiles flew from the roofs. There was a great roaring for the wind was dashing against London like a stormy sea. Diamond, of course, at the back of North Wind, was in a calm but he could hear it. Around and around and around, swept North Wind, her dark hair rolling and flowing, sweeping the people all into their homes and the bad smells out of the streets.

Suddenly, Diamond saw a little girl coming along a street. She was dreadfully blown by the wind, and a broom she was trailing behind her was very troublesome. It seemed as if the wind had a spite at her! It kept worrying her and tearing at her rags. She was so lonely there!

"Oh, please, North Wind," cried Diamond, "won't you help that little girl?"

"I cannot leave my work, Diamond. But you can help her if you like. Only, I can't wait for you. And mind, the wind will get hold of you too!"

"But how shall I get home again," cried Diamond, "if you don't wait for me?"

"Well, you must think of that!" said North Wind.

"Oh," cried Diamond. "I am sure the wind will blow her over! I must help her anyway! Let me go!"

Without a word, North Wind dropped into the street and set him down. The same moment, he was caught in the coils of the blast and all but swept away. North Wind vanished. The wind was roaring along the street. The little girl was scudding before it, her hair flying, while behind her she dragged her broom with which she swept her crossing. Her little legs were going as fast as they could, to keep her from falling.

"Stop! stop! little girl!" shouted Diamond, starting in pursuit.

"I can't!" wailed the girl. "The wind won't let me!"

Diamond ran after her and caught hold of her frock but it tore in his hand. Then he ran fast enough to get in front of her and turning around, caught her in his arms. Just then, he thought he got a glimpse of North Wind turning the corner in front of them. They must go with her of course, and sure enough, when they turned the corner after her, they found it quite quiet there.

"Now, you must lead me," said Diamond. "You show me the way you must go to get home and I will take care of you."

So the little girl put her free hand in his and began to lead him. They went around turning after turning, till they stopped at a cellar-door in a very dirty lane. There the little girl knocked.

"What an awful place!" said Diamond. "I should not like to live here."

"Oh yes, you would, if you had no where else to go!" answered the girl. "I only hope they'll let me in."

"Don't they always let you in?" said Diamond.

"No, they don't. And then I have to stay in the street all night and scud back to my crossing the first thing in the morning. You see they don't answer, now!"

"Well," said Diamond, "I don't want to get in. I want to go back to my mother. Come with me and I will take you to my own home."

The little girl thought this would be much better than sitting in the streets all night. So they started off. The trouble was that Diamond was not at all sure that he could find the way without North Wind. But the only thing to do was to try. So they wandered on and on, turning in this direction and that, without any reason for one way more than another. At last, they got out of the thick of the houses into a kind of waste place. By this time, they were both very tired, and Diamond was inclined to cry. For he said to himself that he had not done the little girl any good and he had lost his own way home. But in this, he was wrong for she was far happier in having him with her, and making people happier is one of the best ways of doing them good.

They sat down and rested themselves a little and then went on. After a time, they found themselves on a rising ground that sloped rather steeply on the other side. The moment they reached the top, a gust of wind seized them and blew them down hill as fast as they could run. Nor could Diamond stop before he went bang! against one of the doors in a wall. To his dismay, it burst open. When they came to themselves, they peeped in. It was the back door of a garden.

"Oh! oh!" cried Diamond after staring for a few moments. "I know this place -- know it well! It is Mr. Coleman's garden and here I am at home again. Oh, I am so glad! Come in, little girl! Come in with me and my mother will give you some breakfast."

"No, no! I can't!" said the little girl. "We have been so long coming. Look up! Don't you see that it is morning now? I must hurry back to my crossing and sweep it and get money to take home or they will beat me! I cannot stay. Good-bye, little boy, good-bye!"

She started back at once, ran up the hill and disappeared behind it. Diamond called after her and called, but she did not even turn round. He was sorry to see her go but there was no help for it. So when she was gone quite out of sight, he shut the door of the garden as best he could, and ran through the kitchen garden to the stables. And wasn't he glad to get into his own blessed bed again!



Chapter III

North Wind Sinks A Ship


It was some time before he saw North Wind again. He saw the little girl before that but it was only for a moment. It happened in this way. His father was taking the horse, Diamond, to have new shoes put on him, and knowing that little Diamond, like all small boys, liked a ride, he set him on the horse and taking the bridle led the two Diamonds away.

The blacksmith's shop was some distance away, deeper in London. As they crossed the angle of a square, Diamond, who was looking about to see if any one noticed him riding upon the big horse like a man, saw a little girl sweeping a crossing before a lady and holding out her hand for a penny. The lady had no penny and the little girl was disappointed.

Diamond could not stand that. He knew the little girl and he knew that he had a penny in his pocket. He slid off the horse in a sort of tumble and ran to her, holding out the penny. She did not know him at first, but when he smiled at her, she did. He stuffed the penny into her hand and ran back, for he knew his father would not care to wait. After that, he did not see little Nanny for a long time.

He played often now on the lawn of the house next door -- Mr. Coleman's lawn -- as the summer drew near, warm and splendid. One evening, he was sitting in a little summer-house at the foot of the lawn, before which was a bed of tulips. They were closed for the night but the wind was waving them slightly. All at once, out of one of them, there flew a big buzzing bumblebee.

"There! That's something done!" said a voice -- a gentle, merry, childish voice but so tiny! "I was afraid he would have to stay there all night."

Diamond looked all about and then he saw the tiniest creature, sliding down the stem of the tulip.

"Are you the fairy that herds the bees?" he asked kneeling down beside the tulip bed.

"I am not a fairy," answered the little creature. "You stupid Diamond, have you never seen me before?"

As she spoke, a moan of wind bent the tulips almost to the ground and then he recognized North Wind.

"But there!" added the little creature, "I must not stay to chatter. I have to go and sink a ship to-night."

"Sink a ship!" cried Diamond. "And drown the men and women in it? How dreadful! Still I cannot believe you are cruel, North Wind!"

"No, I could not be cruel, and yet I must often do what looks cruel to those who do not know. But the people they say I drown, I only carry away to the back of the north wind -- only I never saw the place."

"But how can you carry them there if you never saw the place? And how is it that you never saw it?"

"Because it is behind me. You cannot see your own back, you know. But run along now if you want to go with me to-night. I cannot take you till you have been to bed and gone to sleep. I'll look about and do something till you are ready. Do you see that man over there on the river in the boat who is just floating about? Now watch!"

She flashed like a dragon-fly across the water whose surface rippled and puckered as she passed. The next moment, the man in the boat glanced about him and bent to his oars. The boat flew over the rippling water. The same instant almost, North Wind perched again upon the river wall.

"How did you do that?" asked Diamond.

"I just blew in his face and blew the mist out of him."

"But what for? I don't understand!" said Diamond. Hearing no answer, he looked down at the wall. North Wind was gone. Away across the river went a long ripple -- what sailors call a cat's paw. The man in the boat at once put up his sail. The moon was coming to herself on the edge of a great cloud and the sail began to shine white. Diamond rubbed his eyes and wondered what it was all about. But he felt that he could not know more till he had gone to bed, so he turned away and started for home. He stopped to look out of a window before going to bed. Above the moon, the clouds were streaming different ways, and the wind was rising as he fell asleep.

He woke in the middle of the night and the darkness. A terrible noise was rumbling overhead like the rolling beat of great drums. For a while, he could not come quite awake. But a second peal of thunder broke over his head and a great blast of wind followed which tore some tiles off the roof and, through the hole this made, sent a spout of wind down into his face. At the same moment, he heard a mighty, yet musical voice say, "Come up, Diamond! It's all ready. I am waiting for you." Then a gigantic arm was reached down which drew him up and clasped him against North Wind's breast.

"Oh, North Wind!" he murmured. But the words vanished from his lips as he had seen the soap bubbles, that burst too soon, vanish from the mouth of his pipe. The wind caught them and they were no-where.

At the same moment, a peal of thunder which shook Diamond's heart against his side boomed out of the heavens; I cannot say, out of the sky, for there was no sky. Diamond had not seen the lightning for he had been busy trying to find the face of North Wind. Every moment, the folds of her garment would sweep across his eyes and blind him. But between them, he could just catch glimpses of the great glories of her eyes looking down at him through the rifts of the huge clouds over his head.

"Oh dear North Wind!" cried the boy. "Why do you do like this? Must you go and sink the ship? It is not like you! Here you are, taking care of a poor little boy like me, with one arm, and there you are, sinking the ship with the other! No, no! It can't be like you!"

"Then you must believe that I am cruel," answered the strong voice of North Wind, sounding about him out of the clouds.

"No, dear North Wind, I can't believe that. I don't believe it. I will not believe it. How could you know how to put on such a beautiful face if you did not love me and love all the rest too? No! You may sink as many ships as you like -- though I shall not like to see it!"

"That is quite another thing!" said North Wind.

As she spoke, she gave one spring from the roof and rushed up into the clouds. As if the clouds knew she had come, they burst into fresh thunderous light. Diamond seemed to be borne through an ocean of dazzling flame. The winds were writhing around him like a storm of serpents. For they were in the midst of the clouds and mists which of course took the shapes of the wind, eddying, and wreathing, and whirling, and shooting, and dashing about like gray and black water.

Now it blinded him by smiting him upon the eyes. Now it deafened him by bellowing in his ears. But he did not mind it. He only gasped at first, and then laughed, for the arm of North Wind was about him and he felt quite safe, though he knew that they were sweeping with the speed of the wind itself toward the sea! But before they reached it, Diamond felt North Wind's hair beginning to fall down about him.

"Is the storm over, North Wind?" he called out.

"No, Diamond. I am only waiting for a moment to set you down. You will not like to see the ship sunk and I am going to give you a place to stop in till I come back. Look!"

With one sweep of her great white arm, she flung yards deep of darkness, like a great curtain, from before the face of the boy. And lo! it was a blue night lit up with stars. Where it did not shine with stars, it shimmered with a milky whiteness of stars except where, just before them, the gray towers of a cathedral blotted out the sky.

"A good place for you to wait in," said North Wind and swept down upon the cathedral roof. They went in through an open door in one of the towers. Diamond found himself at the top of a stone stair which went twisting away down into the darkness. North Wind held his hand, and after a little, led him out upon a narrow gallery which ran all around the central part of the church. Below him, lay the inside of the church like a great silent gulf hollowed in stone. On and on, they walked along this narrow gallery till at last they reached a much broader stairway leading on down and down until at length, it led them down into the church itself.

There he felt himself clasped in the arms of North Wind who held him close and kissed him on the forehead. The next moment, she was gone, and Diamond heard a moaning about the church which grew and grew to a roaring. The storm was up again and he knew that North Wind's hair was flying.

The church was dark. Only a little light came through the windows which were almost all of that precious old stained glass so much lovelier than the new. There was not enough light in the stars to show the colors in them. Diamond began to feel his way about the place, and for a little while went wandering up and down. His pattering foot-steps waked soft answering echoes in the stone house. It was as if the great cathedral somehow knew that his little self was there and went on giving back an answer to every step he took.

At last, he gave a great sigh and said, "I am so tired!" He did not hear the gentle echo which answered from far away over his head. For at that moment, he came against the lowest of a few steps that stretched across the church, and fell down and hurt his arm. He cried a little at first, and then crawled up the steps on his hands and knees. At the top, he came to a little bit of carpet on which he lay down. And there he lay staring at the dull windows that rose nearly a hundred feet above his head.

The moon was at that moment just on the edge of the horizon. And lo! with the moon, lovely figures began to dawn in the windows. He lay and looked at them backward over his head, wondering if they would come down. He heard a low, soft murmuring as if they were talking to themselves about him. But his eyes grew tired, and more and more tired. His eyelids grew so heavy that they would keep tumbling down over his eyes. He kept lifting them and lifting them. But every time, they were heavier than the last. It was no use! They were too much for him. Sometimes before he got them half way up, down they went again. At length, he gave it up quite, and the moment he gave it up, he was fast asleep!

When his eyes came wide open again, there were no lovely figures -- or even windows -- but a dark heap of hay all about him. The small panes in the roof of his loft were glimmering blue in the light of the morning. Old Diamond was coming awake down below in the stable. In a moment more he was on his feet and shaking himself so that young Diamond's bed trembled under him.

"He is grand at shaking himself!" said Diamond. "I wish I could shake myself like that. But then I can wash myself and he can't. What fun it would be to see old Diamond washing his face with his hoofs and iron shoes! Wouldn't it be a picture!"

He dressed himself quickly and ran out. Down the stairs he went and through the little door out upon the lawn of Mr. Coleman's house next door. He wanted to see how things looked since last night. There was the little summer-house with the tulip bed before it where he had been sitting the evening before, crushed to the ground! Over it lay the great elm tree which the wind had broken across! As he stood looking at it, a gentleman who was staying at the Coleman house came out upon the lawn.

"Dear me!" said the gentleman. "There has been terrible work here! This is the North Wind's doing! What a pity! I wish we lived at the back of it, I am sure!"

"Where is that, sir?" asked Diamond.

"Away in the Hyperborean regions," answered the gentleman. He smiled for he knew well enough that Diamond would not understand that big word which means the country away in the far, far north.

"I never heard of that place," returned Diamond.

"No," said the gentleman. "I suppose not. But if this tree had been there, it would not have been blown down. There is no wind in that country."

"That must be the place," said Diamond to himself, "where North Wind said she would take the people whom she sunk with the ship. Next time I see her, I am going to ask her to take me to see that land, too."



Chapter IV

The Land At The Back Of The North Wind


One morning, Diamond's mother did not think he was feeling very well and when he told her that he had a little headache, she was sure of it. Now there was an aunt of his living at Sandwich and his mother decided to send him there for a change. So giving him two pence for spending money, she packed him off to Sandwich for a visit.

He soon made great friends with an old woman who kept a toy-shop there, where he spent his two pence. One hot day when he had been walking about more than he ought and was tired, he went into the toy-shop to rest. The old woman had gone out but he thought it would be all right for him to sit down on a box and rest.

All at once, he heard a gentle whirring somewhere amongst the toys. Among them was a whistle that had a wind-mill at the end which turned when you blew the whistle. No one was blowing the whistle now and yet the wind-mill was turning and turning and turning.

"What can it mean?" said Diamond out loud after watching for a few moments.

"It means me," answered the tiniest voice he had ever heard.

"Who are you, please?" asked Diamond.

"Well, really, I begin to be ashamed of you!" cried the voice. "You are as bad as a baby that doesn't know its mother in a new bonnet!"

"Not quite so bad as that, dear North Wind," said Diamond. "And I am so glad to see you. Did you sink the ship?"

"Yes."

"And drown everybody?"

"Not quite. One boat got away with six or seven men in it."

"And you took the others to that queer place the gentleman spoke of," said Diamond to himself. Aloud he said, "Please, North Wind, I want you to take me to the country at the back of the north wind."

"That is not so easy," said North Wind and was silent so long that he thought she must have gone away. But presently she spoke again.

"It is not so easy," she said thoughtfully. "But we shall see. We shall see. You must go home, now, my dear, for you do not seem very well."

So Diamond went home. That afternoon, his head began to ache very much and he had to go to bed. In the middle of the night, his aunt came in to feel his forehead and to give him a drink of lemonade. Then he went off to sleep, but was awake again soon, for a burst of wind blew open his lattice window. The same moment, he found himself in a cloud of North Wind's hair, with her beautiful face, set in it like a moon, bending over him.

"Quick! Diamond!" she said. "I have found such a chance!"

"But I am not well," said Diamond.

"I know. But you will be better for it."

"Very well," said Diamond; and getting out of bed, he jumped into North Wind's arms. Sure enough, the moment he felt her arms fold about him, he began to feel better. It was a moonless night and very dark, with glimpses of stars when the clouds parted.

"We shall soon get to where the waves are dashing about," said North Wind. And soon, Diamond looking down saw the white glimmer of breaking water far below him.

"You see, Diamond," said North Wind, "it is very difficult to get you to the back of the north wind for that country lies in the very north itself. Now, of course, I cannot blow northwards, for then I should have to be South Wind. The north is where I come from -- it is my home though I never get nearer to it than the outer door. I can only sit on the door-step and hear the voices in there, behind me. Since I cannot blow in that direction to get there, I have just to draw into myself and grow weaker and fainter as I go. That makes it hard for me to carry anything -- even you -- with me when I go that way. So I must get some help. Let me get rid of a few of these clouds. There! What do you see now?"

"A boat," said Diamond.

"A ship," said North Wind, "whose captain I know well. I have often helped him to sail his eighty miles a day northward."

"He must have tacked often to do that," said Diamond who had been watching the ships at Sandwich.

"Yes, that gave him a share in the business. It is not good at all -- mind that, Diamond -- to do everything for those you love and not give them a share in the doing. It is not being really kind to them. If South Wind had blown that ship straight north, the captain would just have smoked his pipe all day and got stupider and stupider. But now I am going to put you aboard his ship. Do you see that round thing on the deck like the top of a drum? Below that is where they keep their spare sails. I am going to blow it off and drop you through upon the sails. You will find it nice and warm and dry. Just coil yourself up there and go to sleep."

A moment more, and he felt himself tumbled in on the heap of sails. Hour after hour, he lay comfortably there. He could hear the straining of the masts, the creaking of the boom, and the singing of the ropes with the roaring of the wind; also the surge of the waves past the ship's sides and the thud with which every now and then one would strike her.

All at once arose a terrible uproar. The cover was blown off again, a fierce wind rushed in, snatched him up and bore him aloft into the clouds. Down below, he saw the little vessel, he had been in, tossing on the waves like a sea-bird with folded wing. Near it was a bigger ship which was on its way to the north pole.

"That big ship will give us a lift now," said North Wind. Swooping down she tucked him snugly in amongst some flags. And now on and on, they sped toward the north. How long it was, Diamond did not know, but one night she whispered in his ear, "Come up on deck, Diamond."

Everything looked very strange. Here and there on all sides, were huge masses of floating ice looking like cathedrals and castles and crags, and beyond them a blue sea. Some of the icebergs were drifting northward, one passing very near the ship. North Wind seized Diamond and with a single bound, lighted on it. The same instant, South Wind began to blow and North Wind hurried Diamond down the north side of the berg and into a cave. There she sat down as if weary on a ledge of ice.

Diamond was enraptured with the color of the air in the cave, a deep, dazzling, lovely blue that was always in motion, boiling and sparkling. But when he looked at North Wind he was frightened.

He saw that her form and face were growing, not small, but transparent like something dissolving away. He could see the side of the blue cave through her very heart. She melted slowly away till all that was left was a pale face with two great lucid eyes in it.

"She is dying away!" he said. "Of course, as we go northward, she is dying away more and more."

After a little, he went out and sat on the edge of his floating island and looked down into the green ocean. When he got tired of that, he went back into the blue cave. He felt as if in a dream. He was not hungry, but he sucked little bits of the berg at times.

At length, far off on the horizon, there rose into the sky a shining peak, and his berg floated right toward it. Other peaks came into view as he went on, and at last his berg floated up to a projecting rock. Diamond stepped ashore and a little way before him saw a lofty ridge of ice with a gap in it like the opening of a valley. As he got nearer, he saw it was not a gap but the form of a woman, her hands in her lap and her hair hanging to the ground.

"It is North Wind on her door-step!" said Diamond joyfully and hurried on.

She sat motionless with drooping head and did not move nor speak. He was sure it was North Wind but he thought she must be dead at last. Her face was white as the snow, her eyes blue as the ice cave, and she had on a greenish robe like the color in the hollows of a glacier.

He walked toward her instantly and put out his hand to lay it on her. There was nothing there but intense cold. All grew white about him. He groped on further. The white thickened about him and he felt himself stumbling and falling. But as he fell, he rolled over the threshold. It was thus that Diamond got to the back of the north wind.

And what did he find? There was no North Wind in sight nor snow nor ice. It was a country where even the ground smelled sweetly, though Diamond thought the odour must come out of the flowers. A gentle air breathed in his face but he was not quite sure he did not miss the wind. A river as clear as crystal ran not only through the grass but over it too. It murmured a low, sweet song as it ran. There was no sun nor moon but a pure cloudless light always, and the blue arch of the sky seemed like a harp playing the soft airs of Heaven. There were many people there and all the people seemed happy and yet as if they were going to be happier some day.

Nothing ever went wrong at the back of the north wind and the only thing one ever missed was some one he loved who had not yet got there. But if one at the back of the north wind wanted to know how things were going with any one he loved, he had only to go to a certain tree, and climb up and sit down in the branches.

One day, when Diamond was sitting in this tree, he began to long very much to get home again. And no wonder! For he saw his mother crying. Now if you wished anything at the back of the north wind, you could follow your wish if you could find the way. So Diamond knew that he must now find North Wind. He could not go home without her and therefore he must find her. He went all about searching and searching. One day as he was looking and looking, he thought he caught a glimpse of the ice ridge and the misty form of North Wind seated as he had left her. He ran as hard as he could. Yes, he was sure it was she. He pushed on through the whiteness, which began to thicken around him. It was harder and harder to go but he struggled on and at last reached her and sank wearily down at her knees. At that same moment, the country at her back vanished from Diamond's view.

North Wind was as still as Diamond had left her. But as he touched her, her face began to change like that of one waking from sleep. He clambered up upon her breast. She gave a great sigh, slowly lifted her arms, and slowly folded them about him, until she clasped him close.

"Have you been sitting here ever since I went through you, dear North Wind? It has been like a hundred years!" said Diamond.

"It has been just seven days," said North Wind smiling. "Come now, we will go."

The next moment, Diamond sat alone on the rock. North Wind had vanished. But something like a cockchafer flew past his face. Around and around him in circles it went.

"Come along, Diamond," it said in his ear. "It is time we were setting out for Sandwich."

It seemed to drop to the ground but when he looked Diamond could see nothing but a little spider with long legs which made its way over the ice toward the south. It grew and grew till Diamond discovered that it was not a spider but a weasel. Away glided the weasel and away went Diamond after it. The weasel grew and grew and grew till he saw it was not a weasel but a cat. Away went the cat and away went Diamond after it. When he came up with it, it was not a cat but a leopard. The leopard grew to a jaguar and the jaguar to a Bengal tiger.

Of none of them was Diamond afraid for he had been at North Wind's back and he could be afraid of her no longer whatever she did or grew to be. The tiger flew over the snow in a straight line for the south, growing less and less to Diamond's eyes till it was only a black speck upon the whiteness. Then it vanished altogether.

And now Diamond felt that he would rather not run any further and that the ice had got very rough. Besides he was near the precipices that bounded the sea. So he slowed up his pace to a walk and said to himself, "North Wind will come back for me, I know. She is just teasing me a little. Then, too, she must get started some way to grow bigger and bigger all the time!"

"Here I am, dear boy," said North Wind's voice behind him.

Diamond turned and saw her as he liked best to see her, standing beside him a tall, beautiful woman.

"Where is the tiger?" he said. "But of course, you were the tiger. It puzzles me a little. I saw it such a long way off before me, and there you are behind me. It is odd, you know."

"None of these things is odder to me than to see you eat bread and butter," said North Wind.

"I should just like to see a slice of bread and butter!" cried Diamond. "I am afraid to say how long it is since I had anything to eat!"

"You shall have some soon. I am glad to find you want some!"

She swept him up in her arms and bounded into the air. Her tresses began to lift and rise and spread and stream and flow and flutter. And North Wind and Diamond went flying southward. The sea slid away from under them like a great web of shot silk, blue shot with gray, and green shot with purple. The stars appeared to sail away past them, like golden boats on a blue sea turned upside down. Diamond himself went fast, fast, fast -- he went fast asleep in North Wind's arms.



Chapter V

Diamond's Father Loses His Employment


When he woke once more, a face was bending over him. It was not North Wind's, however; it was his mother's. He put out his arms to her and she clasped him to her heart and burst out crying.

"What is the matter, mother?" cried Diamond.

"Oh, Diamond dear! You have been so ill!" she said.

"Why no, mother dear. I have only been at the back of the North Wind," returned Diamond.

"I thought you were dead," said his mother.

At that moment, the doctor came in. He drew his mother aside and told her not to talk to Diamond. He must be kept as quiet as possible. And indeed, Diamond felt very strange and weak. But he soon got better with chicken broth and other nice things.

And it was a good thing that he could get well and strong again. For since he had come to Sandwich, a sad thing had happened to his father. Mr. Coleman, his father's employer, had failed in business. It had come about in this way. Miss Coleman, who had looked so like North Wind that night on which he had seen her having her long black hair combed beside the fire, had a lover, a Mr. Evans. Now Mr. Evans was poor and felt ashamed to marry Miss Coleman until he had made more money and could live finely. This was a sort of false pride and it brought about great trouble for them all.

For Mr. Coleman took Mr. Evans into partnership to help him along. As soon as that happened, Mr. Evans began to urge Mr. Coleman to go into business ventures which were not honest but in which they could make a great deal of money. It was not so bad at first, but as they went on, it became more and more dishonest.

They could not seem to get out of it, however, and get back to carrying on their business in the right way. So North Wind had to take a hand and teach them better. It was Mr. Coleman's ship she sank that night when she carried Diamond into the cathedral to wait for her. In the one boat-load of people which North Wind drove off to a desert island, was Mr. Evans. He had gone along on the ship to manage the business. Now he found that it would have been better to have been poor and stayed at home to marry Miss Coleman than to be ship-wrecked and have to live on a desert island because he longed so to be rich.

The loss of the ship ruined Mr. Coleman. He had to sell off his house and his horses, old Diamond among them, and go and live in a poor little house in a much less pleasant place. He had to begin again to work and learn how much better it is to be honest and contented than to try to get rich quickly. And poor Miss Coleman thought her lover was drowned and was very, very unhappy.

Nobody suffers alone. When old Diamond was sold, young Diamond's father was thrown out of work. Then he had no way to earn money to keep Diamond and his mother and the new little baby brother who had come to them. How Diamond did wish he was big enough to do something! But of course, he could think of nothing he could do. Besides he had to get well and strong first, anyway. His father sent word that he and his mother were to stay down at Sandwich until he found something to do and a place where he could make a home for them. It was a very fortunate thing that Diamond's aunt was glad to keep them with her as long as ever they were willing to stay.

One day when Diamond was getting strong enough to go out, his mother got his aunt's husband, who had a little pony cart, to carry them down to the sea-shore. A whiff of sea air, she said, would do them both good. They sat down on the edge of the rough grass which bordered the sand. Away before them stretched the sparkling waters of the ocean, every wave of which flashed out its delight in the face of the great sun. On each hand, the shore rounded outward, forming a little bay. Dry sand was about their feet, and under them thin wiry grass.

After a time, his mother stretched out her hand for the basket which she had brought with her and she and Diamond had their dinner. Diamond did enjoy it, the drive and the fresh air had made him so hungry! But he was sorry that his mother looked so sad and depressed. He knew she was thinking about his father and how they now had no home. But there was nothing for him to do. So he lay down on the sand again, feeling sleepy, and gazed sleepily out over the sand. "What is that, mother!" he said.

"Only a bit of paper," she answered looking where he pointed.

"It flutters more than a bit of paper would, I think," said Diamond.

"I'll go and see if you like," said his mother.

She rose and went and found that it was a little book partly buried in the sand. Several of its leaves were clear of the sand and these the wind kept blowing about in a very fluttering manner. She took it up and brought it to Diamond.

"What is it, mother?" he asked.

"Rhymes, I think," said she.

"I am so sleepy," he said. "Do read some of them to me."

"Well, I will," she said and began one. "But this is such nonsense," she said again. "I will try to find a better one."

She turned the leaves, searching, but three times with sudden puffs the wind blew the leaves rustling back to the same verses.

"I wonder if that is North Wind," said Diamond to himself. To his mother he said, "Do read that one. It sounded very nice. I am sure it is a good one."

His mother thought it might amuse him although she could not find any sense in it. So she read on like this:

I know a river whose waters run asleep, run, run ever, singing in the shallows, dumb in the hollows sleeping so deep; and all the swallows that dip their feathers in the hollows or in the shallows are the merriest swallows of all!

"Why!" whispered Diamond to himself sleepily, "that is what the river sang when I was at the back of the north wind."

And so with the daisies the little white daisies they grow and they blow and they spread out their crown and they praise the sun; and when he goes down their praising is done and they fold up their crown till over the plain he is rising amain and they're at it again! praising and praising such low songs raising that no one hears them but the sun who rears them! and the sheep that bite them awake or asleep are the quietest sheep with the merriest bleat! and the little lambs are the merriest lambs! they forget to eat for the frolic in their feet!

"Merriest, merriest, merriest," murmured Diamond as he sank deeper and deeper in sleep. "That is what the song of the river is telling me. Even I can be merry and cheerful -- and that will help some. And so I will -- when -- I -- wake -- up -- again." And he went off sound asleep.

It was not very long after this that Diamond and his mother could go home again. His father had now found something to do and this is how it came about. He one day met a cabman who was a friend of his and this friend said to him, "Why don't you set up as a cabman yourself -- and buy a cab?"

"I haven't enough money to buy a horse with -- and a cab," said Diamond's father.

"Look here," answered his friend. "I just bought an old horse the other day, cheap. He is no good for the hansom I drive, for when folks take a hansom, they want to drive like the wind. But for a four-wheeler that takes families and their luggage, he's the very horse. I bought him cheap and I'll sell him cheap."

"Oh, I don't want him," said Diamond's father.

"Well, come and see him anyway," said his friend. So he went.

What was his delight on going into the stable to find that the horse was no other than his own old Diamond! Diamond, grown very thin and bony and long-legged. The horse hearing his master's voice, turned his long neck. And when his old friend went up to him and laid his hand on his side, he whinnied for joy and laid his big head on his master's breast. This settled the matter. Diamond's father put his arms around old Diamond's neck and fairly cried.

The end of it was that Diamond's father bought old Diamond again, together with a four-wheeled cab. As there were some rooms to be had over the stable, he took them, wrote to his wife to come home, and set up as a cabman.

It was late in the afternoon when Diamond and his mother and the baby reached London. His father was waiting for them with his own cab but they had not told Diamond who the horse was. For his father wanted to enjoy the pleasure of his surprise when he found it out. He got in with his mother without looking at the horse and was quite proud of riding home in his father's cab.

When he got to the stables where their rooms were he could not help being a little dismayed at first. But he thought of the song of the river at the back of the north wind and just looked about for things that were pleasant. He said to himself that it was a fine thing that all their old furniture was there. Then he began to search out the advantages of the place.

A thick, dull rain was falling and that was depressing. But the weather would change and there was a good fire burning in the room, which a neighbor had made for them. The tea things were put out and the kettle was boiling on the fire. And with a good fire and tea and bread and butter, things cannot be so very bad.

But Diamond's father and mother were rather miserable and Diamond began to feel a kind of darkness spreading over him. At the same moment, he said, "This will never do! I can't give in to this. I've been at the back of the north wind. Things go right there and they must be made to go right here!"

So he said out loud, "What nice bread and butter this is!" And when he had eaten it, he began to amuse the baby who was soon shrieking with laughter. His father and mother had to laugh too and things began to look better.

It was indeed a change for them all, not only from Sandwich but from their old place. Instead of the great river where the huge barges with their brown and yellow sails went up and down, their windows now looked out upon a dirty paved yard. There was no garden more for Diamond to run into when he pleased, with gay flowers about his feet, and lofty trees over his head.

Neither was there a wooden wall at the back of his bed with a hole in it for North Wind to come in at when she liked. Indeed, there was such a high wall that North Wind seldom got into the place. And the wall at the head of Diamond's new bed only divided it from the room where a cabman lived who drank too much beer and came home to quarrel with and abuse his wife. It was dreadful for Diamond to hear the scolding and the crying. But he was determined it should not make him miserable for he had been at the back of the north wind.



Chapter VI

Diamond Learns To Drive A Horse


The wind blew loudly all night long, the first night Diamond slept in his new home, but he did not hear it. My own belief is that when Diamond slept too soundly to remember anything about it in the morning, he had been all night at the back of the north wind. Sometimes something did seem to remain in his mind like the low far-off murmur of the river singing its song. He sometimes tried to hold on to the words it sung. But ever as he came awaker -- as he would say -- one line faded away and then another. At last there was nothing left but the sense that everything went right there and could -- and must -- be made to go right here.

That was how he awoke that first morning and he jumped up at once saying, "I've been ill a long time and given a great deal of trouble. Now let's see how I can help my mother."

When he went into her room, he found her lighting the fire and his father just getting up. So he took up the baby who was awake too and cared for him till his mother had the breakfast ready. She was looking gloomy and his father too was silent. Diamond felt that in a few minutes, he would be just as miserable. But he tried with all his might to be jolly with the baby and presently his mother just had to smile.

"Why, Diamond, child!" she said at last. "You are as good to your mother as if you were a girl -- nursing the baby and toasting the bread, and sweeping up the hearth. I declare a body would think you had been among the fairies."

"I've been at the back of the north wind," said Diamond to himself happily.

And now his father was more cheerful too. "Won't you come out and see the cab, Diamond?" he asked.

"Yes, father, in just a minute after I put the baby down."

So his father went on ahead. When Diamond got out into the yard, the horse was between the shafts. Diamond went around to look at him. The sight of him made him feel very queer. He could not make it out. What horse was it that looked so familiar? When he came around in front and the old horse put out his long neck and began rubbing against him, Diamond saw it could be no other than old Diamond and he just put his arms around his neck and cried.

"Isn't it jolly, father!" he said. "Was there ever anybody so lucky as we! Dear old Diamond!" He hugged the horse again and kissed both his big, hairy cheeks. He could only manage one at a time, however -- the other cheek was so far off on the other side of old Diamond's big head. And now his father took up the reins to drive off.

"Oh, father, do let me drive a bit!" cried Diamond jumping up on the box beside him. His father put the reins into his hands and began to show him how to drive. He let Diamond drive quite a little way and then the boy jumped down and ran gaily back to his mother.

Now it happened that the man who sold old Diamond back to his father, saw how delighted little Diamond was to learn to drive. And that evening, shortly before Diamond's father came home, the man asked Diamond's mother if the boy might not go a little way with him.

"He cannot go far," said his mother, "for he is not very strong yet."

"I will take him only as far as the square," said the man.

Diamond's mother said he might go as far as that. Dancing with delight, Diamond ran to get his cap and in a few minutes was jumping into the cab. The man gave him the reins and showed him how to drive safely through the gate and Diamond got along famously. Just as they were turning into the square, they had an adventure. It was getting quite dusky. A cab was coming rapidly from the other direction, and Diamond pulling aside and the other driver pulling up, they just escaped a collision. And there was his father!

"Why, Diamond, it is a bad beginning to run into your own father," he said.

"But, father, wouldn't it have been a bad ending for you to run into your own son!" answered the boy. And both men laughed heartily.

"He is a good little driver, though," said the man. "He would be fit to drive on his own hook in a week or two. But he had better go back with you now."

"Come along then, Diamond," said his father. Diamond jumped across into the other cab and they drove away home.

It was not long before Diamond was a great favorite with all the men about the stables -- he was so jolly! It was not the best place in the world for him to be brought up in and at first he did hear a good many rough and bad words. But as he did not like them, he never learned to say them and they did him little harm. Before long, the men grew rather ashamed to use them. One would nudge the other to remind him that the boy was within hearing and the words choked themselves before they got any further.

One day, they gave him a curry comb and brush to try his hand on old Diamond's coat. He used them deftly and thoroughly as far as he could reach.

"You must make haste and grow," the men told him. "It won't do to clean a horse half way up and leave his back dirty, you know."

"Put me up," said Diamond. In a moment he was on the old horse's back with the comb and brush. There he combed and brushed and combed and brushed. Every now and then, old Diamond would whisk his tail and once he sent the comb flying out of the stable door to the great amusement of the men. But they brought it back to him and Diamond finished his task.

"Oh, dear!" said Diamond, when he had done. "I'm so tired!" And he laid himself down at full length on old Diamond's back. The men were much amused and from that time were always ready to teach him to drive.

So in one way and another, he did learn to drive all sorts of horses, and through the most crowded streets in London city. One day his father took him on his own cab and as they were standing waiting for a passenger, his father left him alone for a few minutes. Hearing a noise, Diamond looked around to see what it was. There was a crossing near the cab-stand where a girl was sweeping. Some young roughs had picked a quarrel with her and were now trying to pull her broom away from her. Diamond was off his box in a moment and running to the help of the girl. The roughs began to act worse than ever. Just then Diamond's father came back and sent them flying. The girl thanked Diamond and began sweeping again as if nothing had happened.

She did not forget her friends, however. A moment after, she came running up with her broom over her shoulder, calling "Cab, there! Cab!" And when Diamond's father reached the curbstone, who should it be but Mrs. Coleman and Miss Coleman! Diamond and his father were very happy to see them again and gladly drove them home. When they wanted to pay for it, Diamond's father would not hear of it, but jumped on his box and drove away.

It was a long time since Diamond had seen North Wind or even thought much about her. Now, as his father drove along, he was thinking not about her but about the crossing sweeper. He was wondering what made him feel as if he knew her quite well when he could not remember anything of her. But a picture arose in his mind of a little girl running before the wind, and dragging her broom after her. From that, he recalled the whole adventure of the night when he had gone out with North Wind and made her put him down in a London street.

A few nights after this, Diamond woke up suddenly, believing he heard the north wind thundering along. But it was something quite different. South Wind was moaning around the chimneys, to be sure, for she was not very happy that night. But it was not her voice that had wakened Diamond. It was a loud angry voice, now growling like that of a beast, now raving like that of a madman. It was the voice of the drunken cabman whose room was just through the wall at the back of Diamond's bed.

At length, there came a cry from the woman and a scream from the baby. Diamond thought it was time somebody did something. He jumped up and went to see. The voice of the crying baby guided him to the right door and he peeped in. The drunken cabman had dropped into a chair, his wife lay sobbing on the bed, and the baby was wailing in its cradle.

Diamond's first thought was to run away from the misery of it. But he remembered at once that he had been at the back of the north wind. People who had been there must always try to destroy misery wherever they saw it. But what could he do? Well, there was the baby. He stole in and lifted it into his arms and soon had it on his knee, smiling at the light that came in from the street lamp. He began to sing to it in a low voice -- the song of the river as it ran over the soft grass and among the flowers in the country at the back of the north wind. He sang on till the baby went sound asleep. He himself got sleepier and sleepier, though the cabman and his wife only got wider awake all the time. At length, Diamond found himself nodding. He got up and laid the baby gently in its cradle and stole quietly out and home again to his own bed.

"Wife," said the cabman, "did you see that angel?"

"Yes," answered his wife, "it is little Diamond who lives in the next yard."

She knew him well enough. She was the neighbor who had the fire lighted and the tea ready for them when Diamond and his mother came home from Sandwich on that rainy, gloomy night. Her husband was somehow very sorry now and ashamed of the misery he had caused -- was it the song of the river which Diamond had sung that caused it? He tried hard to forget where the drink shop stood and for a good many weeks managed to keep away from it.

One day when their cab was waiting for a fare, Diamond jumped down to run a little and stretch his legs. He strolled up to the crossing where Nanny and her broom were to be found in all weathers. Just as he was going to speak to her a tall gentleman stepped upon the crossing. He was glad to find it clean and he gave the girl a penny. When she made him a courtesy, he looked at her again and said, "Where do you live, my child?"

"Paradise Row," she answered. "Next door to the Adam and Eve -- down the area."

"Whom do you live with?" he asked.

"My wicked old granny," she replied.

"You should not call your granny wicked," said the gentleman.

"But she is!" said Nanny. "If you don't believe me, you can come and take a look at her."

The gentleman looked very grave at hearing her. It was not a nice way for a little girl to talk. He was turning away, when he saw the face of Diamond looking up into his own.

"Please," said Diamond, "her granny is very cruel to her sometimes -- and shuts her out in the streets at night if she happens to be late."

"So, my little man. And what can you do?" asked the gentleman turning towards him.

"Drive a cab," said Diamond proudly.

"Anything else?" asked the gentleman smiling.

"Take care of the baby," said Diamond; "clean father's boots and make him a bit of toast for his tea."

"You are a useful little man," said the gentleman. "Can you read?"

"No, but father and mother can and they are going to teach me soon."

"Well, here is a penny for you, and when you learn to read, come to me and I will give you six-pence and a book with fine pictures in it."

He gave Diamond a card with his address on it. "Thank you," said Diamond and put the card into his pocket. The gentleman walked away but he saw Diamond give the penny to Nanny and say, "I have a father and mother and little brother and you have nothing but a wicked old granny. You may have my penny."

The girl put the penny in her pocket and Diamond asked, "Is she as cruel as ever?"

"Just the same. But I get more coppers, so I can buy myself some food. She is so blind that she doesn't see that I do not eat her old scraps. I hide them in my pocket."

"What do you want them for?"

"To give to cripple Jim. His leg was broken when he was young, so he isn't good for much. But I love Jim. I always keep something for him."

"Diamond! Diamond!" called his father, just then.

So Diamond ran back and told him about the gentleman and showed him the card he had given him.

"Why, it is not many doors from our stables!" cried his father looking at the address. "Take care of it, Diamond. One needs all the friends he can get in this world."

"We've got many friends," said Diamond. "Haven't we? There's mother and the baby and old Diamond -- and the man next door who drinks -- and his wife and baby -- and Mrs. Coleman and Miss Coleman -- and -- and a many!"

His father just laughed and drove off.



Chapter VII

Diamond Drives The Cab


The question of the tall gentleman as to whether Diamond could read or not, set his father to thinking it was high time he could. As soon as old Diamond was fed and bedded, he began the task of teaching him that very night. It was not much of a task to Diamond for his father took for the lesson book the same one which North Wind had waved the leaves of on the sands at Sandwich. Within a month, he was able to spell out most of the verses for himself. But he never found in it the river song which he thought his mother had read from it. Could it have been North Wind doing the reading in his mother's voice?

It was not long before Diamond managed with many blunders to read all the rhymes in his book to his mother. Then he said, "In a week or so, I shall be able to go to the tall gentleman and tell him I can read." But before the week was out he had another reason for going to the gentleman, whose name he found out was Mr. Raymond. For three days, Nanny had not been at her crossing. Diamond was quite anxious about her, fearing she must be ill. On the fourth day not seeing her yet, he said to his father, "I want to go and look after Nanny. She can't be well."

"All right," said his father. "Only take care of yourself, Diamond."

So Diamond set off to find his way to Nanny's home. It was a long distance and he had to ask his way over and over again. But he kept on without getting discouraged and at last he came to it.

Happily for Diamond, the ugly old granny had gone out. He laid his ear to the door and thought he heard a moaning within. He tried the door and found it was not locked. It was a dreary place indeed -- and very dark, for the window was below the level of the street and was covered with mud. And the smell in the room was dreadful!

He could see next to nothing at first but he heard the moaning plainly enough now. Soon he found his friend lying with closed eyes and a white suffering face on a heap of rags in a corner. He went up to her and spoke but she made him no answer. She did not even hear him. Taking out a lump of barley sugar candy he had brought for her he laid it down beside her and hurried away. He was going to find Mr. Raymond and see if he could not do something for Nanny.

It was a long walk to Mr. Raymond's door but he got there at last. Yet after all, the servant was not going to let him in, only Mr. Raymond came out into the hall just then and saw him and recognized him at once.

"Come in, my little man," he said. "I suppose you have come to claim your six-pence."

"No, sir, not that."

"What! Can't you read yet?"

"Yes," said Diamond. "I can now a little. But I've come to tell you about Nanny -- the little girl at the crossing."

"Oh, yes, I remember her," said Mr. Raymond. "What is it about Nanny?"

Diamond told him all about her -- how she was sick, and how dark it was where she lived and with bad smells. Now, Mr. Raymond was one of the kindest men in London and was well known at the children's hospital. He hurried there now, and some one went from there at once to find Nanny. Before night, they sent a litter for her and soon the little girl was lying in a nice clean bed, though she was too sick to know anything about it.

Diamond overheard a doctor say to Mr. Raymond, "How do you suppose the little chap knew what to do about Nanny?"

"He doesn't know that I have been at the back of the north wind," he said to himself. "If you have once been there, it just comes to you how to do a little to help."

After Nanny had been well seen to, Mr. Raymond took the boy home with him and they soon settled the matter of the six-pence between them.

"And now, what will you do with it?" the gentleman asked him.

"Take it home to my mother," answered Diamond. "She has a tea-pot with a broken spout and she keeps all her money in it. It isn't much but she saves it up to buy shoes for me. And there's the baby -- he'll want shoes soon. And every six-pence is something, isn't it?"

"To be sure, my little man. And here is the book for you, full of pictures and stories."

There were poems in it too, and Diamond at once began to puzzle out one of them which ran like this:

I have only one foot, but thousands of toes; My one foot stands but never goes. I have many arms and they are mighty, all; And hundreds of fingers large and small. From the ends of my fingers my beauty grows, I breathe with my hair and I drink with my toes. In the summer, with song I shake and quiver, But in winter, I fast and groan and shiver.

When Diamond ran home with his new book in his hand, he found his father at home already. He was sitting by the fire and looking rather miserable for his head ached and he looked sick. The next day, he had to stay in bed while his wife nursed him, and Diamond took care of the baby. By the next day, he was very ill indeed. And it was not long before their money was all gone.

Diamond's mother could not help crying over it but she came into Diamond's room so that the poor sick father should not hear it. Diamond was frightened when he heard her sobbing and said, "Is father worse?"

"No, no," said his mother, "he is better. But the money is all gone and what are we to do?"

"Don't cry," said Diamond. "We'll get along some how. Let me read to you out of North Wind's book."

So he read a little story about the early bird that caught the nice fat worm.

"I wish you were like that little bird, dear," said his mother, "and could catch something to eat!"

After she was gone away, Diamond lay thinking and somehow he seemed to hear the murmur of North Wind's river blowing through his thoughts and telling him about something he could do. The next morning he got up as soon as he heard the men moving in the yard. When he went down, the stable was just opened. "I'm the early bird, I think," he said to himself, "and I hope I'll catch the worm."

He would not ask any one to help him because he was afraid he would be kept from doing what he wanted. With the aid of an old chair, he got the harness on old Diamond. The dear old horse opened his mouth for the bit just as if Diamond was giving him an apple. He fastened the cheek-strap very carefully, and got all the pieces of harness on and buckled. By this time some of the men were watching him to see if he would get it all done by himself. And when he put old Diamond between the shafts, got his whip, and jumped up on the box, the men broke into a cheer.

The cheer brought his mother to the window and when she saw her little boy setting out all alone in the cab, she called "Diamond! Diamond!" But Diamond did not hear her for the rattle of the cab and so he drove away. He was very much afraid no one would hire him because he was such a little driver. But before he got to his regular stand, he was hailed by a man who wanted to catch a train and was in too great a hurry to think about the driver. He got a good fare for that and reached the cab-stand the first one after all. As the other cabmen came, he told them about his father and said that he was going to drive the cab in his place.

"Well, you are a plucky one!" they all said. "And you shall have a fair chance with the rest."

And he did, for another gentleman came up very soon for him. When he saw the boy, he was much astonished. "Are you the driver of this cab?" he asked. "Yes, sir," answered Diamond, showing his father's badge of which he was proud.

"You are the youngest cabman I ever saw!" said the gentleman greatly amused. "But I believe I'll risk you!"

He jumped in and soon found that Diamond got him over the ground very well. The trip was one of several miles and the gentleman paid him three shillings for the drive. When Diamond got back, he stopped at a stand where he had never been before and got down to put on old Diamond's nose-bag of oats. The men there did not treat him very nicely and a group of rough boys came up and began to torment him. But who do you think came to his rescue? Why, the drunken cabman whose room was next to Diamond's and whose baby Diamond had once rocked and put to sleep.

"What is up here?" the cabman asked.

"Do you see this young snip?" the boys cried, "He pretends to drive a cab!"

"Yes, I do see him," said the cabman. "I see you, too. You'd better take yourselves away from here or you won't find me very agreeable!"

And they went in a hurry!

When Diamond went home that night, he carried one pound, one shilling and six-pence. His mother had grown very anxious and was almost afraid to look when she heard his cab coming at last. But there was the old horse, and there was the cab, all right! And there was Diamond on the box his face as triumphant as a full moon! One of the men took the horse to put him up and Diamond ran into the house and into the arms of his mother!

"See! See!" he cried. "Here is the worm I caught!" He poured out the six-pences and shillings into her lap. His mother burst out crying again, but with joy this time and ran to show his father. Then how pleased he was! And Diamond snatched up the baby and began to sing and dance, he was so happy!

The next morning, Diamond was up almost as early as before. But the men would not let him do the harnessing any more. They got the cab all ready for him and sent him in to eat all the breakfast he could and get well bundled up. His first passenger was a young woman to be taken to the docks. When he started back some roughs came along and tried to steal his fare. But a pale-faced man came up and beat them off with his stick, and told Diamond to drive away. Diamond begged him to get into the cab and ride. The man said he could not spare the money to ride -- he was too poor.

"Oh, do come!" said Diamond. "I don't want the money. You helped me. Let me help you."

"Well," said the man, "if you will take me to Chiswick, I can pay for that. Drive to the Wilderness -- Mr. Coleman's place. I'll show you when we get there."

Now Diamond had been thinking he had seen the gentleman before and when he said this, it flashed upon him that it was Mr. Evans who had been going to marry Miss Coleman. North Wind had sunk his and Mr. Coleman's ship because their business was not honest and was making bad men of them. She had carried Mr. Evans away to a desert island. He had just got back again and was poor now and humble and willing to begin to work again in an honest way.

It was plain he did not know that Mr. Coleman had been ruined too and had been forced to sell the Wilderness and move into a poor house in the city. But Diamond knew, and as he drove along he was thinking what he ought to do. The gentleman would not find Miss Coleman at the Wilderness. And if he told him where she lived now, perhaps he would not go to see her because he would be so ashamed of having brought all this trouble on her by trying so hard to be rich.

Still he must want to see her very much and she must want to see him. So Diamond made up his mind to drive straight to where Miss Coleman lived now, and then they could explain to each other. So on he went.

Now the wind was blowing furiously and when old Diamond finally got to Miss Coleman's house and held back to stop, one of the straps of the harness broke. Diamond jumped down and opened the cab door and asked the gentleman if he would not step into this house where friends of his lived and wait while he mended the strap. Then he ran and rang the bell and whispered to the maid who came to call Miss Coleman. A few minutes later, he was not at all sure he had done the right thing. For suddenly there came the sound of a great cry and then a running to and fro in the house. But after a little while, they came and called him in and Miss Coleman put her arms around him and hugged him tight!

The rest of the day, he did very well. And what a story he had to tell his father and mother that night about Mr. Evans and the Colemans. They were sure he had done right and he was so glad!



Chapter VIII

Diamond Visits Nanny


For a fortnight, Diamond went on driving his cab and helping his family. Some people began to know him and to look for him to drive them where they wanted to go. One old gentleman who lived near the stables hired him to carry him into the city every morning at a certain hour. And Diamond was as regular as clock work. After that fortnight, his father was able to go out again. Then Diamond began to think about little Nanny and went off to inquire about her.

The first day his father took up his work again, Diamond went with him as usual. In the afternoon, however, his father went home and left Diamond to drive the cab for the rest of the day. It was hard for old Diamond to do all the work but they could not afford to have another horse. They saved him as much as they could and fed him well and he did bravely.

The next morning, his father was so much stronger that Diamond thought he might go and ask Mr. Raymond to take him to see Nanny. Mr. Raymond was quite willing to go and so they walked over to the hospital which was close at hand.

When Diamond followed Mr. Raymond into the room where those children lay who had got over the worst of their illness, and were growing better, he saw a number of little iron beds. Each one of them stood with its head to the wall and in each one was a child whose face showed just how far it had left the pain behind and was getting well. Diamond looked all around but he could see no Nanny. He turned to Mr. Raymond with a question in his eyes.

"Well?" said Mr. Raymond.

"Nanny's not here," said Diamond.

"Oh, yes, she is."

"I don't see her!"

"I do, though. There she is."

He pointed to a bed right in front of where Diamond was standing.

"That's not Nanny!" cried Diamond.

"Yes, it is Nanny. I have seen her a great many times since you have, and that is she."

So Diamond looked again and looked hard. "If that is Nanny," said Diamond to himself, "then she must have been at the back of the north wind. That is why she looks so different." He said nothing aloud, only stared. And as he stared, something of the face of the old Nanny began to come out in the face of the new Nanny. The old Nanny had been somewhat rough in her speech, her face rather hard, and she had not kept herself clean -- how could she! Now, in her fresh white bed, she looked sweet and gentle and refined.

"Surely North Wind has had something to do with it," thought Diamond. In her weeks of sickness, had North Wind carried Nanny to the country at her back -- as she once had carried him -- and changed her from a rough girl to a gentle maiden? As he gazed, the best of the old face, the good and true part of the old Nanny, dawned upon him like the moon coming out of a cloud. He saw that it was Nanny, indeed -- but very worn and grown almost beautiful.

He went up to her and she smiled. He had heard her laugh, but he had never seen her smile before. "Nanny, do you know me?" asked Diamond. She only smiled again. She was not likely to forget him. To be sure, she did not know that it was he who had got her there. But he was the only boy except cripple Jim who had ever been kind to her.

Mr. Raymond walked about talking to the other children, while Diamond visited with Nanny. Then after a time, he stood in the middle of the room and told them a nice fairy story. He often did that and the children watched for his visits. After he finished the story, he had to go. Diamond took leave of Nanny and promised to go and see her again soon and went away with Mr. Raymond.

Now Mr. Raymond had been turning over in his mind what he could do for Diamond and for Nanny. He knew Diamond's father somewhat. But he wanted to find out better what sort of a man he was and whether he was worth doing anything for. He decided to see if he would do anything for any body else. For that would be the very best way to find out if it were worth while to do anything for him. So as they walked away together, he said to little Diamond, "Nanny must leave the hospital soon, Diamond. They cannot keep her as long as they would like. They cannot keep her till she is quite strong. There are always so many sick children they want to take in and make better. The question is what will she do when they send her out again?"

"That is just what I can't tell," said Diamond, "though I've been thinking it over and over. Her crossing was taken long ago. I couldn't bear to see Nanny fighting for it, especially with the poor lame boy who has taken it. Besides she has no better right to it than he has. Nobody gave it to her. She just took it and now he has taken it."

"She would get sick again, anyway," said Mr. Raymond, "if she went to sweeping again right away in the wet. If somebody could only teach her something to do it would be better. Perhaps if she could be taught to be nice and clean and to speak only gentle words --  -- "

"Mother could teach her that!" interrupted Diamond.

"And to dress babies and feed them and take care of them," Mr. Raymond went on, "she might get a place as nurse maid somewhere. People would give her money for that."

"Why, I'll ask mother!" cried Diamond. "She could learn to dress our baby, you know, with me to show her how!"

"But you will have to give her food then. And your father, not being strong, has enough to do already without that."

"Still there am I!" said Diamond. "I'll help him out with it. When he gets tired of driving, up I get. And I could drive more if Nanny was at home to help mother."

"Now I wonder," said Mr. Raymond, "if you couldn't do better with two horses. I am going away for a few months and I am willing to let your father have my horse while I am gone. He is nearly as old as your Diamond. I don't want to part with him and yet I don't want him to be idle. Nobody ought to be idle, not even a horse. Still I do not want him to be worked hard. Will you tell your father what I say and see if he wants to take charge of him?"

"Yes, I will," said Diamond. "And he will come and see you about it."

So when Diamond went home, he told his father all about it. But when his father went to see about it, he found that he must agree to work the horse only six hours a day. Then too he must take Nanny from the hospital and feed her, and teach her to be useful and keep her as long as he had Mr. Raymond's horse. Diamond's father could not help thinking that it was a pretty close bargain and so it was. Mr. Raymond wanted to find out if Diamond's father was the kind of man who was willing to help some one else without getting any advantage out of it for himself. Then it would be worth while to help him. Diamond's father was that kind of a man. So when he heard all about Nanny, he decided to accept Mr. Raymond's offer and do the best he could.

Nanny was not fit to be moved for some time yet and Diamond went to see her as often as he could. But he went out to drive old Diamond every day now for a few hours at least. Then he had to help mind his baby brother for part of the time. So he did not go to the hospital as often as he would have liked. When he did go, he sat by Nanny's bed and told her all that had happened to him since he had been there before. In her turn Nanny would tell him of what went on in the hospital -- what visitors they had and things like that.

"Day before yesterday," said Nanny one day, "a lady came to see us. She was a very beautiful lady. She sat down beside my bed and let me stroke her hand. She had on a most beautiful ring with a rich red stone in it. When she saw me looking at it, she slipped it off her finger and put it on mine. She said I might wear her lovely ruby for a little while if it would make me happy."

"Her ruby!" cried Diamond. "How funny that is! Our new horse's name is Ruby. And we took him so that we could take you to live with us, while you are getting strong again. I do believe a ruby is for good luck!"

"It did me good right then," said Nanny. "For that night I had such a lovely dream. It began with a red sunset like my darling ruby ring. Then somehow a wind came out of it and blew me along out of the dirty streets into a yard with a lovely lawn of soft grass."

"That was North Wind, I know!" cried Diamond. "That is what she does to me."

"I do not know what you mean," said Nanny. "I do not know anything about North Wind. But all at once there was no more ruby sunset but a great golden moon hanging very low and seeming to be shining just to be good to me. It was easy, I suppose, for me to dream about the moon. I've always been used to watching her. She was the only thing worth looking at in our street, at night."

"Don't call it your street," said Diamond. "You are not going back to it. You are coming to us, you know."

"That is too good to be true!" said Nanny.

"No, no!" cried Diamond. "How could anything be too good to be true? To be true is to be the very best thing of all. It sounds like your wicked old granny to say that!"

"Do you know, Diamond," said Nanny, "I do not think my old granny is my real old granny at all. I don't think she was ever any one's granny or mother. That was why she was not good to me. Perhaps she never had any mother when she was little to be good to her. And somebody must first be good to you, don't you think, before you can learn how to be good to any body else? Isn't that so? But where was I in my dream? Oh yes, the big yellow moon came down closer and closer to the grass in front of me. Then somehow, it seemed to be my ruby lady. She reached out soft warm arms of golden light and took me up. I sank against her breast into very downy, golden clouds and went to sleep and left off having pain. And yet I didn't sleep but knew it all the time, and just swung softly there all night long."

"Wasn't it really North Wind?" said Diamond to himself. "Perhaps it was North Wind though she doesn't know it. Maybe the moon does just the same. What if it should some day carry her to that same country -- at the back of my North Wind! Who knows?"

The nurse now came and told him it was time to go. Nanny had closed her eyes as if she were tired or asleep. So Diamond arose quietly and tip-toed away.



Chapter IX

Things Go Hard With Diamond's Family


It was a great delight to Diamond, when at length Nanny was well enough to leave the hospital and go to their house. She was not strong yet but Diamond's mother was very careful of her. She took care she should have nothing to do that she was not fit for. If Nanny had been taken straight from the street, it is pretty sure she would not have been so pleasant in a nice house nor so easy to teach. But the kindness they had shown her in the hospital while she was ill so long had changed her quite a little.

As she got better, the colour came back to her cheeks, her step grew lighter and quicker, her smile shone out more readily, and it was clear she would soon be a treasure of help. It was great fun to see Diamond teaching her how to hold the baby and wash and dress him. Nanny had never had a little brother or sister to care for and she and Diamond often had to laugh over her awkwardness. But she was soon able to do it all as well as Diamond himself.

Things, however, did not go very well with Diamond's father from the first coming of the horse, Ruby. It almost seemed as if the red beast brought bad luck with him. The fares were fewer and the pay less. Ruby's work did indeed make the week's income at first a little more than it used to be. But then there were two more to feed. After the first month, however, he fell lame, and for the whole of the next month, Diamond's father did not dare work him at all. It cost just as much to feed him and all he did was to stand in the stable and grow fat.

And after he got well again, it was not much better. Times had then become hard and fewer and fewer people felt that they could afford to ride in cabs. The cabmen got fewer and fewer shillings to live on. Diamond's household had less and less to buy food and clothing with. Then too, Diamond's mother was poorly for a new baby was coming.

Diamond's father began to feel gloomier and gloomier and if Diamond had not made himself remember that he had been at the back of the north wind, he would have been gloomy himself. But when his father came home, Diamond would get out his book and show him how well he could read. Besides he taught Nanny how to read and as she was a very clever little girl, she picked it up very fast. Nanny was such a comfort about the house that Diamond's father just had to cheer up a little when he came home at night and the dull day's work was over.

After the new baby came, Diamond sang to her and of course he had to make up new songs to sing to her because she was a little sister baby. It would never do, he said, to sing the little brother songs to her. While he sang, his father and mother could not help listening and forgetting for the time how bad things were getting to be.

The three months Mr. Raymond had spoken of were now gone and Diamond's father was very anxious for him to come back and take Ruby off his hands, for he did not seem to work enough to pay for his keep. Then he was so lazy and fat, while poor old Diamond had got so thin he was just skin and bones! For Diamond's father was an honest man and felt that he must stick to his promise to feed Ruby while he kept him, whether old Diamond got enough to eat or not. But he did wish Mr. Raymond would come, though when he looked at Nanny he felt that he would be sorry to lose her. For it was understood that a place as a nurse girl would be found for her when Ruby was taken away.

Mr. Raymond did not come, however, and things got worse and worse. Diamond could do little but drive old Diamond in the cab whenever he could be of help that way, and sing to the two babies at home. At last, one week was worse than anything they had yet had. They were almost without bread before it was over.

It was Friday night, and Diamond like the rest of the household had had very little to eat that day. His mother would always pay the week's rent before she spent anything even for food. His father had been very gloomy -- so gloomy that he was very cross. It had been a stormy winter and even now that spring had come, the north wind often blew. When Diamond went to his bed, which was in a tiny room in the roof, he heard it like the sea, moaning. As he fell asleep, he still heard the moaning, and presently, he heard the voice of North Wind calling him. His heart beat very fast, it was such a long time since he had heard that voice! He jumped out of bed, but did not see her. Yet she kept on calling.

"Diamond, come here! Diamond, come here!" the voice repeated again and again.

"Dear North Wind," said Diamond, "I want so much to come to you but I can't tell where to find you."

"Come here, Diamond!" was all her answer.

So he opened his door and trotted down the long stair and out into the yard. A great puff of wind at once came against him. He turned and went with it, and it blew him up to the stable door and kept on blowing.

"She wants me to go into the stable," said Diamond. "But the door is locked."

Just then, a great blast of wind brought down the key upon the stones at his feet from where it was kept hanging high above his head. He picked it up, opened the door, and went in without much noise. And what did he hear? He heard the two horses, Diamond and Ruby, talking to each other. They talked in a strange language, yet somehow he could understand it.

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself," old Diamond was saying, "sleek and fat as you are, and so lazy you get along no faster than a big dray-horse that is pulling tons!"

"Oh, I like to be fat and lazy!" said Ruby.

"And you like to hear master abused on account of you, too, I dare say," replied old Diamond angrily. "Why don't you get up a little speed, while you are drawing a fare, at least! The abuse master gets for your sake is quite shameful! No wonder he doesn't get many fares when he has you!"

"Well, if I worked as hard as I could, I'd be a bag of bones like you!"

"I'm proud to work!" said old Diamond. "I wouldn't be as fat as you, not for all you're worth. You are a disgrace! Look at the horse next you. He is something like a horse -- all skin and bones. He knows he has got his master's wife and children to support and he works like a horse!"

"I might get lamed again, if I didn't go slowly and carefully," said Ruby.

"Lame again!" snorted old Diamond. "It's my belief you lamed yourself on purpose so you could stay in the stable and stuff yourself and grow fat! You selfish beast!"

"I might get angry at you," said Ruby, "if I didn't know a little better than you do how things are coming out. What do you think my master would say if he were to come back -- and he may come any day now -- and find me all worn down to a rack of bones and lamed into the bargain? Do you think anything would make him believe that your master had used me right and as he promised he would? And isn't it better he should live a little hard himself and prove himself to be an honest man who does what he says he'll do? You don't know everything, old Diamond. You would not probably believe me if I told you that enduring bad things is often just a way for bringing good things about. But you'll see!"

Old Diamond just snorted sleepily in reply and gave all his attention to doubling up his knees and getting down upon the floor to go to sleep. The racket he made gave young Diamond a start. With a shiver, he seemed to come awake and see the stable door standing open. He trotted out of it, back up the long stairs, and tumbled into bed. But Ruby's words kept sounding in his head.

"Is it like what's in my book?" he said to himself sleepily, -- "that about a blessing in disguise, when things look bad but are working out all right -- like things at the back of the north wind?" He got sleepier, however, as he tried to think and was fast asleep before he knew it. The next morning, he sang to the baby more cheerily than ever and here is part of the song he sung:

Where did you come from, Baby dear? Out of everywhere into here.

Where did you get your eyes so blue? Out of the sky as I came through.

Where did you get this pearly ear? God spoke and it came out to hear.

But how did you come to us, you dear? God thought of you and so I am here.

"You never made that song, Diamond," said his mother.

"No, mother. But it's mine just the same, for I love it."

"Does loving a thing make it yours?"

"I think so, mother. Baby's mine because I love her, and so are you. Love makes the only my-ness, doesn't it, mother?"

"Perhaps so, Diamond. Yes, I think it does," said his mother.

When his father came home for his dinner he looked very sad. He had not got a single fare the whole morning.

"We shall just have to go to the work-house," he said and dropped into a chair in despair. Just then, came a knock at the door and in walked Mr. Raymond! Of course, he wanted to see the horses at once. And when he saw how fat Ruby was and how poor was faithful old Diamond -- and when, moreover, he remembered how poor and starved the family looked though Nanny was still there and kindly treated -- he knew that Diamond's father had been stanch and true to his bargain, though it had turned out to be a hard one. He was a man worth helping -- that was clear! And Mr. Raymond was now ready to help him as much as he needed.

He first pointed out that old Diamond needed only to be fattened up and Ruby thinned down to make of them a fine pair of horses for his country home to which he was now going. And Diamond's father should go along as coachman. There would be regular wages again and a much more comfortable home in the country.

"And now, will you sell me old Diamond?" asked Mr. Raymond. "If you will, here are twenty pounds for him, if you think that is enough."

"I will sell him to you, sir," answered Diamond's father, "if you promise to let me buy him back if I can, if you ever wish to sell him. I could not part with him without that. Though as to who calls him his, that is nothing. For I believe it's true what my little Diamond says -- that it's loving a thing that makes it yours."

"You shall have that chance," said Mr. Raymond. So the bargain was made. How Diamond capered about at the thought of going to the beautiful country to live and having a yard and grass to play on! It would be like the old home at Mr. Coleman's -- perhaps even nicer than that. How he danced the baby and sang to it!

"And North Wind told me, Baby dear! She sang in my ears how bad things are just a chance to make good things come!"



Chapter X

Diamond In His New Home


Before the end of the month, Ruby had got a great deal thinner and old Diamond a good deal fatter. They really began to look fit to go in double harness. Diamond's father and mother got their things all packed up and were ready to go into the country at the shortest notice. They were now so peaceful, and so happy over the prospect that they believed it worth all the trouble and worry they had gone through.

Nanny had been so happy since she left the hospital and had been living with Diamond's family that she did not think the country would make her any happier. Besides she would have to leave cripple Jim behind and maybe never see him again. She had known cripple Jim much longer than she had known Diamond and he had no one else to care about him.

Diamond had taken a great deal of time and trouble to find Jim. For Jim had moved his home and had not heard of Nanny's illness till long after she was taken to the hospital. He was much too shy to go and inquire about her there. But when at length she went to live with Diamond's family, Jim was willing enough to go and see her. It was after one of his visits during which he and Nanny had talked things over that Diamond found out that Nanny thought it would not be so very pleasant to go to the country. The sun and the moon and the trees and the flowers did not seem much to Nanny without Jim.

Diamond thought it over and that same night he went to see Mr. Raymond. He wanted to tell him about Jim and Nanny and ask him what they could do about it. "Jim can shine shoes very well indeed, sir," said Diamond. "If you could take Jim into the country too, to clean your shoes and do other odd jobs, then Nanny would like it better. She is so fond of Jim."

Mr. Raymond thought it all over and finally decided that there would be something for Jim to do.

So on a certain day, Diamond's father took his mother and Diamond himself and his little brother and sister and Nanny and Jim down by train to a place called "The Mound," where Mr. Raymond was to live. He went back to London that same night. The next day, he drove Ruby and Diamond down with the carriage behind them, and Mr. Raymond and a lady in the carriage. For Mr. Raymond was now married. And the moment Nanny saw Mrs. Raymond, she recognized her as the lady who had let her wear the beautiful ruby ring when she was ill in the hospital.

The weather was very hot at first, and the woods very shadowy, and the wild flowers mainly gone. But there were plenty of the loveliest grass and daisies about the house. Diamond's chief pleasure seemed to be to lie among them and breathe the pure air. As he lay there, he dreamed often of the country at the back of the north wind and tried to remember the songs the river used to sing. For this was more like being at the back of the north wind than anything he had known since he left it. But though he did lie happily in the grass and dream of her, of North Wind herself, he neither saw nor heard anything for some months.

Mr. Raymond's house was called "The Mound" because it stood upon a steep little knoll that had been made on purpose. It was built for Queen Elizabeth as a hunting tower -- a place, that is, from the top of which you could see the country for miles on all sides. From a window the Queen was able to follow with her eyes the flying deer, and the hunters in the chase. The mound had been cast up so as to give the house an outlook over the neighboring heights and woods.

Diamond's father and mother lived in a little cottage a short distance from the house. It was a real cottage with a roof of thick thatch which, in June and July, the wind sprinkled with the red and white petals of the rose tree climbing up the walls. But Mr. and Mrs. Raymond wanted Diamond to be a page in their own house. So he was dressed in the little blue suit of a page and lived at "The Mound" itself.

"Would you be afraid to sleep alone, Diamond?" asked his mistress. "There is a little room at the top of the house -- all alone. Perhaps you would not mind sleeping there."

"I can sleep anywhere," said Diamond. "And I like best to be high up. Should I be able to see out?"

"I will show you the place," she answered, and taking him by the hand, she led him up and up the oval winding stair into one of the two towers that were on the house. Near the top, they entered a tiny room with two windows from which you could see all over the country. Diamond clapped his hands with delight!

"You would like this room, then, Diamond?" asked his mistress.

"It is the grandest room in the house!" he answered. "I shall be near the stars and yet not far from the tops of the trees. That is just what I like!"

I daresay he thought also that it would be a nice place for North Wind to call at, in passing. Below him spread a lake of green leaves with glimpses of grass here and there at the bottom. As he looked down, he saw a squirrel appear suddenly and as suddenly vanish among the top-most branches.

"Aha! Mr. Squirrel!" he cried. "My nest is built higher than yours!"

"I will have a bell hung at your door which I can ring when I want you," said his mistress. And so Diamond became a little page in the house.

But after all, his master and mistress seemed to want to keep him out of doors as much as possible. And his father and mother sometimes looked at him very anxiously. Diamond thought that no one seemed to ask him to do much. Often they gave him a story book and sent him out to sit in the sweet air and sunshine at the foot of a big beech tree.

He did not see much of Nanny and Jim. Somehow they liked to slip off together when their work was over. They did not understand the many fancies that Diamond talked about, but they could understand each other very well. They were never unkind to him but they liked better to go off by themselves. Diamond did not mind much. He was never lonely. And then he had a beautiful place where he went and where he saw lovely things that no one else saw.

He called this place his nest. He went to it by going up a little rope ladder that hung from a branch of the big beech tree. When he reached the limb the rope hung from, he went on climbing higher and higher. Up among the leafy branches and away at the top, out of sight, he found a safe and comfortable seat which he called his nest.

"What do you see up there, Diamond," some one asked him once.

"I can see the first star peeping out of the sky. I don't see anything more except a few leaves and the big sky over me. It goes swinging about. The earth is all behind my back. There comes another star! The wind with its kisses makes me feel as if I were in North Wind's arms."

He thought he would be quite happy if only he could remember some of the songs the river sang to him when he was in the country at the back of the north wind. They seemed to be murmuring in his ear most of the time. Yet somehow they were just far enough off so that he could not catch the words.

His little brother and baby sister often played about on the grass with him and often he made up songs to sing to the baby. But these never seemed to be just like the river's songs after all. One of them was about his nest up in the beech tree and it ran like this:

What would you see if I took you up To my little nest in the air? You would see the sky like a clean blue cup Turned upside downwards there.

What would you do if I took you there, To my little nest in the tree? My child with cries would trouble the air To get what she could but see.

What would you get in the top of the tree, For all your crying and grief? Not a star would you clutch of all you see --  You could only gather a leaf.

But when you had lost your greedy grief Content to see from afar, You would find in your hand a withering leaf, In your heart a shining star!



Chapter XI

Another Visit From North Wind


One night when he reached his own room, he opened both his windows, one of which looked to the north and the other to the east, to find how the wind blew. It blew right in at the north window. Diamond was glad for he thought perhaps North Wind herself would come now. But as she always came of herself and never when he was looking for her, and, indeed, almost never when he was thinking of her, he shut the east window and went to bed.

He awoke in the dim blue night. The moon had vanished from that side of the house. He thought he heard a knocking at his door.

"Somebody wants me!" he said, and jumping out of bed ran to open the door.

But there was no one there. He closed it again, and the noise still going on, found that another door in the room was rattling. It belonged to a closet he thought, but he had never been able to open it. The wind blowing in at the window must be shaking it. He would go and see if that was it.

The door now opened quite easily. To his surprise, instead of a closet he found a long narrow room. The moon, which was sinking in the west, shone in at an open window at the other end. This room had a low ceiling and spread the whole length of the house close under the roof. It was quite empty. The yellow light of the half moon streamed over the dark floor.

He was so delighted to find this strange moonlit place close to his own snug little room that he began to dance and skip about the floor. The wind came in through the door he had left open. It blew about him as he danced and he kept turning toward it that it might blow in his face.

He kept picturing to himself the many places, lovely and desolate, the hill sides and farm yards and tree-tops and meadows, over which it had blown on its way to "The Mound." As he danced he grew more and more delighted with the motion and the wind. His feet grew stronger and his body lighter. At length, it seemed as if he were borne up on the air and could almost fly.

So strong did this feeling become that at last he began to doubt whether he was not in one of those precious dreams he so often had, in which he floated about on the wind at will. Then something made him look up. To his unspeakable delight, he found his uplifted hands lying in those of North Wind! Yes, North Wind was dancing with him round and round the long bare room, her hair now falling to the floor, now floating to the ceiling. The sweetest of smiles was playing about her beautiful mouth. She did not stoop in order to dance with him but held his hands high in hers.

When he saw her, he gave one spring and his arms were about her neck and her arms holding him to her breast. The same moment, she swept with him out of the open window through which the moon was shining. Making a wide and sweeping circuit, she settled with him in his own little nest at the top of the big beech tree. Diamond was so entirely happy that he did not care to speak a word. But presently, he felt as if he were going to sleep and that would be to lose so much that he was not willing to do it.

"Please, dear North Wind," said he, "I am so happy that I am afraid it is a dream. How am I to know that it is not a dream?"

"What does it matter?" returned North Wind. "The dream -- if it is a dream -- is a pleasant one, is it not?"

"That is just why I want it to be true! It is not for the dream itself -- I mean it is not for the pleasure of it," answered Diamond, "for I have that whether it is a dream or not. It is for you, North Wind! I cannot bear to find it a dream because then I should lose you! You would be nobody then and I could not bear that. You are not just a dream, dear North Wind, are you? Do say no, for I shall not dare dream of you again if you are nobody at all."

"Either I am not a dream, or there is something better which is not a dream, Diamond," said North Wind in a rather sorrowful tone.

"But it is not something better, it is you I want, North Wind," he persisted.

She made no answer but rose with him in her arms and sailed away over the tree-tops till they came to a meadow where a flock of sheep was feeding.

"Do you remember the song you made up here in this meadow to sing to the baby?" asked North Wind, "about Bo-peep's sheep that ran away from her to follow after the sun? And when she went after them, she could not find the old sheep at all -- only some lambs -- twice as many new lambs?"

"Oh, yes," said Diamond. "But I do not like that song. It seems to say that one is just as good as another -- or that two new ones are better than the one old one you had before. But somehow when once you have looked into anybody's eyes -- deep down into them, I mean -- no one else will do for you any more. Nobody ever so beautiful or so good will make up to you for that one going out of sight. So you see, North Wind, I cannot help being frightened to think that perhaps I am only dreaming and that you are nowhere at all! Do tell me that you are my own real beautiful North Wind!"

Again she rose and shot high up into the air. Diamond lay quiet in her arms waiting for her to speak. He tried to see up into her face, for he was dreadfully afraid she did not answer him because she could not tell him she was not a dream. But her hair fell all over her face so that he could not see it. This frightened him still more.

"Do speak, North Wind!" he said at last.

"I am thinking what I can say," said North Wind slowly. "And say it so that a little boy like you can understand."

As she spoke, she was settling quietly down on a grassy hill side in the midst of a wild, furzy common. There was a rabbit warren underneath. Some of the rabbits came out of their holes in the moonlight. They looked very sober and wise, like patriarchs standing in their tent doors and looking about them before going to bed. When they saw North Wind, instead of turning around and vanishing again with a thump of their heels, they cantered slowly up to her. They snuffed all about her with their long upper lips which moved every way at once. That was their way of kissing her. Every now and then, she stroked down their long furry backs or lifted and played with their long ears.

"I think," she said to Diamond after they had been sitting silent for a long time, "that if I were only a dream, you would not have been able to love me so. You love me when you are not with me, don't you?"

"Indeed I do!" answered Diamond stroking her hand. "I see! I see! How could I be able to love you as I do if you were not there at all, you know? Besides I would not be able to dream anything half so beautiful all out of my own head. Or if I did, I could not love a fancy of my own like that, could I?"

"I think not. Besides, would you not have forgotten me wholly when you woke again? People almost always forget their dreams. But you have seen me in many shapes, Diamond. You remember I was a wolf once -- don't you?"

"Yes, a good wolf that frightened a bad, wicked nurse!"

"Well, if I were to turn to an ugly shape again, would you still wish I were not a dream?"

"Yes, for I should know you were still beautiful inside, and that you loved me still. I should not like you to look ugly, you know. And I shouldn't believe it was really you a bit!"

"That's my own Diamond! Then I will try to tell you all I know about it. I don't think I am just what you fancy me to be. I have to shape myself in various ways to various people. But the heart of me is true. People call me by dreadful names and think they know all about me. But they don't. Sometimes they call me Bad Fortune or Evil Chance or Ruin -- as Mr. Evans did when I sank his ship. Then people have another name for me which they think the most dreadful of all."

"What is that?" asked Diamond smiling up in her face. "And does it only mean another way in which you do them good though they think you are doing them ill?"

"Yes," answered North Wind, "it is just like that. But I will not tell you that name -- not just now. Only will you always remember, if you should hear it, not to be the least afraid of it -- or of me? Will you promise, Diamond?"

"Yes, North Wind, I promise," said Diamond. "I will never be afraid of you."

"Do you remember having to go through me to get into the country at my back?" asked North Wind, "after the long, long, long ride in the ship and the journey on the iceberg?"

"Yes, yes, I do! How tired you were, North Wind, when we got at last on to the iceberg and South Wind began to blow! And how thin and weak you grew in the beautiful blue cave in the side of the ice. Afterward when I landed and found you in the cleft in the ice ridge, sitting on your own door-step, how cold you were, North Wind! And so white, all but your lovely eyes! When I went up close to you, my own heart grew like a lump of ice. And when I tried to clasp you, the white grew so thick all about me, and then I forgot for a while."

"You were very near then, Diamond, to knowing what my other name is. But did I hurt you at all, dear boy? Would you be afraid of me if you had to go through me again?"

"No. Why should I? It was delicious to forget like that! It was like going into the softest and sweetest sleep! I should be glad enough to do it again, if it was only to get another peep at the country at your back."

"But you did not then see the real country at the back of the north wind, Diamond," said North Wind.

"Didn't I, North Wind? Oh, I'm so sorry! I thought I did. What did I see?"

"Only a picture of it -- a sort of vision of it -- and only while you seemed to be asleep. The real country at my real back is ever so much more beautiful than that. You shall see it one day -- perhaps before very long."

"Do they sing songs there?" asked Diamond.

"Yes," replied North Wind. "You have not forgotten the lovely river as clear as glass that ran over and through the grass and flowers, have you? Nor the soft sweet songs it was always singing?"

"No," said Diamond. "I remember that best of all. But I could not keep the words of any one of its songs in mind, do what I would. And I did try."

"That was my fault," said North Wind.

"How was that?" asked the little boy.

"Because I could not hear it plainly enough myself to teach it to you. But you will hear the very song itself when you get to the back of --  -- "

"My own dear North Wind," said Diamond, finishing the sentence for her, and stroking the arm that held him leaning against her.

"And now, I will take you home again," said North Wind. "It won't do to tire you too much."

"Oh, no, no!" pleaded Diamond. "I am not in the least tired."

"It is better, though," said North Wind.

"Very well; if you wish it," yielded Diamond, but with a sigh.

"You are a dear boy," said North Wind. "I will come for you again to-morrow night and take you out for a longer time. We shall make a little journey together, in fact. We shall start earlier, and as the moon will be somewhat later, we shall have clear moonlight all the way."

She rose in air and swept over the meadow and the trees. In a few minutes, "The Mound" appeared below them. She sank down to the house and floated in at the window of Diamond's room. There she laid him on his bed and covered him over. In a moment, he had sunk into a dreamless sleep.



Chapter XII

North Wind Carries Diamond Away


The next night, Diamond was tired, but was waiting eagerly for the promised visit of North Wind. He was seated by his open window, with his head on his hand and rather afraid he could not sleep. Suddenly, he started and found he had already been asleep. He looked out of the window and saw something white against his beech tree. It was North Wind. Her hair and her garments went floating away behind her over the tree whose top was swaying about while the other trees were quite still.

"Are you ready, Diamond?" she asked.

"Yes," answered Diamond, "quite ready."

In a moment, she was at the window and her arms came in and took him. She sailed away so swiftly that he could at first mark nothing but the speed with which the clouds above and the dim earth below went rushing past. Soon he began to see that the sky was very lovely with mottled clouds all about the moon on which she threw faint colours like those of an opal.

The night was warm and in North Wind's arms he did not feel the wind which down below was making waves in the ripe grain and ripples on the rivers and lakes. At length, they came down just where a little spring bubbled out of a hill side.

"I am going to take you along this little brook," said North Wind. "I am not needed for anything else to-night and we will just have a lovely little time."

She stooped over the stream and holding Diamond down close to the surface of it glided along, level with its flow, as it ran down the hill. The song of the brook came up into Diamond's ears and grew and grew and changed with every turn. It seemed to Diamond to be singing the story of its life to him. And so it was. It began with a musical tinkle which changed to a babble and then to a gentle rushing.

Sometimes its song would almost cease. Then it broke out again, tinkle, babble, and rush, all at once. At the bottom of the hill, they came to a small river into which the brook flowed with a muffled but merry sound. Along the surface of the river, darkly clear in the moonlight below them, they floated. Now, where it widened out into a little lake, they would hover for a moment over a bed of water-lilies. They watched them swing about, folded in sleep, as the water on which they leaned swayed in the presence of North Wind. Now they would watch the fishes asleep among their roots below.

Sometimes, North Wind held Diamond over a deep hollow curving into the bank and let him look far into its cool stillness. Sometimes she would leave the river and sweep across a clover field. The bees were all at home and the clover was asleep. Then she would return and follow the river. Now the armies of wheat and of oats would hang over its rush from the opposite bank. Now the willows would dip low branches into its still waters. Now it would lead them through stately trees and grassy banks into a lovely garden where the roses and lilies were asleep and the flowers folded up, or only a few awake sending out strong, sweet odours.

Wider and wider grew the stream until they came upon boats lying along its banks which rocked a little in the flutter of North Wind's garments. Then came houses on the banks, each standing in a lovely lawn with grand trees. In parts, the river was so high that some of the grass and some of the roots of the trees were under water. As they glided through the stems, Diamond could see the grass at the bottom of the water. How like it was to the river which ran through the country at the back of the north wind! And now he seemed to hear more and more clearly its murmured song till at last the words came out plainly.

The sun is gone down, And the moon's in the sky. But the sun will come up And the moon be laid by.

The flower is asleep But it is not dead. When the morning shines It will lift its head.

When winter comes Will it die? Oh, no! It will only hide From the frost and snow.

Sure is the summer, Sure is the sun. The night and the winter Are shadows that run!

They left the river and began to float about and over the houses one after another -- beautiful rich houses which like fine trees had taken hundreds of years to grow. Scarcely a light was to be seen, and not a movement to be heard. All the people lay fast asleep in dreams.

But a little later they came floating past a window in which a light was burning. Diamond heard a moan coming from it and looked up anxiously into North Wind's face. By a shaded lamp, a lady in a soft white wrapper sat trying to read and forget the pain which made her moan softly while she read. North Wind seemed to read Diamond's thought and floated silently in at the window. Diamond began singing softly the song of the river with its soothing murmuring strain. When he finished, out of the window they slipped away and floated on.

"Did she hear, North Wind?" said Diamond. "Did she know we were trying to help her -- and will it help her?"

"She heard you," answered North Wind. "She heard with her heart, though, and not with her ears. She will not forget, but she will never understand till --  -- "

"Till she gets to the back of the north wind," said Diamond.

North Wind smiled. Then she turned so that he could look down at the place over which they were passing.

"Oh!" he cried out suddenly. "I know where we are now. This is my old home before we moved into the city. Do let me get down and go into the old garden, North Wind, and run into mother's room, and into old Diamond's stall. I wonder if the hole is at the back of my bed still -- your window, you know. Oh, I should like to stay here all the rest of the night! It won't take you long to get home from here, will it, North Wind?"

"No," she answered; "you shall stay as long as you like."

"Oh, how jolly!" cried Diamond.

North Wind sailed over the house with him and set him down on the lawn at the back. Diamond ran about the lawn for a little while in the moonlight. He found part of it cut up into flower beds and the small summer house and great elm tree were gone. It was so changed! He didn't like it and ran into the stable. There were no horses there at all. He ran upstairs but the rooms were all empty. The only thing left that he cared about was the hole in the wall where his little bed had stood. All besides was desolate. He turned and ran down the stairs again and out upon the lawn. There he threw himself down and began to cry. It was all so dreary and lost!

"I liked the place so much!" he thought to himself. "But now -- there is nothing left to like. I suppose it is only the people in a place that make you like it and when they are gone there is nothing left to like. It's as if it were dead! North Wind told me I might stop as long as I wanted to, but I have stopped too long already! Oh, North Wind!" he cried aloud turning his face up toward the sky.

The moon was under a cloud and all was looking dull and dismal. A star shot from the sky. It fell in the grass beside him. The moment it lighted, there stood North Wind!

"Oh!" cried Diamond joyfully. "Were you the shooting star?"

"Yes," said North Wind.

"And did you hear me call?"

"Yes."

"As high up as that?"

"Yes, I heard you quite well."

"Take me home, North Wind. Take me home!"

"Have you had enough of your old home already?"

"Yes. It is not home here any more."

"Why is that, do you think?" asked North Wind.

"Is it because its soul is gone? Yes, that must be it, is it not, North Wind?"

"Yes, Diamond, that is it. Its soul is gone," said North Wind.

She lifted him into her arms to bear him away. How long they floated about he did not know. But presently all was changed. He was in his own room again. And there was North Wind in the doorway of the long narrow room that opened out of his room, and in which the night before he was dancing when he looked up to find his lifted hands clasped in hers and saw her lovely face smiling down upon him.

Now she was a different North Wind. She was just as he had seen her sitting on her own door-step in the far, far north. She was as white as snow and her eyes as blue as the heart of an iceberg.

"That's how she would look when she thought I might be afraid of her," he said to himself. Then he spoke aloud. "I am not afraid of you, dear North Wind," he cried. "See! I am not a bit afraid of you!" Stretching out both his hands to clasp her he pressed up close against her and laid his head upon her breast. And then he fell asleep.

In the morning, they found little Diamond lying on the floor of the big attic room -- fast asleep, as they thought, and with such a happy smile on his face. But when they took him up, they found he was not asleep. He had gone to that lovely country at the back of the north wind -- to stay.

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The Girl Scouts In Beechwood Forest

By

Margaret Vandercook



Chapter I

Flame


The flame ascended, ending in a little spiral of smoke curling upward in the night air.

Overhead the stars shone, the pine trees formed dark shadows.

Within the radius of the firelight a girl leaned forward, her eyes fastened upon a drawing she held in her lap. One could see only vague outlines. The light danced over the figure of the girl, her bright, reddish-gold hair, cut short and held in place with an amber comb, her slender shoulders, the unconsciously graceful poise of her body.

She turned to glance anxiously at another figure lying outstretched upon the ground only a few feet away.

This girl appeared to be sleeping. Her eyes were closed and she was breathing fitfully.

Suddenly she opened her eyes and smiled.

"Tory Drew, aren't you ever going to sleep?" she demanded. "Is it your intention to sit up all night and keep guard over me? I told you that I was not suffering in the least. My fall seems not to have injured me, only for some strange reason has made it difficult for me to walk. We have been longing to spend a night out of doors alone ever since we arrived at our camp in Beechwood Forest. This is an unexpected opportunity, yet you do not look grateful. Small wonder if you are never going to sleep! What time do you think it is?"

Victoria Drew leaned closer toward the fire and looked at her wrist watch.

"It is half-past twelve o'clock, Kara. The witching hour over and I have seen no woodland spirits come to haunt us, and no human beings. I am afraid my signals have failed to attract attention. The other girls at camp must have decided to give us up for lost and await our return in the morning; I am sorry for your sake. Are you sure you are not uncomfortable?"

Tory arose and bent over her companion, not so convinced that the entire absence from pain, which Kara insisted upon, was absolute proof that she was not seriously hurt.

In the firelight the other girl's face appeared white and unreal. To any one so impressionable as Tory the past few hours bore a semblance of unreality.

Early in the morning of the previous day she and Katherine Moore had set out from their camp in Beechwood Forest to spend the day alone among the hills. For some time they had been planning this excursion when the duties and amusements of camp life made a break possible. How differently from their plan and expectation this day had gone!

As Kara was beginning to fall asleep again Tory need no longer conceal her anxiety.

By the fire, now freshly piled with pine cones and branches, she sat down and propping her chin in her hands, gazed deep into the burning embers.

The night was very still, save for a light wind in the tree tops.

On the ground beside her, with a stone keeping them from blowing away, lay the result of her day's work. She had sketched all morning while Kara wandered about or else rested and read.

Before daylight they had wakened in their Girl Scout Camp in Beechwood Forest. By dawn, with their luncheon packed and her sketching outfit, they had set out to explore the heart of the hills, a purple rim bordering the far side of their own camping site.

During the previous winter in the small Connecticut village Tory faithfully had fulfilled her promise to her artist father. She had made no attempt to go on with her drawing and painting, devoting all her time and energy to her school, her new home and her Girl Scout Troop.

With summer had come the release from her promise.

These days of camping in the woods with the other Girl Scouts recalled the enchanting months outdoors she had spent with her father. Every green tree outlined against the summer sky, their canoes on the lake before the camping grounds, the Girl Scouts at work or at play, all were pictures Tory longed to transfer to line and color.

Until to-day the business of getting settled at their summer camp had left scant opportunity for artistic effort outside the camping arrangements.

Tory picked up the pile of sketches on the ground beside her. She studied each one carefully and then tossed it into the fire.

Her present work was valueless; she had become so hopelessly out of practice.

Finally her eyes rested on a single sheet of drawing paper. On the instant her expression altered. This sketch was not without worth. She had drawn it with pastels and in the light from the camp fire. The lines were crude and the colors too vivid, but it showed the figure of a girl lying on the ground, her eyelids closed, her figure expressing a curious quiet.

The lower part of the body was covered.

At present Tory Drew was without the khaki coat which she had worn earlier in the day. Beside the figure the smoke and flame of the camp fire formed light and shadow.

Tory sighed.

"At least this will serve for our camp log! The other girls can see how Kara looked during this interminable night. She will be able to write the account of her fall. I remember that I was diligently at work upon an impossible drawing of a line of hills when I heard the noise of a landslide. There was a sound of earth and rocks being torn from their foundation and tumbling and sliding down an embankment. I scarcely looked up. Kara had disappeared for a walk, so there was no one to whom I might mention the fact. Certainly I had no thought of associating the noise with her."

Again Tory arose. This time she moved farther from the fire, walking restlessly up and down toward the clearing which opened into a dark forest of evergreens.

The night was a mild summer night. There was in the atmosphere the coolness of the wooded places surrounding them.

Her fire signals had not been observed on either side of the hill. Tory's impression was that their camp of "The Eagle's Wing" lay to the west of the hill, although by no means immediately below it. On the eastern slope and nearer by was the Boy Scout camp. This camp the girls of her own Troop had been deliberately ignoring.

At present Tory realized that she would gladly accept aid from either or any direction.

Had Kara been well and awake, or if they had been able to dream beside one another, the long night would have proved a delightful experience.

From the depth of the woods an owl was crying. Tory repressed a slight shudder, controlling her nerves by an effort. The sound recalled the vague moaning that first aroused her to any knowledge of Kara's accident. Once more she could see Kara lying at the bottom of a tiny precipice. Her face was covered with rocks and earth, but there was no sign that she had fallen any distance or been seriously hurt.

Now in retrospection Tory could see Kara smiling up at her in the old humorous fashion. She could hear her voice with the gentle drawl that had attracted her so strongly at their original meeting.

"Most extraordinary thing, Tory darling. I slid off that small embankment a short time ago, bringing most of it along with me. I was considerably bumped and I presume bruised, but not hurt. However, I decided to lie still here for a while until I recovered my nerves and disposition. Then I tried to climb back to you for consolation and found that my legs would crumple under me in the most absurd fashion. So I fell to making disagreeable noises so you would come and find me. What are we going to do, Tory? I can't walk and I weigh too much for you to carry."

Yet she must have carried her, or else Kara must have been able to walk a little! Somehow they had managed to reach this clearing nearer the summit of the hill. Here a fire signal could be more plainly observed.

Six hours had passed. Not for five minutes had Tory allowed the fire signal to die down. No one had replied either by another signal or by coming to their rescue.

Fortunately Kara slept the greater part of the time. Now that the night was fully advanced she would be more comfortable where she was than carried down the mountainside, where there was no well defined path. One had to seek the easiest way between the trees.

For her own part Tory concluded that she might as well attempt to sleep for as long as her fire could be trusted to continue burning.

The pine wood was filled with brush and the night so bright she could find without difficulty what she was seeking.

Returning, Tory smothered over the fire so that it might burn for some time without replenishing. She then lay down beside Kara.

Toward morning she must have dreamed. She woke with the impression that a number of years had passed, or what seemed a long passage of time, and in the interval she and Kara had been searching the world over for each other and unable to meet.

Glad she was to reach over and touch her companion, who scarcely had stirred.

Already the sky was streaked with light, palest rose and blue.

Strengthened and refreshed, Tory set to work again. The summer morning was exquisite, the odor of the pine trees never so fragrant, nor the air so delicious.

Failing in her signals for help the evening before, she now determined to make a more strenuous effort. Intending to return to camp before dusk, she and Kara had neglected to bring a flashlight or a lantern which might have proved more effective.

With the coming of darkness she had not relied on solid columns of black smoke being seen at any distance. Now on a farther ridge of the hill she arranged two such smoke columns, remembering that two steady smokes side by side mean "I am lost, come and help me."

If she failed a second time, she determined to go down the hill until she was able to secure aid. But this meant leaving Kara alone, which even for a short time she did not wish to do.

The waiting was the difficult task. To her own embarrassment Tory realized that she was thinking more of her own hunger than of Kara's need as the minutes wore on and no one arrived. Fortunately she had saved a small quantity of coffee in their thermos bottle the day before. This must be for Kara when she finally awakened.

There was nothing to occupy one save to rise now and then and stir the hot ashes to a fresh blaze, covering them afterwards with the green wood of the small beeches that straggled up the hill away from the shadow of the pines.

The noise of footsteps up the mountainside actually failed to arouse Tory until they were not far away.

She first heard an exclamation from Kara. She had not been so sound asleep for the past hour as she had preferred to pretend.

Kara sat up, her arms outstretched as if she were a child begging to be lifted up.

Tory started toward her. She then turned and ran forward with a cry of relief. Had Fate allowed her to choose her own and Kara's rescuers she would have selected the two figures now appearing at the brow of the east side of the hill. They wore the uniforms of Boy Scouts and were the brothers of one of the girls in her own Patrol. They were also her own intimate friends.

"Don, Lance!" Tory exclaimed, a little breathless and incoherent. "How in the world did you find this impossible place? Kara and I have been fearing we might have to stay here always!"

Don held out his hand and caught Tory's, giving it a reassuring pressure. He was a big, blue-eyed fellow with fair hair and a splendid physique.

In contrast Victoria Drew appeared small and fragile and incapable.

Lance McClain was entirely unlike his brother in appearance. He was dark and small. He went directly to the girl who seemed most to require his help.

As she struggled to rise at his approach and was not able, Lance knelt down on the grass beside her, while Kara explained what had occurred.

Never, Tory Drew decided, would she forget the aspect of their own camp in Beechwood Forest, when an hour or more later she, in the lead, caught the first glimpse of it. It was as if one had struggled through one of the circles of Purgatory to reach Paradise at last.

Actually a few lines from Dante that her father had recited many times returned to Tory's memory:

"My senses down, when the true path I left; But when a mountain foot I reached, where closed The valley that had pierced my heart with dread, I looked aloft and saw his shoulders broad Already vested with that planet's beam, Who leads all wanderers safe through every way."

The way had been difficult with Kara helpless.

With their arms forming a kind of basket chair and Kara's arms about their necks, Donald and Lance had moved slowly down the hillside.

Once Tory became aware that Lance looked almost as ill and exhausted as Kara herself.

Don's color continued as ruddy, his eyes as blue and serene and his expression as steadfast as the moment when they had set out on the descent of the hill. To call attention to the fact that Lance was less able to endure the fatigue, Tory knew from past experience would anger him.

Curious that no one in their own camp appeared to have been alarmed by their night's absence!

The morning bugle must have sounded more than an hour before. The early drill was over.

By the open fire Tory now beheld Dorothy McClain and Louise Miller preparing breakfast.

Placing her hands to her lips she uttered their Scout signal call.



Chapter II

Looking Backward


A few minutes later Donald and Lance McClain were standing in the open space before the Girl Scout camp. They were facing a number of the girls and their Scout Captain, Sheila Mason, as well.

Slightly in the background and yet within hearing, Victoria Drew waited.

Kara was lying on the cot inside her own tent. Tory's friends had suggested that she follow Kara's example and allow breakfast to be brought to her. Surely she looked weary enough after a night of such anxiety!

Tory had her own reasons for declining. Now as she overheard the beginning of the conversation she was glad of her own decision.

"We are sorry to have intruded upon you even for a short time, Miss Mason," Donald McClain protested. "We know that you have asked that no member of our Scout camp come within your boundaries this summer. Of course you appreciate that the present circumstances left Lance and me no choice. Last night Lance insisted that he saw the light from a fire on one of the hills which he believed was a signal for help. The rest of us talked him out of the idea. The fire was plain enough, but we were under the impression that some one was spending the night on the hill-top and had kindled the fire either for cooking or companionship. Lance is an obstinate chap and was not altogether convinced. He arose at dawn and discovered the two smoke columns. He wakened no one but me. We set out and were lucky enough to find Tory and Kara without much trouble. We must say good-by to you at once. The other fellows will not know what has become of us, as we can't reach our own camp for another two hours."

Impulsively Tory Drew made a little forward movement. She then observed Lance's eyes fastened upon her with the half-humorous, half-quizzical expression she frequently found annoying. What was there in the present moment to amuse him, save her own intention to come immediately to Donald's defense? He so rarely made a speech to any stranger so long as this one to the Girl Scout Troop Captain. When the four of them were together, she and Dorothy McClain, Lance and Don, Lance often accused her of talking for Don.

At this instant, however, Sheila Mason extended her hand toward Donald with a friendly gesture.

"We have been anxious for the opportunity to explain to you and Lance that in asking the Boy Scouts not to pay visits to our camp this summer, we did not intend to include you. We have talked of this to your sister, but Dorothy has had no opportunity, she tells me, to speak of it to you. We realize you could not have taken part in the rude behavior of the other boys the night following our making camp here at the border of the forest."

Sheila Mason, the Troop Captain of the Girl Scouts of the Eagle's Wing, was only about ten years older than the youngest member of her Troop.

In the early morning sunlight she looked charming in her brown khaki skirt and white blouse. Her long, light hair was braided close about her small head, her fair skin tanned by the outdoor life of the past few weeks, and color brighter than at any time in her life.

It was now midsummer, with days of unusual heat and nights of enchanting coolness.

There was no trace of severity in the Troop Captain's manner or appearance, but Donald McClain flushed uncomfortably and closed his lips into the obstinate lines Tory so well recognized.

She wished Dorothy for a moment would be less faithful to her task of preparing breakfast. Mingling with the other outdoor fragrances, the odor of the coffee gave Tory a sensation of momentary faintness from sheer hunger.

Don had squared his shoulders. Not sixteen, he was nearly six feet in height and splendidly built.

"You are mistaken, Miss Mason. I was with the other Boy Scouts the night we came over to your camp. We meant to frighten you a little and to find out a few of the mistakes you were pretty sure to make on your first camping venture, nothing worse! We had no idea you'd take a little teasing so seriously. Some of us may not have behaved as well as we should, but nothing for the girls to have made a tragedy over."

Donald was not intending to offend the Girl Scout Captain more deeply, but tact was not his strong point.

Why did Lance fail to come to his brother's rescue? Tory flashed an indignant glance at him. He possessed, when he wished, the gift of expression his brother lacked. Lance's occasional moods of silence were due either to disappointment or anger.

Arriving a stranger in Westhaven the winter before, among Victoria Drew's first acquaintances were Dorothy McClain and her six brothers. Their father was the leading physician in Westhaven and an old friend of her aunt and uncle. They were neighbors as well.

In the beginning Tory had believed she preferred Lance to any of the other boys. He was Dorothy's favorite among her brothers, a delicate, musical chap, partly admired and partly scorned by the five who were stronger and more matter of fact.

Lance's passion for music, of which he knew but little, his desire to be left alone, his failure in most athletic sports, the rest of his family found annoying and amusing.

Lance McClain alone was like his mother who had died some years before, the others like Dr. McClain.

"Lance, why in the world don't you help Don out? You know he will only make things worse if left to himself." Tory whispered at this moment.

"Want to save Don at my expense? All right, Tory," he answered quizzically in the voice and manner Tory never really understood.

Lance moved forward and now stood close beside Miss Mason.

His golden-brown eyes and his sensitive mouth relieved his face from plainness, although he was considered the least good looking member of his family.

At present he was smiling in a charming fashion.

"See here, Miss Mason," he began speaking slowly, "I don't suppose you can imagine what a difficult thing it is to have a brother who is always putting you in the wrong? Oh, not intentionally, but by everlastingly doing the right thing and then trying to take the blame for your mistakes!

"Don did not want us to come to your camp and make a scene. He is our Patrol leader and we should have done what he advised. Only we wouldn't and didn't! He came along at last more to keep the rest of us out of mischief than because he wanted to be in it."

Lance drew his brows together so they became a fine line.

"Wonder if I've got to make a clean breast of the whole business? Don is everlastingly forcing me to play up to him when I would not otherwise. The suggestion that we hike over to the girls' camp and see what was going on originated with me. Don and I had been telling Dorothy you would never get things in shape over here without help from us, or men in the village. Your Girl Scout Troop has been claiming that you could accomplish all the things we do and a few other things beside. We did not believe you and wished to see for ourselves. I was sorry and mad as Don when some of the fellows went too far. We had a call-down from our Captain and have been looking for a chance to apologize. Do try and forget it, won't you? If your Girl Scouts will swoop down on us unexpectedly and be double the nuisance that we were, we are willing to call it square."

Sheila Mason laughed. Margaret Hale, the Patrol leader and one of Victoria Drew's intimate friends, who had joined the group during Lance's speech, shook her head. She was a tall, serious looking girl with clear-cut features and a graceful manner.

"Lance, I don't believe a Boy Scout Troop is supposed to employ a lawyer. You strike me as a special pleader. You had better go in for the law instead of music. We are not so cranky that we would have objected to an ordinary descent upon us, even with the idea of showing us what inferior creatures we are. But when it comes to trying to frighten us, and some of the more timid girls were frightened, you behaved as if you were wild Indians."

Lance held up a white handkerchief.

"This is a token of complete surrender. We ask the courtesy due the defeated, Miss Mason. Please don't allow Margaret to rake up the past. Don and I must be off now to camp. Sorry you won't give us a message of forgiveness to carry back. May we speak to Dorothy? Evidently she is more interested in her breakfast than in her brothers."

"Nonsense, Lance, you and Don must have breakfast with us before you leave," Miss Mason answered. "I cannot bury the hatchet, Indian fashion, because the Girl Scouts must decide themselves whether or not you are forgiven."

Approaching in their direction at this moment, her face flushed and holding a long toasting fork in one hand, was Dorothy McClain.

She was only a year and a few months younger than her two brothers and looked very like Don, save that her hair was chestnut and her eyes a darker blue.

"Don, Lance, how glad I am you had the good luck to come to Tory's and Kara's aid! I have made a double amount of toast and there are six more eggs added to our usual supply for breakfast. I thought you would appreciate this sisterly attention more than rushing to greet you at once. I saw you were not lonely."

"Good to see you, Dot. You are looking in great shape, only we must be off at once," Donald answered, still appearing uncomfortable and obstinate.

Between Dorothy and Tory Drew a signal was flashed of which no one of the small group save Lance McClain was aware.

"Please stay, Don," Tory begged, moving forward and standing beside him. She scarcely came up to his shoulder. "Edith Linder has gone to Miss Frean's cottage to ask her to come to Kara at once. She is to try to telephone for your father. If not, one of us must ride in to town for him. But perhaps he might want you to be here when he arrives in case there is anything to be done, if Kara has to be lifted. Oh, I don't know anything, except that I am dreadfully worried over her."

Don softened.

"Oh, of course if there is any chance Lance or I can be of further use we'll be glad to stay. You ought to go to bed, Tory, and not wait for father."

Tory shook her head. Her face was whiter than usual from anxiety and fatigue, yet Donald McClain liked her appearance.

His brothers and other people might insist there were several girls in the Girl Scout Troop of the Eagle's Wing far prettier than Victoria Drew -- Teresa Peterson, with her half Italian beauty, his own sister, Dorothy, Joan Peters, with her regular features and patrician air. Don knew that Tory possessed a charm and vividness, a quickness of thought and a grace of movement more attractive to him than ordinary beauty.

Forgetting their companions, they walked off together, leaving the others to follow.

"If you only knew how I have been longing to show you our camp in Beechwood Forest, Don! Please say you think it is wonderful," Tory pleaded.



Chapter III

Their Camp


They were seated along the edge of the lake, six girls and their two visitors. The water was a still, dim blue reflection of the sky with one deep shadow from the hill of pines. Away from the hill and the lake stood the forest of beechwood trees.

In an open space on a little rise of ground half within, half without the forest, lay the summer camp of the Girl Scouts of the Eagle's Wing.

A little brown house built of logs was almost entirely covered with vines, a tangle of woodbine and honeysuckle and wistaria. Only from the windows and the door had the vines been cut away. The house looked extremely ancient, older than the slender beeches that formed a semicircle to the rear and left. Beyond the door, thick with deep green shade on this midsummer morning, towered a single giant beech which appeared to have moved out a few yards from its forest shelter to act as a sentinel for the log cabin.

The cabin had been erected so many years before that no one in the vicinity remembered its origin. Finding the location an ideal one for their camp, the little house had been restored, the chimney to the single fireplace made over, the glass added to the window frames, open spaces between the logs replastered.

The log house formed the center of the camp.

On each side at irregular distances were three tents, one row advancing from the forest, the other receding into it.

To-day there was an unusual stillness about the camp itself at an hour of the morning ordinarily a busy and active one.

Now and then some one appeared, hastily accomplished whatever the task and vanished.

Even the little group on the shore of the lake continued unusually quiet. When any one did speak it was with a lowered voice.

Five of the six girls were occupied. Only Tory Drew's hands were idle. They moved frequently with unconscious gestures characteristic of her temperament and the fact that she had lived a number of years in the Latin countries where the hands are used to communicate one's meaning as well as speech.

She made a sweeping movement of her hand at this instant, appearing to include the lake, forest, hillside and the small group of tents about the evergreen cabin.

"You have not yet said, Don, that you consider our camp superior to yours, when I am perfectly convinced that it is, without having laid eyes on yours. Lance has given me the impression that he agrees with me. He has not exactly said so in any words I can recall, but he can be tactful when he likes. You are always so tiresomely silent, Don, whether you think a thing true or not true. I always know when you are most silent your opinion is the strongest one way or the other."

Don was silent. Yet he knew the group of girls were awaiting his reply with almost as great interest as Tory.

Finally he smiled in a handsome, good-humored fashion.

"Don't see why you should object to my not talking a great deal, Tory, when it gives you and Dorothy and Lance more opportunity."

He turned around, however, studying the little camp in the shadow of the old forest with careful scrutiny. Donald McClain did not think quickly nor could he express his point of view until he had given a subject serious consideration.

"I don't see any comparison between your Girl Scout camp and our own, Tory," he returned at length. "The two camps are not in the least alike. In the first place, you tell me that you have only fourteen Girl Scouts and we have nearly forty boys. Of course things look neater and more picturesque here, with girls one expects this. Our problem is different. I have an idea we have more discipline and do more hard work."

Tory Drew looked annoyed.

Dorothy McClain took up the defense.

"I am not so sure of the work and the discipline, Don. We do everything at our camp, the cooking, washing and cleaning. We have been pretending that we were members of Penelope's household. If you have never read the 'Odyssey' you won't know what I am talking about. Joan Peters we sometimes call Penelope. She is everlastingly at her weaving, but does not unravel her web at night that she has woven in the daytime. She is not troubled by Penelope's importunate suitors. Tory at present is the Princess Nausicaa, the daughter of the King Alcinous, who conducts the family washing as a part of her work. I won't bore you with all our distinguished titles.

"As for discipline! I don't mean to be rude and I am glad you did not wish your Troop of Scouts to descend upon us like a band of Indians on a group of pioneer women. Still, I would scarcely be proud of such discipline."

"See here, Dorothy, what is the use? You know you are reflecting upon me, not upon old Don. But with my well-known amiability I forgive you. Whose idea was it that you pretend to be Greek heroines as well as American Girl Scouts?" Lance inquired in the tone that nearly always brought peace.

"Oh, we have not gone into the idea seriously," Joan Peters returned. Her head was bent over the square frame she held in her lap, her fingers busy with the strands of flax. "Miss Frean comes to camp every few evenings and reads aloud to us. She insists that we are too frivolous in our own summer reading and wishes to read us something we ought to remember."

Joan Peters liked Lance McClain. She was a great reader and perhaps because of his more delicate health Lance did not feel the same scorn of books that Donald affected.

With a swift movement Tory arose suddenly. Apparently she forgot the group of friends close about her. She clasped her hands tightly together, her eyes suddenly looked larger and darker, her lips twitched.

The Girl Scouts of the Eagle's Wing had chosen silver and gold as their camp colors.

Near the spot where Tory was standing lay two canoes. One was golden in color with an eagle's wing in silver on the bow, the other the opposite color scheme. Tory's own khaki costume looked golden in the sunlight. The water was now silver.

Don had a fleeting impression that Tory intended to jump into one of the canoes and disappear from sight.

Now and then she affected him curiously. He never knew what she intended to do or say. She thought so quickly, moved so swiftly, and he was stupid and slow.

At the present moment he was puzzled and troubled by her sudden look of intense unhappiness. The instant before she had been arguing the respective merits of the two camps and had appeared cheerful as usual.

"What is the matter, Tory? You are the most startling person! You upset one," Teresa Peterson protested.

She glanced toward Donald and then toward Lance McClain for their attention or approval.

Teresa was unlike the other Girl Scouts. She was extremely pretty with dusky hair that curled about a low forehead and soft rose colored cheeks. She gave one an impression of sweetness and yet one could not be sure of her actual character. She seemed always anxious for attention and the approval of other people. Several of the girls in her Patrol felt that Teresa was unnecessarily self-conscious before a masculine audience.

At this instant Tory Drew returned her glance. Her face showed bewilderment.

"Why, Teresa, how can you ask what is troubling me? Is one of us thinking any other thought? Of course we have had to talk of other things, but nothing matters except what Dr. McClain may at this moment be deciding about Kara. You know we all care for her more than any other girl at camp. She has had so much more to contend with than the rest of us even before this.

"She thought first of our camp in Beechwood Forest and we used to talk of it when it did not seem a possibility. The day of her accident Kara told me the past few weeks had been the happiest of her life."

Tory walked away from the others.

"I have been trying to keep my word and stay here with you until after Dr. McClain had seen Kara. Now I cannot wait any longer. I am sure something more dreadful than any of us realize has happened."

Margaret Hale rose and slipped her arm inside the other girl's.

"We will go back together. You are more nervous over Kara than need be because of the strain of last night."

They moved on a few yards.

Coming out of the cabin they could see Dr. McClain, Miss Frean and Sheila Mason. Dr. McClain, assisted by the two women, was bearing Kara in his arms.

Before Margaret and Tory reached them, he had placed Kara in his motor car and they were driving away.



Chapter IV

Right About, Face


Tory toiled up the long, hot street, her arms filled with packages, her face flushed.

How different the atmosphere from the cool green shade of Beechwood Forest!

At the end of the street upon a rise of ground stood the Old Gray House. This had been Katherine Moore's name for the house, accepted and used by the town of Westhaven. To-day it appeared what it actually was: the village orphan asylum.

No longer could Kara's optimism conceal reality from Victoria Drew.

The house showed blistered and bare of paint. The open space of yard, green and fresh in the springtime, when she and Kara oftentimes sat outdoors to dream and plan, was now baked brown and sere.

The children playing in the yard behind the tall iron fence looked tired and cross, a little like prisoners to Tory's present state of mind.

She had come in from camp early in the day and had spent several hours at home with her uncle, Mr. Richard Fenton. Their own house was empty save for his presence. Miss Victoria had gone for a month's holiday to the sea.

After a talk with her uncle and an hour's shopping, she was now on her way to call upon Kara.

She saw a mental picture of Kara's small room on the top floor of the Gray House. How proud Kara had been because she need share her room with no one!

And what a place to be shut up in when one was ill!

For Kara's sake Tory had endeavored to view this room with Kara's eyes. Kara loved it and the old Gray House that had sheltered her since babyhood, her refuge when apparently deserted by the parents she had never known.

Victoria Drew was an artist. This did not mean that necessarily she was possessed of an artist's talent, but of the artist's temperament. Besides, had she not lived with her artist father wandering about the most beautiful countries in Europe[A] until her arrival in Westhaven the winter before?

If this temperament oftentimes allowed Tory to color humdrumness with rose, it also gave her a sensitive distaste to what other people might not feel so intensely.

With half a dozen of the children in the yard of the Gray House, Tory now stopped to talk a few moments. Never before could she recall wanting to see Kara so much and so little at the same time.

Of the two children who had been Kara's special charges and her own favorites, only the boy remained.

His eyes bluer and more wistful than formerly, Billy Duncan came forward to speak to Tory.

He seemed older and thinner and less the cherub she remembered.

The children who were his playmates could have told her that Billy had altered since the departure of his adored companion, Lucy Martin, the little girl who had been adopted by Mr. and Mrs. Jeremy Hammond a few months before.

Lucy Martin had been an odd little girl, full of fire and passion and wilfulness. Blindly and adoringly Billy had followed her until her departure from the Gray House.

Afterwards he never spoke of her or asked for her, although at first she often demanded his presence and came to the Gray House to see him. Of late, however, Lucy had ceased to appear.

"Do you miss Lucy?" Tory inquired at this instant and was sorry for her own stupidity.

Billy merely shook his head. He always had been a dull little boy. One had been fond of him because of his sweetness and placidity, not for any brilliance.

Slipping a gift inside Billy's pockets, Tory ran on up to the Gray House, comforting herself with the idea that the little boy was incapable of feeling anything deeply.

The fact that Lucy had lost her affection for Kara, who had been like a devoted older sister, was more serious.

The door stood open so that Tory entered the wide hall of the old house without ringing the bell. She had come often enough during the past winter and spring to be a privileged character.

At the bottom of the long flight of stairs she paused a moment. Warm and out of breath, she did not wish Kara to guess at her rebellious mood when she arrived at the little room up under the eaves.

"You won't find Kara upstairs in her old room. Let me show you where she is," a voice called, as Tory placed her foot on the first stair.

The big room had been a back parlor in the days when the Gray House had been the residence of a prosperous farmer. This was before the village of Westhaven had drawn so close to it.

By the window in a wheeled chair sat a small figure crouched so low that had she not known it could be no one else, Tory would scarcely have recognized her.

Since her night and Kara's together on the hillside only a week had gone by. Could one week have altered Kara's appearance and her nature?

Her impulse to go toward the figure and gather her in her arms, Tory carefully repressed.

Kara's expression, as she raised her eyes at her approach, was almost forbidding.

Tory also repressed the exclamation that rose to her lips.

How white and thin the other girl's face appeared! The humorous, gayly challenging look with which she had met former trials and difficulties had vanished. The lines of Kara's mouth were tired and old, the gray eyes with the long dark lashes, her one claim to beauty, were dark and rebellious.

"You have taken your own time to come to see me, Tory. I have been here at the orphan asylum nearly a week and this is the first time you or any member of my Girl Scout Patrol has honored me with a call. I can't say I altogether blame you. It certainly is pleasanter at our camp in Beechwood Forest than in this place!"

Tory's arms went around Kara's shoulders, her bright red lips touched the other girl's brown hair.

"You know I have wanted to come to you every minute in the twenty-four hours, dear, and every member of your Patrol has wanted to come as well, besides Miss Mason and Miss Frean and all the rest. To-day I am regarded as the most privileged person in the camp because I am first to see you. Dr. McClain only consented last night to allow me to come. I am to bring you everybody's love and to demand that you stay away from camp only the shortest time. Otherwise we intend to call on Dr. McClain in a body and assert our authority as Girl Scouts to bring you home to Beechwood Forest. Anyone save a doctor would know you would sooner grow strong again there than here."

As she talked, partly as a relief from nervousness and to hide her consternation over Kara's changed appearance, Tory was moving about the room arranging her gifts.

In a vase filled with water from a pitcher standing on a table she placed a bouquet of faded wild flowers.

The room became fragrant with the scent of wild hyacinths, ragged robins, cornflowers and daisies. By a low bowl piled with peaches and grapes, she put two magazines and a new book.

"Uncle Richard sent you the things to read, Kara. I should like to have brought more, but could not manage to carry them."

Still Kara made no reply. She scarcely had glanced at the offerings.

"Sorry the flowers are so faded. I think they will look better after a time. I had not the cruelty to decline to bring them, as Edith Linder and Teresa Peterson rose up this morning and gathered them in the dew to send you. I have brought our camp log for the past week."

Conscious of the wall between herself and her companion, Tory was aware that she was talking of trivialities until the moment when Kara would admit her inside her closed citadel.

How long before she would speak a second time?

Walking over toward Kara, Tory took a low seat beside the wheeled chair.

With a swift gesture of affection she placed a square book on Kara's lap. The book was of heavy paper, golden in color back and front and with silver-gray leaves inside. On the outside cover was a painting of an eagle's wing.

"This is the first time we have ever had a written history of our week at camp, Kara dear. But we decided the other night at our Troop meeting to arrange this to bring to you. So whatever we dropped into the big box in front of Miss Mason's tent we put inside this book. I have made some sketches and Joan Peters has written a poem dedicated to you. Please look for yourself, won't you?"

Kara turned away her eyes.

Still Tory had no sensation of anger, only a kind of nervous fear. More than any one who ever knew her could have imagined here was a different Kara!

She now pushed aside the little magazine with a gesture of annoyance.

"I don't want to know what you have been doing at camp, Tory. I never want to hear any mention of our Girl Scouts again. You must erase my name from our Patrol list and find some one else to fill my place."

A valiant effort, Tory's to smile, when in the other girl's voice and manner there was so much to make smiling difficult.

"When that day arrives, Kara, I presume I also shall wish to resign from the Girl Scouts. It is hard to imagine when we both care so deeply. Has anyone or anything offended you? Do you feel I am responsible for your accident? If you realized how many times during the past week I have wondered if this were true. I did ask Miss Mason for permission to allow us to go for the day alone. I told her that I could sketch so much better without any companion save you. She reproaches herself now as much as I do and says as our Troop Captain the mistake was hers. But we promised not to go far from camp and were accustomed to the neighborhood."

"Don't be stupid, Tory. I have not forgotten that I first suggested the plan to you. We wanted a day to ourselves."

Kara had spoken. At least this much had been accomplished, although her tone remained hard and uninterested.

Suddenly her head went down until her face was hidden.

"Don't you know, Tory, darling? Has no one told you or the other Girl Scouts of our Troop? Dr. McClain promised me that he would tell you. I can't come back to our camp in Beechwood Forest, I cannot be a Girl Scout. I may never be able to walk again. No, I do not suffer, I never have suffered, that is the dreadful part of it."

Kara's hands now clutched the other girl's shoulders.

"Tory, don't look at me like that. It may not be true always."

 --  -- -

[A] See "Girl Scouts of the Eagle's Wing."



Chapter V

A Discussion


"The land that is always afternoon," Joan Peters quoted dreamily.

Twelve girls were seated in a circle in a clearing in Beechwood Forest. Save for the fact that fallen logs formed their resting place here was a modern American "Agora of Mycanae," the well polished circle of stones, where the earliest of civilized peoples sat for council and judgment.

The afternoon sunlight slanted through the deep polished green of the trees.

A few moments before, the other girls had been earnestly talking, then had ensued a thoughtful silence and Jean's irrelevant speech.

"I never have understood exactly what that expression means, but it always has had a fascination for me," she continued. "Please don't think I am forgetting what we have been discussing this last hour. To my mind there can be no two ways of looking at it. The only problem we have is Kara. And, thank goodness, we do not have to decide what is wisest and best for her."

Seated beside Joan, Tory Drew remained oddly still. Quiet either of body or mind was an unusual phase with her. Life and movement were her natural characteristics, more marked than with most girls.

"I wish I could think as Joan does, that the decision does not rest with us and we must be content," she added finally. "I feel as if I knew it was the only thing for Kara to come back to us and as if no one and nothing could induce me to think otherwise."

"Not a very sensible point of view, Victoria," a voice answered.

In the tone there was a different enunciation. In the voice there was a different emphasis from the other Girl Scouts. Besides, no one of them ever spoke to Tory without using her abbreviated title.

The girl who had made the remark was different in manner, appearance and costume from the rest of the group, although not conspicuously so. Martha Greaves was an English girl who had crossed the ocean early in the summer with Tory Drew's father and step-mother to spend the summer in Westhaven. She was singularly tall with light brown hair and gray-blue eyes.

After she had spoken she appeared a little embarrassed as if she regretted having called the attention of the other girls to her presence.

At the beginning of their acquaintance Martha and Tory had felt drawn toward each other. The differences in their temperaments appeared not as a barrier, but an interest.

But with the opening of the camp in Beechwood Forest, Tory had neglected her responsibilities. Her affection for Katherine Moore had made her less mindful than she should have been of a stranger in a new environment.

Fortunately Martha Greaves was an English Girl Guide. She was wearing the uniform of the Guides at this moment. Shy she might appear upon suddenly expressing her opinion, yet assuredly she had made a number of friends among the Girl Scouts. Moreover, she was too vitally interested in the differences between the two organizations, the Girl Guides of England and the Girl Scouts of the United States, to be especially self conscious.

She understood and liked Tory's impulsive nature with its capacity for romantic affection, so unlike her own. She considered herself to be a matter-of-fact person with only a few enthusiasms.

At Martha's sensible statement Tory had the sensation of being suddenly plunged into cold water.

A moment she was nonplussed and slightly angry. Then she had the good sense to realize that Martha had not intended to be unkind. What she had said was undoubtedly true.

If she were rarely sensible at any time, Tory appreciated that she had become less so since her last talk with Kara.

Not an hour since had the problem of Kara been out of her mind.

Indeed, since the news of the result of what had first seemed a simple accident had reached the camp of the Girl Scouts in Beechwood Forest, the entire summer to which they had looked forward so joyously seemed to offer only disappointment.

They were only fourteen in number and Kara was individually dear to each one of them. Seven of the group were in Kara's own Patrol, the others, members of her Troop of the Eagle's Wing.

If they suffered some disadvantages over the larger summer camps for girls they had the advantage of a peculiar and intimate feeling for one another. The fact that Martha Greaves was the one outsider added a special interest. Rarely a half day passed that one of the Girl Scouts did not make some inquiry of Martha concerning their respective organizations.

She was glad enough to answer and they were learning from each other.

The Girl Scouts of the Eagle's Wing had worked at their scouting during the past winter with pleasure and faith, but occasional meetings could not bring the results these past few magical weeks at camp had accomplished.

All day long they were outdoors, at night the tent flaps were oftentimes left open for a better view of the sky and the feel of the wind.

All their own work had they undertaken and life had never appeared more practical, simple and delightful.

Then like a cloud darkening the serenity of their summer had come the news of Katherine Moore's accident with its unexpected, tragic result.

Tory Drew sighed.

"You are probably right, Martha. I have been told often enough by Aunt Victoria and sometimes by Kara herself that I have too great an opinion of my own judgment, when in reality my judgment isn't very good.

"Yet this time I simply can't feel that I am mistaken. Kara will be happier here at camp with us than at the Gray House or in a sanitarium. We all understand her and will do anything in the world to make her happier. Dr. McClain says that Kara's state of mind worries him a great deal. Yet how can it be different? Surely we can make her physically comfortable in the evergreen house and all of us will wish to wait on her. I -- "

Tory hesitated and could not go on.

"I agree with you entirely, Tory," Margaret Hale answered sympathetically. Tory's Patrol leader, a dignified girl of gentle breeding, she was not the most gifted member of the Patrol, yet possessed the greatest personal influence. One could always trust to Margaret's sense of justice. She was never prejudiced and never unfair.

"I feel as Tory does. If there is nothing the doctors can do for Kara at present, save to watch her carefully, she had far better be here with us. I know they will do everything that is possible at the Gray House; I know too that Mr. Fenton has offered to pay Kara's expenses should the doctors decide she had best go to a sanitarium. Yet will either of these places alter Kara's state of mind?

"Since Tory told us of her talk with Kara I have scarcely been able to think of anything else. Kara, with her optimism and humor vanished; Kara, hard and bitter and wretched! It seems so incredible! Why, she has always faced her difficult existence with such courage. When one thinks of Kara it is to recall the humorous expression of her eyes, the laughter that always was waiting its chance. No one ever had so gay a laugh as Kara!"

Unconscious of what she was doing, at this instant Tory jumped up. Leaving her seat she stood alone in the center of the circle looking toward the other girls.

The first rays of the sunset slanted through the trees, turning the green to gold. One ray fell directly upon Tory Drew, her bright, red-gold hair, her thin, eager face and graceful figure.

About her the other girls were more in darkness.

There was almost a mystic quality in the late afternoon atmosphere, here in the heart of an ancient woods, with no one near save the circle of Girl Scouts.

"Margaret has suggested just what I want to make clear to all of you. The old Kara for the time being seems to have disappeared. And perhaps for the reasons Margaret has mentioned.

"Kara has had too much to bear. She has always made the best of the fact that she had no parents, no family! Cleverer and sweeter than anyone, she was found in a deserted house with no explanation as to why she had been left there.

"Kara found happiness in the life at the Gray House because everybody cared for her at the asylum and in the village. But she was always thinking that the day was coming when she would be able to earn her own living at some congenial work.

"Now, Kara told me the other day that this hope has been taken from her and she sees nothing left. I am frightened about her. The doctors tell her she may walk again some day, but not for a long time. She insists this is only to encourage her. If we, her own Troop of Girl Scouts, can do nothing for her, I don't see who can."

Louise Miller, seated beside her most intimate friend, Dorothy McClain, uttered an unexpected exclamation.

Under ordinary circumstances she talked less than any one of her companions. Usually it was conceded that Louise alone among all of them thought of what she was going to say before making a remark.

She was not good looking. Her features were heavy and she had grown too rapidly. She had peculiar light gray eyes under thick dark brows which held a kind of fascination. Yet Louise's only real claim to beauty was a mass of coppery, red-brown hair.

She was not happy or congenial with her own family. They were poor and her mother, a pretty woman, resented Louise's lack of beauty as well as their poverty. On Louise's part there was no effort to conceal the fact that she had been happier these past weeks at their Girl Scout camp in Beechwood Forest than at any time since she could remember.

"There is something to be considered in this situation beside Kara," she began, with a kind of awkward earnestness. The statement had not a happy sound, but the other girls waited, knowing that Louise had an odd fashion of expressing herself. One could not at first be altogether sure of her meaning.

"We must remember that it is not for Kara's sake only that we are to keep her here, if Dr. McClain agrees it will be wise, but for our own sakes as well. While Tory has been talking I have been wondering if we were equal, as Girl Scouts, to the test.

"You look surprised, Tory, as if there could be no question save the joy of having Kara to take care of and her pleasure in being with us. There will be other sides to it. Some one of us will always have to stay with Kara day and night. She must never be left alone for any length of time, when we may be wanting to go off together on a hike or a swimming party. It may be hard now and then to be left out. We must not expect Kara always to be cheerful and patient."

Louise had been looking toward Tory Drew. She now turned her head and her glance traveled from one face to the other.

The group of girls, except for a few additional ones, was the same that had gathered in the old Fenton home in Westhaven on a momentous evening the winter before.

On that evening they had formed the first Patrol of the Girl Scouts of the Eagle's Wing Troop. Margaret Hale remained the Patrol Leader and Dorothy McClain her Corporal. The other girls were Victoria Drew, Joan Peters, Louise Miller, Teresa Peterson and Katherine Moore. Edith Linder had been asked later to become the eighth member and so complete the favored number.

To-day, amid the outdoor council in the woods, there were four girls from a second Patrol in the same Girl Scout Troop.

"Honor, loyalty, duty, a sister to every other Girl Scout, courtesy, cheerfulness. These are some of our Scout principles. I wonder if bringing Katherine Moore here as an invalid to be cared for by us would not put our Scout principles into a crucible?" one of the four remarked unexpectedly.

Tory Drew frowned upon her, and then realizing the truth of what she had said, her expression changed and she nodded agreement.

Why should she expect that all the other girls must appreciate as she did the degree of Kara's misfortune and the necessity to do something to make her lot easier without delay.

The girl she was looking down upon always had amused Kara and herself. She was so unlike any of them. Her light hair was almost as short as a boy's and was boyish in appearance, save that it curled in an almost babyish fashion. Her eyes were wide open and a light china blue. Here her doll-like attributes ended. She had a short, determined nose, a square chin, and a large mouth filled with small, even teeth.

She had an odd, boyish name as well, Evan Phillips. No one knew a great deal about her. She had come with her mother to live in Westhaven the winter before in order to go to school. She had spoken of living in California before that time. A member of a Girl Scout Patrol in the west, she had asked to be admitted into the Eagle's Wing Troop in Westhaven.

The three other members of the second Patrol were Julia and Frances Murray and Ann Fletcher.

"What is a crucible, Evan?" Tory inquired. "I don't care in the least how many of our Scout principles are cast into it, if only Kara is here at camp with us. I know what Louise means, but no one need be troubled. If Kara will permit it, I shall wish to be with her always."

"You will not be allowed, Tory. Remember, Kara is our friend as well as yours, and we have known her longer," Dorothy McClain and the other girls protested, almost in the same words and at the same instant.

"Suppose you do not argue any more for the present," a quiet voice interrupted, the same voice that so often gave Tory the sensation that she had been quietly and politely restrained from too great intensity.

"I am sure I hear some one coming, three people in fact."

It was slightly annoying to the American Girl Scouts that in many ways their English guest had a better outdoor training than any one of them. However, this was not her first camping experience.

A moment or so later Dr. McClain appeared at an opening between two of the trees in the encircling grove. He was accompanied by Sheila Mason and Miss Frean. The two women remained outside. Alone Dr. McClain entered the charmed circle. At once a dozen girls were crowding about him.

A quarter of an hour after Tory Drew and Dorothy McClain were walking with him toward the road that led back into Westhaven.

"We will have the little evergreen house made comfortable for Kara. Miss Mason and all of us have decided she will be safer and easier to care for there than in one of the tents. You are sure it will be best for her? She must become stronger and in better spirits being with us," Dorothy McClain insisted, clinging to her father's arm as if she were unwilling to let him go. "I declare it is wonderful to have a Girl Scout doctor -- father!"

Dr. McClain made a sound half pleasure, half displeasure.

"So this is what I have come to after more than a quarter of a century of hard work, a Girl Scout Doctor! Hope you girls may have no further need for me. Hard luck about little Kara. Things may turn out better for her later on. By the way, you and Tory do not know, and perhaps had best not mention it, but the very log cabin where you are planning to install Kara is the house where the child was found deserted years ago."

"But gracious, Dr. McClain!" Tory argued, "I have always been told that Kara was found in a deserted farmhouse. Our evergreen cabin was never a farmhouse. Mr. Hammond once spoke of finding Kara when I was with them, and he was not aware that Kara was the child he had discovered.

"Then Jeremy Hammond does not know a farmhouse when he sees one. The house was a deserted hut in those days where no one had lived for a great many years. That is why the mystery was the greater. A bridle path then led past the door and joined a road that was a short cut into Westhaven. The path is now overgrown with grass.

"I remember very well, because I came out myself next day to see if Hammond, who was a young fellow, may have overlooked any method by which we might trace Kara's history. Save for the piece of paper pinned to the child's dress and bearing her name no other information was ever forthcoming. Good-by, here is my car waiting. I'll bring Kara out myself in a few days. Remember, this is only to be an experiment. If she is not happier and does not improve we must try something else. Much depends upon you. 'Be Prepared'."



Chapter VI

"The Choros"


In the open space a solitary figure was dancing.

The enclosure was not the circular place where the Girl Scouts held their councils, but deeper in the woods, although not a great distance away.

The space was larger. Instead of being surrounded by giant beech trees, a new grove of young beeches was here growing up to take the places of older trees that had died or been cut down. Their slender trunks were high and arched, their branches curved downward. They seemed to stoop, as young things that have grown too tall for their own strength. The green of their leaves was paler and more transparent. Underneath the trees the ground was covered with a finer, softer grass.

The girl was dancing barefoot. She wore a thin white dress. On the ground not far away was the khaki costume which she must have discarded for the time being.

Her hair was short and fair, and she had a square, determined, lightly freckled face. She was short and her figure not particularly graceful in repose. Watching her dancing one thought of neither of these things. The square head with the light fringe of curling hair was perfectly poised, the body showed strength and lightness.

At this moment the girl was moving in a wide circle inside the fringe of young beeches. Her arms were extended above her head; at regular intervals she poised and stood upon her toes, then danced more rapidly. At length, with a little fluttering movement like a swallow about to alight, she dropped on the grass, her arms covering her head.

From a short distance away came exclamations of pleasure.

Stiffening with surprise, anger, and what might have been alarm, the small figure arose.

Tory Drew, pushing a wheeled chair with a good deal of difficulty, slowly advanced. Seated in the chair was Katherine Moore.

"Evan, I am sorry we have intruded upon you and stopped your dance. It did not occur to me until this moment that you did not hear us approaching. Kara was bored and I thought if I could manage we would come down here to our 'Choros.' Isn't it learned to have called our dancing ground by the name of the first dancing grounds ever discovered and built by Daedalus, the famous artificer of Crete? However, we are obliged to give Miss Frean the credit for most of our erudition.

"We will go on again to the lake as soon as I have rested a little. May I say that it was wonderful to see you? I did not dream that any one of our Girl Scout Troop could dance as you do. I am sure Kara must have enjoyed watching you. So you will forgive my not having told you we were near."

The girl in the wheeled chair lifted her head.

"I wonder, Tory, why you think I enjoy seeing another person dance? Isn't it hard enough to sit everlastingly watching you walking, swimming, doing whatever you wish, while I am more helpless than a baby? Naturally it affords me especial joy to behold another girl who can do all these other things and dance like a wood nymph besides!"

In the young voice there was a note that made her companions stare helplessly toward her and then drop their eyes as if they were responsible and ashamed.

"Kara, dear, it is my fault. Things always seem to be my fault, I am so stupid these days! I never realized that you would mind the dancing. I had forgotten how much you used to care for dancing. Besides, I did not suppose we would find any one here, and thought we could enjoy the cool and the quiet.

"Good-by, Evan. You are a wood nymph. Kara was right."

Tory had placed her hands on the back of the wheeled chair and was about to move on, when again a querulous voice interrupted:

"Oh, no, let us not go at once. You are always tiring yourself to death for me these days. Don't think I never overhear Miss Mason and the other girls speaking of it, Tory. One learns to hear more than one should in my position. I was not always an eavesdropper. Neither did I suppose you would have to be a martyr for my sake, Tory. I wish you would try not to be; a martyr is a noble character, but one does not wish one for a constant companion."

Tory Drew made no reply. Instead she shoved the heavy chair into a cool, green shelter and dropped down on the ground beside it.

The other girl followed, anxious to be useful and not knowing what she should do.

A week had passed since Kara's return to her friends in their Girl Scout camp in Beechwood Forest. The Kara who had gone away after her accident and the Kara who had come back seemed two utterly different human beings.

The courageous, gay, sweet-tempered girl was now rebellious, fretful, impatient. Indeed, she had become more difficult than any one who had known her previously could have imagined.

The little group of Girl Scouts were being tested, and more than any one of them, Tory Drew. So far not once had she faltered. Knowing Tory six months before, one could scarcely have believed this possible. Always she had been sweet and charming, but self centered and spoiled. Now, was it her affection for Katherine Moore or the months of her Scout training that had given her a new spirit?

"Suppose you tell us how you learned to dance in that beautiful fashion, Evan? Then, if Kara wishes, perhaps you will dance for us again?"

The girl with the odd, boyish name gazed at Tory Drew reflectively. Since their arrival in camp she had conceived a deep admiration for Tory. She had never spoken of it to any human being. Tory possessed this charm, of which she was unconscious, which was to gain her friends all her life.

Evan sat down on the ground nearby.

She was a year younger than the other two girls. At this moment, in her shabby, simple white dress, she appeared a good deal younger.

"Would you really like to know about my dancing? I have been wanting to tell some one. It would be absurd to pretend I had not been taught, no one with any judgment would believe me. Besides, when one is a Girl Scout I do not think one desires to keep secrets from the other girls. Perhaps you won't approve of me afterwards, but I shall run that risk."

Tory laughed.

"You are a dear! I approve of nearly every one. What could there be to object to in your wonderful dancing? Don't you know every girl who sees you must envy you."

A little fearfully Tory glanced upward toward Kara.

Had she been tactless again? Everything she said or did appeared the wrong thing these days.

At present apparently Kara was not looking or listening to either of them. Her gray eyes, which showed so wistfully in her thin face, were fixed on a far-off line of the sky between two clumps of trees.

"Well, you might as well hear the worst at the start," Evan went on, smiling and revealing her small, even teeth.

"In the first place, I received my ridiculous name because my father died a short time after I was born. It was intended I should be a boy, so I was named for him. We were poor and mother had to make her own living and mine. She did not feel troubled over this because she had studied dancing and loved it. So she gave dancing lessons in California, and before I was two years old I was a member of her class. We never would have stopped save that mother was ill and we were forced to come east to consult a doctor. We came to Westhaven to live so she could be near New York and I at school. Mother is better, and next winter intends to begin teaching again."

"So you wish to be a dancing teacher?" Katherine Moore asked. The other girls were under the impression that she had not heard what they were saying.

Evan jumped up quickly.

"Never, I should hate it! I mean to study folk dancing and some day originate new dances that shall be as American as possible. We talk of the folk dancing of the Irish and Spanish, and the Austrians and the Dutch and any number of other nations. When we speak of American folk dancing it is supposed we dance like the Indians. I don't see why we can't create a national folk dance of our own."

Evan made a cup of her hands and dropped her chin into it.

"Please don't laugh; I think an American folk dance might be like these young beech trees. I know that sounds absurd. What I mean is, the dance should show youth and freshness and grace, beautiful things like a primeval American forest. Oh, I don't suppose you understand me. I am sure I don't quite understand myself!

"Since I have been at camp Miss Mason has allowed me to come here an hour each morning to practice. May I show you the dance I have been trying to compose. I don't mind if you laugh at the dance or at me, I do it so badly. I shall learn some day. I like to call it 'The Dance of the Young Beeches'."

Without waiting for Kara's or Tory's agreement, Evan was up and away. Slowly she again circled around the beautiful dancing ground, her arms and body waving with gentle, fanciful undulations.

Now and then she seemed to be swept by light winds; again a storm pressed upon her and she bowed and swayed as if resisting with all her strength. Afterwards, wishing to suggest that the storm had passed and the sun was shining and the birds singing, she tiptoed about, her arms gently undulating, her face looking upward.

The dancing was crude and yet would have been attractive to eyes more accustomed to trained dancing than Tory's or Kara's.

Tory's first sensation was one of pure, artistic pleasure. Then glancing at Kara she felt a deeper joy. A moment Kara appeared to have forgotten her own misfortune. She looked more interested, more entertained than in many days.

"Don't you think, Evan, that if your mother is well she might be persuaded to come to your camp and teach us dancing?" Kara demanded, as if she too could be included in the lessons. "I know when we first decided to have our camp in Beechwood Forest one of the things we talked of doing was learning outdoor dancing. We hoped Miss Mason would be able to teach us. She only knows ordinary dances, and insists she does not even know the newest of these. She has not gone into society since the death of the young officer to whom she was engaged," Kara confided. "Sometimes I wonder if being Captain of our Girl Scout Troop has not helped her almost as much as the rest of us?"

She stopped abruptly.

Farther off in the woods the three girls heard a strange sound.

It was as if some one were calling. Yet the noise was not the Girl Scout signal.

Ten minutes later, on the way back to camp, unexpectedly the three girls beheld Teresa Peterson hurrying on alone. She looked surprised, even a little frightened, by their appearance.

When Tory inquired where she had been, as Teresa made no reply, the question was dropped.

No one was supposed to leave the camp without special permission from the Troop Captain. There was no reason, however, to suppose that Teresa had not received this permission.



Chapter VII

Other Girls


The other girls in the camp in Beechwood Forest were not passing through so trying an ordeal as Victoria Drew and Katherine Moore, after Katherine's return to camp.

Sympathetic they were with Kara's misfortune, yet upon them it did not press so heavily.

Frankly two of the girls acknowledged that the few weeks at camp were the happiest of their entire lives. These two girls were Louise Miller and Teresa Peterson. Neither of them was particularly congenial with their home surroundings.

An odd contradiction, Louise Miller was oftentimes so quiet, so slow and awkward in her movements that many persons regarded her as stupid. This was never true among the friends who knew her intimately, if for no other reason, than because of Dorothy McClain's attitude. From the time they were children the two girls had admired and loved each other, notwithstanding the difference in their natures. Dorothy was one of the happy persons whose attraction was so apparent that few natures resisted it. She was handsome and straightforward and sweet tempered. One girl in a family of six brothers, she had learned a freemasonry of living, and had not the sensitiveness and introspection that troubles so many young girls. Her mother was dead, yet she and her father had been such intimate friends that she had not felt the keenness of her loss as she must have under different circumstances.

Indeed, Louise Miller, whose parents were living, endured a deeper loneliness.

There had never been any pretence of anything else. Her father was a business failure. This had narrowed and embittered his nature. He was devoted to his wife but to no one else.

She had cared for society and beautiful surroundings and been forced to do without them. To have Louise, her oldest child, another disappointment, was difficult to bear.

If Louise had been pretty, if she had appeared to be clever, if she had cared for her home life and been anxious to assist her mother with the younger children, Mrs. Miller would have been quick to appreciate any one of these characteristics. But Louise was not handsome, she insisted upon disliking every character of household work, and her position at school was not always above the average. In certain classes she did excel. Louise herself was the last person who could have explained why there were days when she was so absorbed that she seemed more than ordinarily dull even in the subjects that sometimes interested her.

She was never a favorite with her teachers or with strangers. But for one thing Louise was always grateful. Her own troop of Girl Scouts sincerely liked her, for her own sake as well as Dorothy's. Only Dorothy she believed really understood and cared for her deeply in spite of her faults and idiosyncrasies.

With Dorothy alone she felt able to say and behave exactly as she desired. She could drop into one of her moods of self-absorption, or speak as if she were thinking aloud. Not always were her ideas clear even to herself until she had slowly evolved them.

Now these days in the woods Louise felt freer, less awkward and self-conscious. Mysteriously, unexpectedly, she was finding herself.

With the other girls nature study was a pastime, or merely a necessity of their outdoor Scout training. With Louise it was becoming a passionate delight.

The note of the first bird singing deep among the beechwoods found her awake and guessing the name before slipping noiselessly outdoors to see if the warbler could be discovered.

The other girls were amused by the fact that Louise wandered about all day carrying a nature book in her hand. She studied the trees and flowers, even the stones, silent most of the time while her companions chattered. If one of them asked a question concerning the outdoors that she could answer, she would become eloquent enough. But to Dorothy McClain alone she confided her deeper spiritual and mental reactions.

"It is as if I had been asleep all my life before, Dorothy, dear, and was only beginning to wake up. Somehow I cannot explain it, even to myself, I feel so convinced that this summer in the woods will have a tremendous influence on my future life. I am going to find something in these woods that I have been looking for in a stupid fashion since I was a little girl."

"We are what the winds and sun and waters made us," Dorothy quoted, glad to recall at this moment the lines her father so often repeated.

Louise shook her head.

"No, I mean something different. We all are what you have just said. I feel lately that the outdoors is going to do something special for me. Actually I mean I am going to find something here the rest of you may not find."

Louise laughed. She had a large mouth with strong, white teeth. "That speech of mine would annoy my mother dreadfully. She says I am always dreaming and never interested in real things. Nothing ever seemed real to me until this summer in Beechwood Forest."

Carefully she smoothed the brown army blanket on her cot bed.

She and Dorothy McClain were straightening their tent preparatory for inspection in the hour after breakfast. Their flag raising and Scout drill were the first features of the long summer day.

The tent was scrupulously neat.

Dorothy McClain stooped to pick up a fallen book. She was paying a slightly puzzled attention to the other girl's odd conversation.

"Would it not be difficult to persuade your mother to believe, Louise, that you and I are interested in our camp housekeeping? Miss Mason said the other day you probably would earn a merit badge before the summer was past for cooking over a camp fire. Is this because you are preparing to spend your entire life out of doors?"

Dorothy appeared amused and incredulous. She was devoted to athletics and a thoroughly normal and delightful person. Nevertheless, the two people for whom she cared most, excepting her father, were her brother Lance and her friend Louise Miller, both of whom were unusual.

"You are an angel, Dorothy, to try to be sympathetic with me. You can't know what I am talking about, if I don't myself. There is only one other person in the world to whom I could speak, Miss Frean. When I know better what I am only dreaming of at present I shall confide to her and ask her advice. Isn't it fine to think of her nearby in her little House in the Woods, always ready to give us help and advice. Tory declares she would never have dared to insist we have Kara at camp with us when she is so ill and unhappy except for Miss Frean's nearness."

Her task accomplished, Louise turned aside from her cot bed and put her arm about the other girl's shoulders.

"Dorothy, I know I am selfish with you. I suppose because I am so tongue-tied with other people I pour forth everything upon you. I have not forgotten you said you wanted to speak to me about something this morning when we were alone. What is it?"

Dorothy stooped and glanced in the small square mirror which hung suspended from one of the tent poles.

Her bright chestnut hair was braided and twisted about her head. Ordinarily her father objected to this grown up fashion. At camp Dorothy insisted that two long plaits were always in one's way. Her eyes were a clear blue with a slight hint of gray, her skin healthy and freshly colored. A fine, frank line formed her lips. Altogether she was the type of American girlhood who represents many of our highest ideals.

At the present moment a frown appeared between her brows.

"I did want to ask your opinion about something, Louise. Yet nothing is more important to me than to see how happy you are this summer and how the life in the forest is changing you. What I wanted to ask is your view concerning the apology the Boy Scouts have made us for their rudeness. Shall we or shall we not bury the hatchet and agree to forgive them? The situation is particularly uncomfortable for me. I don't like to take any special position in the matter, because Lance and Don are my brothers. Lance has confessed he was principally responsible for their effort to frighten or tease us soon after our arrival at camp. So far as I have been able to find out we seem about evenly divided on the subject. Tory Drew wishes to forget all about it. She is so grateful to Don and Lance for rescuing Kara that she refuses to consider anything else. Edith Linder agrees with Tory besides Evan Phillips and several other girls.

"Strangely the persons most opposed to forgiving the boys and making friends again are Margaret Hale and Joan Peters.

"We are to vote on the question to-night.

"But here comes Teresa. Perhaps she will tell us how she feels on the subject. I wonder what is the matter? She looks worried, and she has been so happy at camp."

At the tent opening Teresa appeared.

"Do come on down to the lake and let us sit there a half hour and talk if you have finished your work?" she asked.

Teresa's olive coloring had deepened in the weeks in the sunshine and fresh air, her cheeks were more rose colored, her wide eyes with their half mature, half childish expression were slightly plaintive at this instant.

The shores of the lake, not a great distance from the camping ground, were a favorite resting place for the Girl Scout Troop.

Not only did they rest here and hold long conversations, of necessity here a good deal of the camp work took place. Clothes and dishes were washed, water was had for cleaning. Farther up on the left-hand side, where a shore of bright pebbles ran down into the lake, was the bathing beach for the campers. The water for drinking was obtained at a pure spring up the hill of the Three Pines which rose not far off from the camp.

At present, as the greater number of the girls were still busy in their tents, the vicinity of the lake was agreeably solitary.

As the three girls sat down Louise Miller said suddenly:

"There is a legend of a lake where every night at midnight a maiden arises bearing in her hands a silver bowl. One may make a wish and cast it into the silver bowl. Then the maiden disappears. On another night, one can never know exactly when, the maiden returns and on this night grants your wish."

"I wish she would appear at once," Teresa grumbled. "I have a wish she might be persuaded to grant. I want something more exciting to happen at camp. Oh, I am enjoying it of course, but of late the days have been a good deal alike."

"What is it you want, Teresa?" Louise Miller demanded a little scornfully. Two girls could not have been more unlike. Because Louise was intellectual she could not altogether refrain from regarding the other girl with a mixture of pity and amused contempt, as well as occasional envy.

Teresa was so pretty, so gentle and confiding and pleasure loving. When she failed to live up to the Scout rules, as all of the girls, being human, did now and then, no one ever blamed Teresa. Nor did Louise Miller understand that Teresa represented the type of girl who oftentimes has a stronger will than any other, hidden beneath her apparent gentleness. Teresa was not conscious of possessing a strong will. In fact, she would have denied the fact, believing she was telling the exact truth.

She only knew that in a quiet fashion she wanted what she wanted very intensely and that it was almost impossible to give up any wish. She might try her best, she might even pretend to herself that she had given up. The desire was inclined to be only asleep and to wake again. One must remember this characteristic in hearing of Teresa Peterson's after career.

Teresa shrugged her shoulders.

"I am not anxious to talk to you, Louise, only it is so impossible to see Dorothy without you."

Teresa flushed prettily.

"There, I don't mean to be rude. One is now and then without intending it. I suppose you are such a profoundly intellectual individual you cannot bear with my frivolous character.

"I only want to say to Dorothy that I am specially anxious to have our camp of Girl Scouts make friends with the Boy Scouts. I have a special reason and promised to do my best with the girls. But of course I know I have not a great deal of influence, like you have Dorothy, or Margaret Hale, or Tory Drew."

Teresa's voice and manner became vaguely plaintive.

"Then we could have occasional dances, or supper parties, something to vary the outdoor monotony. Oh, of course I love the camp better than being at home. I only thought we were going to have some other associates beside just our own Troop. Most of the boys are our old friends and Don and Lance are your brothers, Dorothy. I don't see any point in our always avoiding each other."

"I see, Teresa, feminine society is not enough for you. I wonder if it ever will be," Louise remarked with such profound disgust and annoyance that Dorothy shook her head reproachfully.

"Don't be so cross, Ouida, I am sure Teresa does not mean any great harm. I like boys, I am obliged to like them with six brothers of my own. Besides, I feel as Teresa does that it is stupid and self righteous of us to continue to refuse to have anything to do with the Boy Scouts simply because they once offended us. Certainly I miss the opportunity to see Lance and Don now and then."

Anxious to be out of the conversation, Louise Miller picked up a book of nature studies on the New England country, by John Burroughs, and began reading.

Teresa Peterson's nature was not a straightforward one. Without actual proof Louise Miller felt this instinctively. Of course there was no great harm in her. But then all the more reason why she might make mischief without intending it.

A few moments later the three girls moved back toward camp. Tent inspection was over and they were going for an all-day hike through the woods.



Chapter VIII

Light And Shade


Victoria Drew sat on the lowest step leading into the evergreen cabin. This was the name she preferred to call it. Inside Kara lay asleep.

There was no one else at the camp in Beechwood Forest at this moment.

The other girls and the Troop Captain had departed for a day's hike, not to return until late afternoon.

Nevertheless Tory and Kara had not been alone. This never occurred; Edith Linder had remained to be useful and to relieve Tory. As a matter of fact, the Troop Captain, Miss Mason, and half a dozen girls had insisted that Tory go forth for the long hike. The day was a perfect midsummer day and each and every one of them would gladly remain with Kara.

Tory had declined. In face of the argument that it was her duty to give the other Girl Scouts the opportunity to be useful to Kara, who was their friend as well as her own, Tory insisted that to-day she was too tired for a long tramp. In any case she would stay on at camp. Some other day she would be glad to change places.

At present Edith Linder had gone the half mile or more away to the little House in the Woods on an errand. She had promised to help prepare supper before the camping party could return. Finding herself in need of supplies she had explained to Tory and slipped away. Kara would not be apt to awaken soon and there appeared no immediate need for her.

In truth Tory was glad to be alone for an hour.

In a short time the sun would set.

Weary Tory believed she wanted an hour for quiet thinking.

Earlier in the day Teresa had confessed that she was feeling a degree of disappointment in the summer camp.

Tory Drew was disappointed, but for different reasons.

The past winter had been the most difficult she could remember. After a wandering existence abroad with her artist father, it had not been simple to find her place and to make friends in Westhaven. Yet she had accomplished both. Her aunt, Miss Victoria Fenton, did not regard her with great affection, nevertheless at least she had agreed that the younger Victoria had become slightly less trying. And she and her uncle, Mr. Richard Fenton, at first not liking each other, had become devoted comrades.

Save for his interest and aid the summer camp, now surrounding her like a quiet guard, would never have been a possibility.

Growing a little restless, Tory changed her position.

Would it not have been better had she gone on the errand to Miss Frean and asked Edith to watch beside Kara. Of late Kara frequently showed that she was weary of so much of her society.

Moreover, without confessing the fact, Tory appreciated that she was suffering from the strain. She was tired and nervous oftener than she was accustomed to feeling.

A quiet talk with Memory Frean and a walk to the House in the Woods would have done her good.

Her uncle had said that he hoped this summer would give them an opportunity for a closer intimacy. He believed that her influence would be of benefit to Tory. If their friendship of long ago had ended, he had not for that reason ceased to admire Miss Frean.

At this moment a breeze swept through Beechwood Forest, setting the leaves shimmering with a fairylike enchantment.

An instant Tory was aroused from her reflections.

She was alone with no one to disturb her. Why not slip into her tent and find her sketch book? She probably would have time for a sketch before Kara awakened or Edith Linder returned.

Unaware of her own action, Tory shook her head.

She was too tired to sketch, and worse, felt no inspiration or desire. Next to her grief over Kara was her disappointment in regard to her summer's work.

Miss Mason had agreed that she might try for a Merit Badge as an artist during their camp. Surely she had sufficient talent to have won it. She had looked forward to having an arm filled with worth-while sketches of her outdoor summer to show her father upon his return to Westhaven.

Now she must face the fact that she would have not a single drawing she would care to submit to competent judges, not even a sketch she would be willing to have her father criticize.

Of course she would be glad to have sacrificed her summer to Kara, if Kara had revealed a moderate amount of appreciation.

In truth Kara was not even as fond of her as she had been in the past before she had been able to show her devotion. To do one's best and always seem inadequate is not a condition many persons can face cheerfully.

Inside, in the room beyond the open door, the other girl stirred, and Tory glanced in.

On a cot by a window Kara lay asleep.

The room had changed since her coming. Formerly it had been the Girl Scout living room. Here they had eaten their meals and held their Scout meetings on the occasional rainy evenings when their more splendid outdoor meeting place had been less comfortable.

This could still be managed if Kara were well enough or in the mood to take part. But always her comfort and her wish were first.

Thrown over her at this moment was a gay woolen cover made by her own Troop of Girl Scouts. During the past winter each of them, who had not known how previously, had learned to knit as a part of their home training. The suggestion had come from Teresa that each girl knit a square of her favorite color, and thus a rainbow scarf might shed good fortune upon Kara.

So far, Tory decided, with a sudden trembling of her lips, the promise had not been fulfilled.

Kara was no happier in body or mind since her return to the camp.

Yet the room in which she was lying at present asleep was altogether charming.

The sunlight, fading into its last brilliancy, shone through pale yellow curtains. On the mantel above the fireplace was a brown bowl of yellow wild flowers. Perched above, with wings outspread, was Mr. Richard Fenton's last gift to the evergreen cabin, the stuffed figure of an American eagle. A splendid specimen, one instinctively looked up toward it on entering the room. Over it were the words, "The Girl Scouts of the Eagle's Wing in Beechwood Forest."

A table drawn up near the couch was filled with flowers, books, magazines and small articles. Scarcely a day passed that Kara did not receive a gift of some kind, not only from the Girl Scouts and their families, but from her many friends in Westhaven.

Yet, apparently, Kara no longer cared for what in the past would have given her happiness. At one time she had been glad to feel that Westhaven did not regard her merely as a little waif who had been left upon their bounty and brought up at the "Gray House." She was the ward of the entire village. Now this was of no further concern to her.

Tiptoeing softly into the room, Tory closed a window without arousing the sleeper.

Strange to think that Kara long ago had slept in this same room and been rescued by a stranger! What would be her emotions if she knew that in this house, tumbled down and uncared for, she had been deserted as a baby?

Tory decided that she must remember to warn Mr. Jeremy Hammond, who had rescued Kara, never to recall the fact to her mind. Dr. McClain had agreed that for the present this would be wisest, as in no possible way must Kara be excited or depressed.

True, Mr. Hammond had never been to see Kara since her accident! He must have learned of her misfortune. A large box of roses had arrived at the "Gray House." Yet neither Mr. or Mrs. Hammond nor Lucy had come personally to inquire.

At the thought Tory's face flushed with annoyance. Mr. Hammond had not been attracted by Kara when he appeared at the orphan asylum with the idea of adopting the little girl he had discovered long ago. Instead he had chosen Lucy, the little girl whom Kara had cared for as if she were a small sister. Lucy, at least, should have paid daily visits to see if she could be useful. Possibly she had forgotten Kara amid her new wealth.

"Well, she would never forget or be unfaithful," Tory thought with a sudden intensity of feeling characteristic of her. Some day Kara must surely find someone or something to compensate her for her difficult girlhood!

If only there might be a treasure, some fortunate inheritance, hidden away in the little evergreen house, left there by the parents who seemed to have cared less than nothing for their baby!

At her own dreaming Tory smiled. She then tiptoed out of the room again. The place had been thoroughly searched for information and not a line had been discovered save the slip of paper with Kara's name, "Katherine Moore."

Outside on the veranda Tory did not sit down at once.

She could see some one approaching toward the camp down the long path. Edith Linder was probably returning. It was, perhaps, as well. Miss Mason, the Troop Captain, insisted that the girls never be at camp or in the woods alone.

If Miss Frean knew she would doubtless come back with Edith. Tory hoped this might be true. There were so many questions to discuss. Kara had proposed an interesting suggestion earlier in the day. Evan Phillips' mother might be induced to teach their own little group of Girl Scouts outdoor dancing. Where could there be a more perfect opportunity than here in the heart of Beechwood Forest in their own "Choros," or dancing-ground?

The figure approaching was not a girl's.

At some distance off Tory recognized Lance McClain. He was strolling calmly along in the most unconcerned fashion, a book open in his hand. Now and then he glanced down and read a few lines.

Not the slightest intimation did his manner reveal that he ought to regard himself as an unwelcome visitor in the Girl Scout camp.

Tory had not seen him since the morning when he had aided in bringing Kara home. On that occasion he had been told that the girls were still undecided whether they wished to have anything further to do with Lance's group of Boy Scouts during their summer camping season.

"Hello, Tory; I hoped I would find you outdoors," he called out amiably when within a few yards of the evergreen house.

Tory ran down the steps.

"Don't make a racket, Lance! What in the world are you doing here? Kara is asleep and I am on guard. You know you are not supposed to come to our camp. I feel as people used to in the old fairy stories and legends. Somehow I must try to save you from having your head chopped off, or some other fearful end. I do consider you deserve it, but somehow it would be unpleasant."

"Your gentleness and kindness of heart overpower me, Oh, Victoria of Beechwood Forest," Lance answered. He bowed in the graceful fashion that for some unexplainable reason often aggravated Tory, and Dorothy and Donald McClain; Lance's own sister and brother.

Lance was too unlike other boys at times not to be trying.

"Come down to the shore of the lake with me, won't you Princess Nausicaa?" he demanded. "See how well I remember the name some one bestowed upon you when I was here before. I have another reason for recalling it. I shall explain in another instant if you will be so good as to listen.

"What a pleasure to find you alone! Of course I expected it. I can't say I should have cared to enter this particular camp if I had been forced to face the entire troop of disapproving maiden Scouts. Still, there is something I am anxious to have brought to your attention. Come along, Tory."

The girl shook her head.

"Not so far away as the lake, Lance. I'll come to the big beech here near the cabin. I'll know then if Kara wakes and wants me, yet we will not be near enough to disturb her."

Under the deep green shelter Tory looked more searchingly at her companion.

"You say you expected to find me at camp with most of the other girls away. Did you see them on their hike or did Dorothy tell you we were planning an all-day tramp?"

Lance shook his head.

"No, I have seen no one and heard nothing from Dorothy. If I have a secret source of information isn't that my affair? In any case you would not have me betray another?"

Tory sighed.

"Oh, for goodness sake, Lance, do say what you intend to say in a straightforward fashion. I wish you were more like Don. One can always understand and depend upon Don."

Then, when she saw Lance flush, Tory regretted her speech.

"I am all too accustomed to that remark, Tory. I assure you that if I have seen any one from your camp or received any information concerning you, it is not because I desired to be disagreeable. I was hoping I might be allowed to extend you the olive branch.

"In fact, I have the olive branch with me. It is hidden away in my book."



Chapter IX

The Odyssey


Tory took the book into her own hands. Sitting down on the ground, she opened the leaves carefully.

Nothing to suggest an olive branch met her gaze, not a pressed leaf or a flower which might have served as a symbol.

Seated beside her, Lance's thin face, with its tanned skin and humorous brown eyes, peered eagerly over her shoulder.

Tory shook her head.

"Explain yourself again, Lance. What has this book, the story of the wanderings of the Greek hero, Odysseus, after the Trojan war, to do with ending the feud between your troop of Boy Scouts and our own of girls?" Tory patiently inquired. "I know you have some idea in mind, but it takes a cleverer person than I to fathom it."

Gently Lance removed his book from the girl's clasp.

"Listen, Tory, for a few moments while I read to you. Then I'll tell you what I mean and ask for your help if you are willing to give it. You look tired and it may rest you."

Gladly Tory submitted. Clasping her hands together in her lap, she let her eyes wander from their first glance at the little log cabin with its bright covering of evergreens on and away into the deeper green of Beechwood Forest, now shadowy with the approach of evening.

Lance could be agreeable when he liked. The winter before, when first she had been introduced to Dorothy McClain's six brothers, she had liked Lance better than the others. She even had preferred him to Don, his twin brother, whom people in Westhaven insisted was the handsomest member of the family.

During an illness of Lance's she had been able to save him from being seriously burned. Afterwards, curiously, they became less friendly. In any case Tory knew that she at present preferred Don. Not only was he handsomer and stronger and more straightforward, he showed a sincerer liking for her.

"So there the stout-hearted Odysseus lay and slept, worn out with all his toil. But meanwhile Athena went to the Sea-Kings' city, up to the palace of their ruler, the wise Alcinous and into the beautiful chamber where his daughter lay asleep, the young princess, Nausicaa, fair as the Immortals. On either side of the threshold two maidens were sleeping, as lovely as the Graces, and the glittering doors were shut. But the Goddess floated through them like a breath of wind up to the head of the couch, and spoke to Nausicaa in a dream. She seemed to her one of her dear companions, the daughter of Dymas, the sailor."

As Lance continued reading Tory did not listen attentively. He had a pleasant, quiet voice that shed a restful influence upon her as he had hoped.

Tory was not especially fond of reading, not to the extent that her uncle, Mr. Richard Fenton would have liked. He spent the greater part of his time in his library at the old Fenton house in Westhaven.

Miss Frean in her own little House in the Woods gently reproached Tory now and then for her lack of interest in books. Perhaps neither one of them could understand that pictures were what she cared for intensely. The pictures need not of necessity be of the character that hang upon walls. Tory was seeing pictures at this moment which were affording her the deepest pleasure.

If only she had her neglected sketch book in her hands!

Bent over his book Lance's head would have made an interesting sketch even if she were unable to obtain a satisfactory likeness.

Then Tory forgot Lance and the outward objects surrounding her. The words he was reading aloud were creating a beautiful image in her mind. She seemed able to see "The Princess Nausicaa, fair as the Immortals."

Her companion read on:

"So the night passed away, and the young dawn appeared on her glorious throne and awakened the princess."

With a bang Lance closed his book.

"Stop dreaming, Tory Drew. You scarcely know I am present and I want you to be particularly sensible and attentive to what I am going to say. I suppose you know I have been reading the story of the Odyssey, since you told me Miss Frean had read it to you early in the summer."

Tory laughed. For all his quietness and apparent gentleness Lance's nature was more domineering than most persons appreciated. Their friends believed that Don ruled in the intimate friendship between the two brothers. More often than not they were mistaken.

"We have been having a great time at our Scout camp, Tory. Hope you girls have had as good! I have enjoyed the summer a lot better than I expected. I know I have improved in the drilling and a few other things. Lucky for me that I am fond of a few outdoor sports; keeps up my end in the Scout proficiency tests!"

"All right, Lance, but why don't you come to the point? I know it is hard for you to have to give your time and energy to so many things and never be allowed to study the music you love. But then, of course, your father knows best. I can understand his not wishing you to be a musician," Tory added hastily, fearing she might appear to be criticising the doctor whom she loved and admired. "I can appreciate your father saying that with six sons and a daughter and he only a small town physician, he never could afford to let you have the musical education you would require."

"All right, Tory, no use going into that subject now. I have heard all that a good many times. What we were talking about was the Scout organizations, yours and mine. I think they are specially good for us; for you, because you are an only girl and kind of spoiled by pretty nearly everybody. Good for me because I am a selfish fellow who likes to be alone unless I can hang around with Don. We get the combination of freedom and discipline we both need.

"At first this summer I thought the other fellows were not going to have much use for my queer notions. I thought they stood for me because Don is very nearly the most popular Scout in camp. I was kind of pleased when they chose me to come over to camp and extend the olive branch to you Girl Scouts."

The thin, brown face was now eager and glowing, but Tory remained as completely mystified.

"Remember the tableaux your troop of Girl Scouts gave in Westhaven this spring? They were a great success and I, for one, shall never forget how you looked as Joan of Arc.

"Ever since our Boy Scout Troop has been trying to get up something as good. This summer we decided would be our best chance with all the fellows together and our officers and several members of our Scout Council staying at camp."

"Yes," Tory replied, beginning to be anxious to go back to Kara and wishing Lance would finish what he was endeavoring to say.

The other Girl Scouts might come back to camp at any moment. She did not wish to be discovered seated under a beech tree conversing with Lance McClain, whose presence at their camp was neither invited nor desired. Later she would be able to explain, but for the moment she would not enjoy the position.

Lance smiled.

"I appreciate you are in a hurry, Tory, as well as the other things you are thinking. You need not believe I wish to be discovered here until you have had a chance to make things clear to Miss Mason and the Girl Scouts. But I want to put my proposition to you before you have your outdoor meeting to-night to decide whether you wish to make friends once more."

Again Tory was puzzled to understand how Lance could know so much of their daily program. His next suggestion drove all other thoughts from her mind.

"To get to the point: After a lot of reading and discussion we have concluded to close our summer holiday with an outdoor pageant. I suppose one should call it a pageant. We are not going to do exactly what other people have been doing all summer. We don't intend to present New England history. After the big pageant at Plymouth Rock, it would take a good deal of nerve to try to imitate it. So we have decided to present the 'Wanderings of Odysseus.' We are not sure as to details. Our plan is to have a series of Greek tableaux that will tell the story and have some one person read certain of the lines aloud."

Tory leaned forward.

She appeared interested but doubtful.

"That is a pretty big idea, Lance. Do you feel you will be equal to it? Presenting an American pageant is one thing, but gracious! who knows what Greek pictures should be like?

"Of course, I am sure the girls will be delighted if there is anything we can do to be useful. You were awfully kind about helping us," Tory continued, feeling she had not appeared as enthusiastic as Lance might have hoped. "But where is the olive branch I am to offer the girls to-night when we have our meeting to decide whether we are willing to make friends?"

Lance flushed and looked uncomfortable.

"The olive branch is what I have been talking about, Tory. The Boy Scouts want you girls to take part in our Greek pageant. We want you to take the feminine rôles. Now, don't say no, right off, Tory, and don't be so discouraging as you seem to feel. I confess I am counting on your influence in more ways than one. The truth is the suggestion came from me, and I have had a hard enough time trying to make the other fellows see the thing as I do. Suppose we don't accomplish anything remarkable, it is fun to have had a try. And it is worth while trying to make people see things and think things that have had to do with other nations at other times in the world's history. I want you to talk to your uncle, Mr. Fenton, and to ask his advice before we go much further. I suppose you know he is a Greek scholar."

During Lance's speech Tory's expression had become more sympathetic and convinced.

"Perhaps the idea is possible, Lance. In any case, I am delighted to help all I can by talking to Uncle Richard and using whatever influence I have with the girls. Only one thing, you must not count on my taking part. I could not give up the time from being with Kara."

"I understand, Tory; we'll see how it works out. I was thinking of Kara as I came over here to talk to you. A lot better than a good many other people I believe I can understand Kara's present state of mind. You see, I have been sick myself. Kara will brace up once she gets hold of herself. Don't you take anything she says or does too seriously."

Lance and Tory got up and began walking back toward the evergreen cabin.

"You know if this thing goes through I believe it may be a help to Kara. She isn't strong enough for a lot of excitement, but it will give her an outside interest. Right now she needs to think of something beside herself.

"I suppose I ought to have strength of character enough not to mention it. But there are days when the fact that I am never going to have a chance to be a great musician gets hold of me, and I know there is nobody on earth then who is as disagreeable as I can be. I don't see why Kara cannot play some part in the tableaux. She could be seated in her chair as if it were a kind of throne," Lance concluded.

The girl looked at him gravely.

"You can be a comfort when you wish to be, Lance, and you are right, you can be dreadfully disagreeable. Only you are not very often.

"Would your telling me how you know what we are doing at our Girl Scout camp involve some one else?"

Lance nodded.

"Yes, so I decline to mention names. Now, don't be stupid and think I mean anything serious. If two people meet they have a right to speak to each other. Good-by, I must be off. I think I hear the Girl Scouts returning. Do the best you can for us."



Chapter X

Consultations And Decisions


At the close of their evening's discussion the Girl Scouts had not finally decided whether to accept or reject the invitation tendered them by Tory Drew.

They would be friends again. This opinion was at last unanimous. But to take part in a Greek pageant which would require a sacrifice of time and energy from the routine of their camp life? This represented a deeper problem.

There must be a longer period for consultation. The advice of their Girl Scout Council must be asked. Upon this, Miss Mason, the Troop Captain, insisted, before even expressing her own point of view.

By the following afternoon she and Tory and Edith Linder started out for the little House in the Woods to talk over the idea with Memory Frean, who represented one of their chief sources of wisdom.

The summer afternoon was a perfect one. Illimitably beautiful pale dappled gray clouds filled the summer sky, shutting out the fierce rays of the sun.

As they hoped, from a little distance off the three newcomers discovered Miss Frean busy in her garden.

Tory saw her first. She made a motion with her hand to suggest that they approach softly without being observed.

The older woman wore no hat, and a simple outdoor cotton dress of pale gray, with a deep blue scarf over her shoulders.

Her hair was more carefully arranged than usual in the shining, heavy brown braids Tory so often had admired.

In truth Memory Frean had begun to take more interest in her personal appearance since her meeting with Victoria Drew on the wintry road. So long she had lived alone in her little House in the Woods, with her outdoor interests in the summer time and her books in winter, that she had grown too careless.

The meeting with Tory had brought back old friends and memories. Tory had introduced her to the Girl Scouts of the Eagle's Wing. Now, as a member of their Council, Memory felt as if the girls were her adopted daughters.

Edith Linder had been in a measure her adopted daughter. She had lived for the past winter in the house with Miss Frean.

Now Edith uttered an exclamation of pleasure, which at Tory's gesture she quickly subdued.

Memory Frean was standing in the center of a plot of grass with her arms outstretched. Fluttering about her head were a family of wrens. Two had alighted within the palms of her hands and were gazing toward her with serious intentness.

In a nearby tree stood a new bird house, which she must recently have placed in position, as not far off was another bird house smaller and shabbier. Outside the door of the new home a feast of bread crumbs had been spread.

By and by one of the wrens flying near the new abode, pecked at a crumb. Something gave him confidence and courage. Inside the open door he disappeared. Instantly the entire family followed.

The three visitors burst into a cry of admiration. Memory Frean came toward them, still with her arms outstretched.

"I have been expecting you all day. No Girl Scout has been near me since Edith came on a borrowing expedition late yesterday afternoon. If you had waited any longer I should have been offended. See, I have put on a clean dress, and the water is boiling for tea, and the table spread in the Shakespeare garden."

Miss Frean led the way, with Edith and Tory clinging to her and Sheila Mason following.

The herbs in the Shakespeare garden were in the perfection of bloom. In the fragrance of the summer air mingled the pungent odors of thyme and marjoram, sage and rosemary.

A bunch of the herbs decorated the small round table.

Edith Linder disappeared toward the kitchen for the tea, while the three others sat down.

"Edith Linder has been a success as a Girl Scout this summer, has she not, Sheila? We did our best to prepare for the honor last winter. Edith and I realized that Tory opposed her joining your troop."

Tory flushed.

"Is it very kind of you, Memory Frean, to refer to one's past mistakes, especially when I am your guest?"

Memory Frean laid her large but beautiful hand, a little roughened from outdoor work, upon Tory Drew's sensitive, slender one.

"I suppose I should apologize to you, Tory. I only meant to say that I am glad you finally agreed to allow Edith to enter your Patrol. I do not believe any of you quite realize what the honor meant to her. In a brief time she seems to have changed more than any one I have ever known. She had not had much of a chance in the past. Occasionally last winter, when she was with me, she gave Tory the right to her prejudice."

The large hand had not been raised from the smaller one.

Still weary, from what cause she could not guess, Tory felt as if the strength and vitality of the older woman were flowing gently into her.

Scarcely listening more than was necessary for politeness, she leaned her head against her companion's shoulder.

"I believe one of the most difficult things in the world to realize is that when people fail to possess the characteristics we have agreed they ought to possess, the failure nearly always comes from lack of opportunity, not from choice. I don't mean to be preaching truisms, I was only thinking of this in connection with the Scout organizations. They bring opportunities to so many who would have had no chance otherwise. Edith Linder had never had the opportunity or the spur she needed. Her ambition to be a good Scout has given her both.

"Wake up, Tory. Are you being nice to Edith as you promised me to be? She likes and admires you, and I am sure would not mind my speaking of this."

"There are three girls in our summer camp who have the greatest personal influence over the others. It is interesting to watch," Miss Mason remarked, smiling at the older woman. "Of course, under the circumstances I do not include Kara. Her illness makes her influence of a different kind at present."

Tory lifted her head, more interested in the discussion.

"Yes, I have noticed this about Margaret Hale and Dorothy McClain. I am not so sure, I think the third girl is Joan Peters," she ejaculated and relapsed into quiet again.

The two women glanced at Tory and then at Edith Linder, who was at this instant coming across the yard with the tea.

The two girls were an apt illustration of Memory Frean's last expressed opinion.

Edith had grown tall in the past year. Her features were large and a little coarse, but handsome in their own fashion. There was about her a look of capacity. If she had desired she could easily have lifted and carried the other girl who was nearly her own age. Edith's family had been small farmers for generations. Tory Drew's had been students and artists and writers. She had no appearance of physical strength and yet her vitality was probably as great.

She looked admiringly at the other girl.

"Edith is splendid. She knows more of cooking and practical things than any girl in camp. She was trying to teach me to cook and we were together a good deal of the time before Kara's accident. Now I see little of any of the other girls, although I really think Kara often would prefer anyone's society to mine."

Edith was by this time engaged in pouring the tea.

"I like to behave as if I were more at home in the House in the Woods than any one of the other Scouts," she explained. "After all, I am the only one who has lived here, although Tory is an older friend and my greatest rival."

Edith spoke as if she meant seriously what she was saying. Yet she spoke with entire good nature.

It had been agreed not to discuss the subject of the pageant until her return.

The next half hour the two women and two girls talked of nothing else.

"I believe you should speak to other members of the Council beside me," Miss Frean argued. "Mr. Fenton is fairy godfather to the camp in Beechwood Forest. He is Tory's uncle and I think should be consulted. If I remember correctly he used to be a Greek scholar. He is not apt to have forgotten, and if he thinks well of the idea can be of great assistance."

Before dusk Sheila Mason and Edith Linder started back for camp. They left Tory to have supper with Miss Frean, who promised to bring her home later.

The suggestion had originated with the Troop Captain.

Tory protested that Kara would need her services and be hurt if she failed to appear.

"No, I want Miss Frean to talk to you for a special reason, Tory. I am sure you will find that the other girls, with my help, are capable of caring for Kara this one evening without you."

The little edge to Miss Mason's speech Tory had never heard her use before. It left her flushed and silent. She remained alone in the Shakespeare garden while Miss Frean walked a few yards into the woods with her guests.

In what fashion was she failing as a Girl Scout, that her Troop Captain felt compelled to ask some one else to lecture her? Why had she not told her wherein lay her fault?

Tory found her eyes filling with tears. She was glad to be for a few moments alone. Not often was she given to this particular form of weakness. She disliked it in other persons, but of late her nerves had been troublesome. Were the other Girl Scouts finding her a difficult member of their camp group?

By and by the older woman returned. At first she and Tory said nothing upon any intimate topic. They continued to stroll about the garden until dusk.

Their supper was to be a simple meal of bread and milk and fruit that would give no trouble.

Since she had begun to study and love the New England country this garden of Memory Frean's had become of intense interest and affection to the young American girl who had spent so much of her life in foreign lands.

Within the yard and upon the border of the deep woods beyond she had learned the names of a wide variety of trees, birds and flowers. She knew the differences between the white and black and yellow pines, the spruce and the cedar and the several species of maple trees, the ashes and the birches. She had learned that the beech tree is singularly arrogant and permits few other trees to grow inside its woods.

At this season of the year the birds were less in evidence than earlier in the spring. Now, as darkness fell, Tory discovered that a greater number sang their evensong in Memory Frean's garden than near their own camp in Beechwood Forest. True, Miss Frean made everything ready for their reception.

Placed about the yard were half a dozen wide open bowls filled with fresh water.

The garden boasted a hedge of currant and raspberry bushes at present loaded with ripe fruit. There were no scarecrows about and no one ever made an effort to drive the birds away, so they were accustomed to plucking the unforbidden fruit of this garden.

This evening Tory assisted at the daily scattering of crumbs. This took place when possible at exactly the same hour.

Afterwards she and Memory Frean hid behind a shelter, where concealed they could watch the flight of the birds into the garden.

Some floated in from outside, others came down from their nests in Miss Frean's own trees to partake of her hospitality.

This evening, appearing with the more regular visitors, was a golden-winged warbler, splendid with his conspicuous yellow wing bars. Close behind him came a pair of tanagers.

The female Tory did not recognize until Memory Frean explained that she was a dull green olive in color, unlike her brilliant, scarlet-coated husband.

In fact, Tory and Miss Frean did not go indoors until, from somewhere deep in the woods, a whippoorwill began his evening call.

In the meantime Tory had happily forgotten there was any subject to be discussed between herself and her friend that might not be an altogether happy one.

She did think of it, however, while she was eating her supper on a small table in Memory Frean's living-room, drawn up before a small fire.

The night was not particularly cool, yet the fire was not uncomfortable, and had been lighted at Tory's request.

The older woman had finished eating and sat holding an open magazine in her hands.

Tory's eyes studied the room, with which she now had grown familiar, with the same curiosity and pleasure. The room was so simple and odd. The hundreds of old books in their worn coverings, only a few new ones among them, lined the walls. By the window, the couch was covered with an old New England quilt, of great value, if Tory had realized the fact. The furniture was so inexpensive, the little pine table before her, the larger one with Memory Frean's lamp and books and a bowl of flowers, the chairs and long bench.

What a contrast to her own austere and handsome home in Westhaven, now the property of her uncle and aunt, Mr. Richard Fenton and Miss Victoria Fenton. If Memory Frean and her uncle had not ceased to care for each other perhaps there would have been no little House in the Woods.

Tory finished her supper and her reflections.

"Memory Frean, what is it Miss Mason wished you to talk about to me? How am I failing as a Girl Scout?"

When no one else was present she used the older woman's first name, loving its dignity and soft inflections.

Memory Frean put down her magazine.

"You are not failing, Tory, not in one sense. You are trying to accomplish too much. This is, of course, another form of failure. Take your dishes in to the kitchen and then sit here on the stool by me."

Five minutes after she continued:

"You see, Tory, it is with Kara you are making a mistake. You are doing yourself and Kara both injustice. Miss Mason tells me she has talked to you and that the other Girl Scouts have protested, yet you remain selfish about Kara."

The girl made no answer. If she did not like the accusation, she did not at present deny it.

"From the first you have been sentimental over your friendship with Katherine Moore. Kara first made a strong appeal to you when you were lonely and antagonistic toward your new life in a small New England town. This drew her closer to you than had you grown up together in ordinary girl fashion. Besides, you are romantic, Tory. You respond to the people who call forth that side of you. The mystery surrounding poor Kara has fascinated you. The fact that she knew nothing of her parents has made you feel that you could be more to her than had she enjoyed the family affection other girls receive. I believe in your heart of hearts you have planned some day to be Kara's fairy godmother and make up to her for what she has failed to receive."

"Well, if I have, is it so wicked of me?" Tory demanded.

Memory Frean smiled.

"I am afraid so, Tory dear, although many wise persons may not agree with me. I don't think it often is allowed us to play special Providence to other people. Since Kara's accident more than ever have you been trying to accomplish this for her. You have been wearing yourself out and Kara feels this and cannot enjoy it. In their own ways the other Girl Scouts resent your belief that Kara must always prefer you to be with her and to care for her. She was their friend and they knew and loved her before she came into your life.

"Together you agreed to bring Kara to camp and to see if you could make things easier for her. The other girls want their chance too, Tory. Don't you realize, dear, that you are growing tired out from too much responsibility. You can't help Kara if you are tired and nervous and, though you may not confess it to yourself, a little resentful of your own disappointment in the summer.

"Remember you told me what a lot of outdoor sketching you intended to do. Your father had given you permission to work at your painting and drawing in the summer time, provided you gave your time and energy to your school in the winter. You have not shown me a new drawing since Kara's accident.

"Then, don't you suppose the other girls miss having you with them on some of their excursions? Martha Greaves, the English Girl Guide, must have felt many times that you have been neglecting her. She is a stranger and in a way has the right to depend upon you. Am I reproaching you for too much all at once, Tory?"

The girl arose up from her low stool and stood with her hands clasped and a frown on her forehead.

"You have said a good deal, Memory Frean. If you don't mind, suppose we start back to camp."

Tory made no other reply. After a little she and Memory Frean were walking along the path that led in the direction of Beechwood Forest.

Tory was no more fond of criticism than most persons, and less accustomed to it. Her mother had died when she was a small girl, and her father had been her devoted friend and admirer, rarely her judge. To her aunt Miss Victoria Fenton's efforts at discipline Tory had yielded little. Her uncle, Mr. Richard Fenton, made no attempt at discipline, but had been sympathetic toward her after the birth of a rare understanding between them.

To-night Tory was angry with the person whom, next to Kara, she had believed her dearest friend in Westhaven.

Mistakes she may have made in her devotion to Kara. But Memory Frean, Sheila Mason, her Troop Captain, and her own Girl Scouts might have appreciated the situation.

She had been with Kara when the accident took place that might result in the tragedy of her life. Dr. McClain and the two surgeons with whom he consulted could only say there was a possibility of a future recovery. But before anything could be hoped for Kara must reach a happier state of mind and body.

Never had there been any pretence that she and Kara were not more intimate and devoted than any other two girls in their Troop, save perhaps Dorothy McClain and Louise Miller.

Then what was one to do but give Kara all that one possessed?

However, if Kara were wearying of this and really preferred the other girls, Tory appreciated that she was probably being a nuisance. She would not speak of it to Memory Frean or Miss Mason, but in the future Kara should not be so bored by her society.

Walking on together through the woods, once Memory Frean attempted to put her arm inside Tory's. Quietly Tory drew away.

The dusk was deepening. After a time footsteps behind them could be heard. It was as if some one were following them.

A screech owl called and startled her; Tory had a sudden attack of nerves; running ahead a few yards, she stumbled. The footsteps were coming nearer.

Memory Frean put an arm about her.

"Stand still, Tory. Let us wait here and see who is approaching."



Chapter XI

Out Of The Past


The stranger was a middle-aged man with iron-gray hair. He was carrying his hat in his hand and enjoying the beauty and fragrance of the late evening in the woods.

As Tory rushed toward him, Miss Frean stepped back into a deeper shadow.

The newcomer was Tory's uncle, Mr. Richard Fenton.

"How stupid of me to have been frightened!" she exclaimed. "I have been taking supper with Miss Frean and she is walking back to camp with me. You were coming to camp to see us?"

Mr. Fenton agreed, walking forward to speak to Memory Frean. Except for an occasional meeting upon the streets of Westhaven, and one or two brief conversations with regard to the Girl Scout camp in Beechwood Forest, they had not seen each other in many years.

To-night in the depth of the woods, with Tory walking between them, they talked as if neither of them recalled any past intimacy.

"I have been a little worried about you, Tory," Mr. Fenton said finally. "You have not been in town to see me in a number of days. I thought it was agreed that we were to see each other once a week."

Tory nodded.

"Yes, I have missed you dreadfully, but I have been so busy. I thought if you became very lonely you would come and find me," she announced, with the familiarity of a delightful intimacy.

By and by when Miss Frean and Mr. Fenton continued talking, the barrier between them increasing, Tory scarcely listened, thinking their conversation not particularly entertaining.

They were merely discussing the weather and the scenery.

In another quarter of an hour the lights of the camp showed nearby. Darkness had not completely descended. Outdoors one could still see one's way.

The chief lights appeared inside the evergreen cabin, while in front of the door stood a large automobile.

Fearing that Kara had grown unexpectedly worse, Tory darted away from her companions and into the cabin.

The car she saw was not Dr. McClain's.

Entering the room, notwithstanding the lateness of the hour, she found it filled with people.

Kara sat in the center in her wheeled chair. She looked pale but excited and interested.

Three visitors were standing near her. They were Mr. and Mrs. Jeremy Hammond and the little girl, Lucy Martin, whom they had adopted some months ago.

In the years at the old Gray House on the hill in Westhaven Lucy had been Kara's special charge.

If Tory had been fascinated by the little girl's extraordinary beauty in the past, she was more startled to-night. The room was lighted only by candles and a single large lamp under a yellow shade.

Lucy wore a pale yellow dress of some filmy, soft material and a large hat circled with a wreath of flowers.

She had removed her hat and held it as one would a large basket. Her dark hair made a stiff aureole about her delicately cut face with its pointed chin, large brilliantly black eyes and full red lips.

Then Tory was both startled and repelled by the younger girl's expression.

She was staring at Kara with no suggestion of sympathy or affection; instead, she looked shocked and frightened and even disdainful.

Kara was extending her hands toward the little girl with more animation and pleasure than Tory had seen her reveal since her accident.

And actually, with a faint shudder, Lucy was drawing away.

An impulse to seize the little girl by the shoulders and forcibly thrust her out of the evergreen cabin assailed Tory.

She moved forward. In the meantime Mr. and Mrs. Hammond, becoming aware of Lucy's behavior, were endeavoring to conceal her rudeness.

"Kara, Lucy has been insisting each day that we bring her to see you. We did not know at first that you had gone from the Gray House. Afterwards Mr. Hammond was away for a short time and we were waiting for him," Mrs. Hammond remarked, speaking hurriedly but with extreme graciousness.

She was a pretty, exquisitely dressed woman of about thirty years with light brown hair and eyes. She appeared an agreeable society woman but without any especial force of character. Evidently if she cared a great deal for Lucy, the little girl in time would have small difficulty in having her own way.

This would not be equally true with Mr. Hammond.

At present he was divided by annoyance with his adopted daughter and a kind of puzzled curiosity.

He was staring about the gay room filled with girls and then at the figure in the wheeled chair.

Kara appeared to be interested in no one save Lucy.

Now as the child shrank away from her, her thin hands dropped in her lap, her face looked whiter and her gray eyes with the heavy dark lashes grew sadder and more wistful.

A little murmur, not actually voiced and yet capable of being heard, ran through the room.

This time Lucy must have understood the antagonism among the group of Girl Scouts that her manner had created.

At one time, and only a few months before, Kara had been everything to her, sister and nurse and friend. A few months of wealth and she seemed completely spoiled.

"You have many friends, Kara, but if there is anything Mr. Hammond and I could possibly do for you, you have only to let us know," Mrs. Hammond suggested at this moment, not very tactfully.

"You are very kind, but there is nothing to be done," Kara returned coldly.

Apparently she had lost all interest in her guests, now that Lucy had so utterly forgotten the old days at the Gray House on the hill. She always had been an odd little creature, passionate, self willed and self seeking. Still, Kara had never doubted her affection.

Not yet eight o'clock and Kara not expected to retire until nine, nevertheless Tory looked about the room in search of Miss Mason. Kara was being wearied. Better the room full of people be asked to go outdoors. They could talk on in the deepening dusk.

At the open door Sheila Mason was talking to Miss Frean and Mr. Richard Fenton. At the moment she was not thinking of Kara and the three other visitors.

Trying to make up her mind to speak to Mr. and Mrs. Hammond herself, Tory saw that Mr. Hammond suddenly appeared restless and at the same time absorbed in thought.

"See here, Miss Kara, I wonder if you would like me to tell you something? I am not perfectly sure and perhaps have not the right to speak. Yet after all I am pretty well convinced that I am not making a mistake and you cannot fail to be interested. You need things to interest you these days, don't you?"

Mr. Hammond spoke abruptly. Tory considered that his manner was kinder and he showed more interest in Kara than upon the day when he had come to the old Gray House to seek the little girl he had rescued years before. Then he had been fascinated by Lucy and Kara had been disregarded.

Kara looked up now with slightly more animation.

"Yes, I do need something to interest me these days, Mr. Hammond. I am afraid you will find me pretty difficult. Only a few weeks ago I cared so intensely for our summer camp in Beechwood Forest and every one of our Girl Scout occupations that nothing else appeared of the slightest importance. Now when everyone is so good to me I don't seem interested in anything. There are so many Scout subjects I could study when I have so much time and I don't care to take the trouble. I really am stronger perhaps than I pretend to be."

Kara's tone was so unhappy and listless that Mr. Hammond's agreeable face clouded.

"Your state of mind is due to the fact that you have not recovered from the shock of your fall. You won't feel like that always, sure not to, a girl with the courage and good sense you have always revealed. Still, what I am going to tell you is obliged to stir you up. I don't believe you will object to the other Girl Scouts hearing what I tell you. You are such devoted friends.

"Ever since I entered this pretty room I have experienced an odd sensation connected with it. Somehow it seemed associated with you. This may not appear remarkable, the room is now your sanctuary and I am sure everything in it is for your service. But that is not what I have in mind.

"I was haunted by an almost forgotten impression. As I drove up to the cabin this afternoon, I felt that I had been in this vicinity before. Here something unusual had taken place which had left a strong impression upon me. I felt this more keenly when I entered this room, although I never beheld any other room so gay and pretty and filled with so many girls.

"The room was not always like this, Kara. You Girl Scouts must have seen the room a little as I beheld it a number of years ago, when you chose this spot for your summer camping grounds.

"Did I not once confide to you, Kara, that I discovered a tiny little girl in a deserted farmhouse when I was a young man, riding along a lane in this neighborhood? It looked more like an abandoned farm in those days to a man who knew extraordinarily little about farms. Perhaps the little house was never anything more than a cabin in the woods, with farmlands in the neighborhood. If so, they have vanished. Do you recall, Kara, the little girl I discovered and who she afterwards turned out to be?"

At last Tory Drew felt her senses returning, and at the same time an impulse to action. During Mr. Hammond's rambling story she had remained quiet, listening and yet all the time knowing its conclusion.

Previously Dr. McClain had impressed upon her the fact that Kara had been found in the little house in which she was living at present. If Mr. Hammond had once called the cabin a farmhouse, Dr. McClain had always been certain of its identity.

It was the doctor's opinion that Kara must not for the present be excited or disturbed by any reference to this fact.

At last Tory was aware that she should have spoken sooner, that any protest from her at present would come too late.

With all her listlessness vanished Kara was leaning forward, her eyes on the speaker, while the other Girl Scouts appeared almost equally interested.



Chapter XII

Retrospection


"Now that I look back, the room seems to have been extraordinarily clean under the circumstances, although it was bare and poor," Mr. Hammond continued. "There was just a bed and some chairs and a table. You were lying on the bed, Kara, and if you had objected to being left alone, you were perfectly agreeable and sweet tempered after I made your acquaintance. I remember you were extremely amiable during our ride together into Westhaven. You gave me an impression which I still carry with me that you would meet most situations with grace and good sense."

Mr. Hammond began wandering about the room. He appeared embarrassed by the intensity of Kara's attitude and the conviction that possibly he had not chosen a wise time or place for his revelation.

In fact, he had no intention of speaking of the matter at all. Surprise at finding himself a visitor to the girl in the same spot where he had discovered her as a baby had influenced his discretion.

"Is there anything else you could tell me, Mr. Hammond? You need not regret having spoken before the other girls. They are my friends and really know as much of my history as I know, there is so little information I have ever received."

"No, I am afraid not, Kara, I am sorry. Now and then I have considered that possibly we did not make a sufficiently thorough investigation. Yet I do not honestly believe this. At the time I searched the room thoroughly. I waited, thinking that in all probability some one would come back for you. Then, when I gave up this idea and took you with me to Westhaven, we did not fail in making another effort.

"Dr. McClain, I recall, insisted upon this and we came out here together. Moreover, we left a letter stating that if any one desired to find you, information could be had of Dr. McClain in Westhaven."

"There does not seem to be any doubt, no one ever did return and no one ever wished to find me. I have always thought, almost hoped that my mother and father were dead," Kara answered.

No one else had spoken during the grave and dramatic conversation between Kara and Mr. Hammond. In fact, Kara herself had said little. Now her words affected the room filled with her friends with a sense of tragedy.

Tory Drew moved near the other girl, standing beside her in a defensive attitude, as if disaster must first meet her before it could again touch the friend so dear to her.

Mrs. Hammond took Lucy's hand in her own, attempting to draw the little girl toward the open door. Some day she hoped that Lucy might altogether forget the Gray House and think of herself as her own and Mr. Hammond's child.

At last Sheila Mason had ceased her talk with Mr. Fenton and Miss Frean. She turned toward the center of the room, looking as if she wished to ask Mr. and Mrs. Hammond to say farewell. Then the interest in Kara's face and in Mr. Hammond's words forbade the interruption.

Memory Frean had come into the room and Mr. Richard Fenton stood immediately behind her. He was watching Tory.

"I am afraid I have said too much or too little and perhaps tired or worried you, Kara. If you like, suppose we have a long, quiet talk some day alone. I'll come again to see you and we can go out into the woods together."

Conscious of the atmosphere and of his own imprudence, Mr. Hammond picked up his hat and stick which he had placed upon a table.

Again his own interest in the situation became stronger than other impressions.

Walking toward Kara's chair, he pushed the chair a few feet nearer the wall.

Without explaining his purpose he moved aside a rug which lay on the floor and struck the boards with his cane.

"Has this floor ever been taken up and a new one laid down?" he inquired, apparently of Victoria Drew, who chanced to be standing nearer than any one else.

Tory shook her head.

"I don't think so. The floor was in extremely good condition when we decided to make this cabin the center of our camp in Beech wood Forest."

"The bed stood just here," Mr. Hammond indicated with his walking stick the exact spot where Kara's chair had been the moment before. "I have always felt we should have had this floor removed. Kara, if you will give me permission, when the summer camping days have passed, I should like to undertake it. There isn't one chance in a thousand we should come across anything, but it would be worth while to try, would it not?"

Kara's expression made no other answer necessary.

A few moments after the Hammonds had said farewell and were gone.

An instant it appeared as if Lucy wished to break away and speak to Kara. The other girl never glanced toward her, or seemed conscious of her presence after her first display of affection, so apparently Lucy lost the desire or the courage.

Immediately the Girl Scouts departed for their sleeping tents accompanied by their Troop Captain.

Miss Mason would return to say good-night to Kara and see that she was comfortable for the night. In the meantime there was the final evening ceremony with her Girl Scouts.

In the big room at present were only Tory, Miss Frean and Mr. Fenton, save for the girl in the wheeled chair.

Mr. Fenton approached Kara.

"I trust so many visitors and so much excitement will not be harmful to you," he said in the dignified fashion that always charmed Kara and his own niece. Mr. Fenton never addressed them as if they were merely young girls and of no special importance.

Always his manner was courtly and agreeable.

Toward Kara he extended a box of candy which he had been carrying under his arm.

"I know candy is to a large extent a forbidden fruit at camp. But as you are a kind of uncrowned queen these days, Kara, I thought you might be permitted to offer a sweet now and then to your ladies in waiting."

During this conversation Tory had crossed over to Miss Frean, persuading her to be seated on a low bench and sitting down beside her.

"I was deeply offended with you, Memory, an hour ago when you held a 'mirror up to nature,' my nature. I detest being lectured. Just the same, I promise to try not to bore Kara too much with my society and to give the other girls more opportunity. But dear me, I did think I was doing the right thing! Often I have wanted dreadfully to go off on our Scouting expeditions and have remained at camp because I thought Kara needed me and did not wish the other girls to be sacrificed. It does require an extraordinary number of virtues to be a good Scout."

Memory Frean shook her head.

"I don't believe I would put the case in just that fashion, Tory. To be a good Scout demands first of all common sense. You have the artistic temperament, Tory, and common sense is perhaps more difficult for you. Glad you are willing to be friends again."

Memory Frean and Mr. Richard Fenton walked back together to the House in the Woods. They had not been alone with each other in more than twenty years.



Chapter XIII

A Portrait


Several days later Tory Drew, accompanied by two other of her Troop of Girl Scouts, went forth to spend the morning sketching, not far from their camp.

Her companions were Edith Linder and Martha Greaves, the English Girl Guide, who was her guest.

Personally Tory felt considerable embarrassment concerning her own neglect of the young English girl who had been left dependent in a measure upon her interest and friendliness. She had not intended any rudeness or indifference. Her greater interest and affection for Katherine Moore had dominated all other ideas and emotions.

Even before Miss Frean's lecture Tory had suffered an occasional moment of self-reproach. However, only within the past twenty-four hours had she talked over the situation frankly and openly with Martha and offered an apology.

It was delightful to have discovered her to be altogether sensible and agreeable. Apparently the young English Girl Guide had understood and accepted the circumstances. She not only failed to express any show of resentment at Tory's unintentional disregard of her, she appeared not to feel any resentment.

"It has all been a wonderful experience for me, the opportunity this summer to meet and know so many American Girl Scouts," she explained. "Nor has it been possible to feel either lonely or neglected. The other girls have been so friendly and interested. They have talked to me of your devotion to Kara and told me something of Kara's difficult life. I would not have you give up an hour when she needs you to look after me."

Tory was thinking of this and of other characteristics of the English girl, as she sat idly holding her sketch book open in her lap, a drawing pencil in her hand.

Martha and Edith had gone over into one of the fields to look for mushrooms. As Edith had spent the greater part of her life on a small farm, she possessed a good deal of practical outdoor knowledge which the other Girl Scouts were endeavoring to acquire through books and teachers.

Particularly was the English Girl Guide interested in learning all that was possible in one brief summer concerning the American woods and fields. Now and then they appeared oddly unlike her own green and fragrant country with its miles of cultivated gardens and carefully trimmed hedges.

Martha and Edith were especially friendly. Tory was possessed of sufficient knowledge of the world to appreciate this fact as indicating an unusual sweetness and poise upon the part of their English visitor.

Obviously Edith Linder came of simple people. Her father and mother had been poor farmers and were now working in a factory in Westhaven. Edith made no pretense of anything else and had not received a great deal of education. She had learned much from her winter with Miss Frean, and was learning through her summer with her Troop of Girl Scouts. Nevertheless, there were ways in which she revealed the difference in her past circumstances from the lives of most of the Girl Scouts with whom she was associated at present.

To Martha, Edith's lack of social training must have been especially conspicuous. Martha had been reared in a careful fashion. Her family had been wealthy before the war and owners of a large estate.

Nevertheless the English Girl Guide accepted Edith's efforts toward self-improvement and her evident desire to make friends with perfect tact and good breeding.

Tory knew that social distinctions were more seriously regarded in England than the United States. She concluded if ever the moment were propitious to inquire of Martha if the Girl Guides represented an effort toward real Democracy in the sense the American Girl Scouts trusted that they represented the same purpose.

At length Tory took up her pencil and began drawing.

She was seated in an open place in the woods not far from their dancing ground within the circle of giant beech trees.

Later in the day Evan Phillips' mother was to give the Girl Scouts of the Eagle's Wing their first lesson in outdoor dancing.

The thought of this in prospect interrupted Tory's effort. With an impatient gesture she picked up the paper upon which she was working and tearing it into bits flung the pieces to the winds.

Her father insisted that she draw from still life and she had been using a distant tree as her model.

Is there anything in the world more difficult to represent with its dignity, grace and beneficence than a tree?

At this instant Tory certainly was convinced there was not.

Half unconsciously her pencil began indicating the figure of a girl in various attitudes.

For years, whenever left to her own devices, Tory had amused herself in this fashion. However crude her drawings of human figures, since she was a tiny girl they had in them a suggestion of life and action.

A noise, apparently coming from behind a clump of bushes not far off, distracted the artist's attention.

Tory raised her eyes.

Beyond the bushes she thought she beheld some one move.

"Martha, Edith!" she called out.

At first there was no reply.

The second call brought a response.

From farther away Martha and Edith halloed in Girl Scout fashion.

Again Tory returned to her work, having now acquired the impression that she was no longer alone.

Once more she looked suddenly around.

A figure behind the clump of shrubs undoubtedly stirred.

Rising, Tory walked in that direction.

She had not moved more than a few feet when the intruder, aware of discovery, came toward her.

A small figure Tory beheld dressed in a pale green linen frock, crumpled and torn. The large leghorn hat had a band of green velvet ribbon encircling it. In one hand she bore a small yellow leather suit case.

"Why, Lucy, what in the world does this mean? Are you by yourself? Do Mr. or Mrs. Hammond know where you are?"

"No, you may tell them," the little girl answered calmly. "I am on my way to Kara. I am going to take her back to the Gray House or somewhere else, where we can be alone. I hated Kara sitting still in a chair and never moving and all of you keeping me from her."

"Then you do care for Kara?" Tory demanded, putting her arms about the picturesque little figure.

Coldly but politely Lucy drew away.

"Care? What do you mean? Do you mean do I love Kara? Why, I don't really like anyone else very well except Kara and perhaps Billy and now Mr. and Mrs. Hammond. Mrs. Hammond says I must be more devoted to her than any one else, but I'm not truly, now that I know Kara is ill."

"You have run away, haven't you, Lucy? I am sure I don't know how you ever got this far without some one stealing you. You are the most delightful looking child I ever beheld. Come and sit down for awhile and rest and eat some sandwiches. I know you ran away before breakfast and must be hungry and tired. Afterwards I'll take you to Kara."

A creative impulse had seized hold of Tory.

More than anything she could imagine at the moment she longed to make a sketch of Lucy, of the little figure in the pale green gown against the deeper background of green, the big hat hanging behind her shoulders. The child's cheeks were a vivid rose, her dark hair still in the stiff aureole that was unlike other children's.

But it was not the color that Tory wished to represent. That would have to come later. She must try to catch the grace of the small figure, sitting serenely on the ground a few feet from her munching sandwiches.

Tory would have preferred that her portrait model be engaged in some other occupation. But this made no special difference. By and by Lucy stopped eating and Tory, fascinated, went on with her drawing.



Chapter XIV

Disagreements


The decision to take part with the Boy Scouts in the presentation of the Greek pageant representing the adventures of Odysseus was largely brought about through Mr. Richard Fenton's interest.

He it was who finally persuaded the Troop Captain, Sheila Mason, to give her consent. Of chief importance was her point of view, since she must be responsible for her own Girl Scouts.

For many years Mr. Fenton had been an enthusiastic Greek scholar. To him it appeared more than ordinarily worth while to stimulate among the Boy Scouts and the Girl Scouts an interest in the historic legends of the past. In his estimation the history of Greece was of greater importance than any other nation. In the history of Greece one finds the model of the first known Democratic government in the world and according to many historians the best.

The outdoor life of the American Scouts, planned to develop them mentally and physically, to make better citizens and wiser men and women, had its counterpart in the lives of the early Greeks, centered about their Olympian games.

A series of tableaux, accompanied by a recitation of the story of one of the two great Homeric poems, would not alone broaden the outlook of the young people who took part. Mr. Fenton had a shrewd idea that it would awaken among the older people in Westhaven a wider vision of beauty. Like most small towns, Westhaven was too self-centered. Mr. Fenton did not wish the little New England village to share in the opprobrium of "Main Street."

Why was it not a portion of the work of the Scouts to bring fresh ideals of beauty and romance into their own environments? Mr. Richard Fenton considered this an important part of their service.

To-day, seated with the fourteen Girl Scouts in a circle about her, Sheila Mason was wondering if she had not been more idealistic than practical.

The girls were in their own council chamber in Beech wood Forest. No one else was within sight or hearing.

The story of the "Odyssey" lay open in Sheila Mason's lap.

Katherine Moore, in her wheeled chair, held another copy. Bending over her, reading from the same pages, were Margaret Hale and Louise Miller.

A few feet away Tory Drew and Dorothy McClain were writing on large sheets of paper the instructions that were offered them from time to time.

Teresa Peterson, slipping her handkerchief to her eyes, was wiping away an uncomfortable moisture. Her cheeks were deeply flushed and her lips tremulous.

Lucy Martin sat contentedly on a cushion at Kara's feet.

She had not been permitted to bear away the other girl as she had planned. However, she was allowed to stay on with the Girl Scouts in their camp for a visit which made her equally content.

To Mr. and Mrs. Hammond she had explained that she could not leave for two reasons. Kara needed her and Tory was making a picture of her. Either reason she considered sufficient. Apparently Mr. and Mrs. Hammond had agreed for the present.

"I believe, although the boys have left the final choice with us, that it will be best to follow their selection of characters," Margaret Hale remarked.

The Troop Captain looked up from her book, first toward Teresa and then Margaret.

"I do not see what else is possible under the circumstances. We are to make two or three changes, but they are not important ones. I am sorry Teresa is disappointed. She insists that Lance originally suggested to her she could represent Penelope, so I presume she has built upon the idea. Yet it does seem more appropriate for Joan Peters to play the part of the famous lady with the web, the wife of Odysseus. There is no question, Teresa, of your not acting as well, but this is scarcely a question of acting, but of appearing to the best advantage in the series of tableaux. And Joan does look more like one's conception of Penelope than you. Except for Lance McClain's suggestion to you, and he should not have expressed an opinion without consulting the others, the choice has always been between Dorothy McClain and Joan. The majority finally decided in favor of Joan because Donald McClain is to appear as Odysseus and Don and Dorothy are brother and sister. Perhaps there would be less illusion in having them represent a husband and wife."

"I suppose it is because Joan is taller and her features more regular and she is prettier, that she was chosen to play Penelope," Teresa murmured in an injured tone and with such a gentle suggestion of melancholy, that Joan Peters appeared extremely uncomfortable.

"I don't see it that way, Teresa, and I am perfectly willing to give up in your favor if the others will agree. Of course it is ridiculous to talk of any question of beauty having been considered. You know you are absurdly pretty, Teresa, and are merely trying to make some one say so," Joan remarked, half serious and half amused.

As a matter of fact, she was not enthusiastic over being chosen for one of the principal parts in the Greek tableaux.

She was not particularly popular with the Boy Scouts. The boys liked half a dozen of the other girls better, although Tory Drew, Dorothy McClain and Teresa were the chief favorites.

"See here, Teresa, don't be tiresome. If we were all to object as you do to the casting of the characters we will never get anywhere and spend the entire day in argument. Everybody knows I think it the greatest mistake in the world not to have had Dorothy in the leading rôle. Still, I am saying very little and apologize to Joan for what I have said," Louise Miller protested. "So let us get on with what we are trying to accomplish. Remember, we are to meet the boys and Mr. Fenton this afternoon and choose the place for our poetic drama."

Frequently Louise Miller was too impatient with Teresa's small frailties, her love of pleasure and admiration. This was hardly fair because of the difference in their temperaments making any sympathy between them almost impossible.

"Well there is one person whom we all agree to be the ideal choice," Dorothy McClain remarked, hoping to turn the conversation into more agreeable channels.

She had been sitting on the ground weaving a chaplet of beech leaves. Rising up now she placed it like a crown on Kara's brow.

"Behold Athena, the wise Goddess with the clear gray eyes!"

A little silence descended upon the group of girls.

Kara flushed.

"It is the kindest and most ridiculous thing in the world to have me take part when I cannot stir from this chair. I don't want to seem unappreciative. I'm not really, you know, but do please explain to the Boy Scouts that they must realize it is out of the question," Kara argued.

"No, dear, we are not going to bring up that question again. Lance and Don and Jack Hardin told you that their entire Troop of Scouts wished you to play the 'Goddess of Wisdom.' The tableaux are to be arranged so you need not appear but once. Then you are to be seated upon a throne as Pallas Athena should be. You know how we all feel on the subject. Surely you do not wish to disappoint everyone," Tory protested.

She was wondering if the other girls had observed what she had. In these days of discussion of the Greek tableaux Kara had appeared brighter and more like her former self. Now and then even a glimpse of the old humor showed in the depth of her gray eyes or about the corners of her of late too serious lips.

"Tory has expressed what we all feel, Kara," Miss Mason added. "Now, Tory, please read aloud the list of the characters so far as they have been decided upon. I am delighted to know that the father of the Boy Scouts has agreed to be with us on the evening of the tableaux and will read selections from the Odyssey as the pictures are presented."

Tory glanced toward the paper in her lap.

"Donald McClain will be Odysseus; Lance McClain, his son, Telemachus; Joan Peters, Penelope; Victoria Drew, the Princess Nausicaa; Mr. Richard Fenton, Eumaeus, the aged servant of the Greek hero. The other Girl Scouts will be the ladies in waiting to Penelope and the Boy Scouts Penelope's suitors.

"I had forgotten to write down that Margaret Hale will be Arete and Jack Hardin the good King Alcinous, my respected parents. I am glad they assisted the wanderer to end his adventures and return to his faithful Penelope.

"Just as well that we decided to start our tableaux with the arrival of the hero on the island of the Sea Kings! I fear it would have taxed even our talents to have shown the enchanted spots where Odysseus was held enslaved by Calypso with the beautiful hair, who sang sweetly as she wove at her loom with the golden shuttle, or Circe, the sorceress, who mixed the drink in a golden cup that turned men into swine. Representing these Goddesses would have taxed our powers. Except for Kara we are only mortals."

Tory rose up.

"May I start with Kara to our dancing grounds? It may take me some time and Mrs. Phillips is to arrive in less than an hour for our first dance rehearsal. I have an idea, or perhaps a hope, that our Greek dance which Evan is to lead, will be one of the most beautiful, beautiful things that has ever been seen in Westhaven."

Tory reached Kara's chair, but at the same time Dorothy McClain pushed her gently away.

"Margaret and I are going to take turns in pushing Kara's chair to our dancing grounds. We have already made an engagement with her to that effect. Please remember we are both stronger persons than you, and Kara will arrive far more speedily and safely."

Tory appreciated that Dorothy was jesting, nevertheless, she bit her lips and frowned.

Kara's hand reached around and took hold of hers.

"You'll come along with us, won't you, Tory? I know I am selfish, but I do hate being separated from you. If there is time before Mrs. Phillips arrives why not attempt another sketch of Lucy? We thought the first sketch you made of her wonderful, even if you were not pleased."

In the last few days Tory had quietly been following Memory Frean's advice and allowing the other Girl Scouts to share in the care of Kara. As a consequence they did seem to feel more pleasure in being together. But then for more than one reason Kara was in a better state of mind.



Chapter XV

The Choice


At four o'clock in the afternoon Mr. Fenton sent a large motor car to the Girl Scout camp to bear Kara, Miss Mason, Lucy Martin and any other girls who chose to ride to the place under discussion as the site to be chosen for the Greek pageant.

The spot lay midway between the two camps.

Earlier in the afternoon Miss Frean had started off with the girls who preferred the hike.

Walking steadily without pausing for rest, before the others they arrived at the proposed place.

When the signal was given to halt, Tory Drew dropped down on the ground and in the fashion supposed to be best for meditation sat looking about her.

Several of the other girls followed her example, while Miss Frean remained standing with three or four companions. They preferred to command a wider view of their surroundings.

They had reached the source of the stream of water which ended in the small lake before the camp in Beechwood Forest.

Here the water was fairly deep but the stream of no great width. On one side was a small clearing with a grove of trees not far away. Where the Girl Scouts stood at present the open space was larger. A dozen yards away a country road connected with the state road that ran through the village of Westhaven.

Beyond were a rim of blue hills.

"I would not be surprised if we conclude this is the proper location," Miss Frean said reflectively. "There is the disadvantage of being so far from Westhaven. We shall have to transport the scenery and costumes out here and make arrangements for the audience to be seated. Yet the place itself is rarely lovely."

Tory looked at her beseechingly.

"The place is ideal. Please don't say a word against it. Uncle Richard insists that the early Greeks possessed a greater love of the beautiful than we possess. Yet surely this spot would have pleased them!

"Our tableaux can be shown on the other side of the water. The audience can be seated on this side. The distance will add to the illusion. The Palace of Odysseus with the courtyard in front where most of the scenes will take place, can be constructed in front of the grove of trees. Odysseus can land on what is supposed to be the island of the Sea-Kings from a Greek galley rowed up the stream. And I shall appear with my maidens who come down to the banks to wash the imperial clothes of my royal family. Until the moment to appear before the audience the players can be concealed beyond the trees."

Closing her eyes and clasping her hands ecstatically together, Tory exclaimed:

"Can you not see the entire scene, the beauty and glamour, what Uncle Richard calls the Greek spirit that we are to portray?"

Joan Peters laughed and shook her head.

"No, Tory dear, I am afraid not. We cannot all see it, although I must only speak for myself. Can't you appreciate that we are not all possessed of the artistic temperament and gifted with the power of seeing visions? I am a humdrum person who has to be shown."

Joan moved away to join another group.

"Tory, yours is a fortunate gift, I am not pretending to deny it. There are times when I envy you. Still, dear, some of us before we can behold the completed masterpiece, are obliged to consider how we can get a sufficient number of chairs out here to permit the audience to be seated comfortably," Memory Frean interposed.

The girl looked at her half challengingly.

"I am not so unpractical as you may think. Uncle Richard and I drove out here a few days ago and discussed the very problem of how to seat our audience. He promised to have any number of chairs sent out at his expense. We can guess the number required by the tickets we shall sell. I have an idea our audience will be very large. After paying for our costumes and scenery there will still be a good deal of money to be divided between the Boy Scout Troop and our own."

"A noteworthy conclusion, Tory. I am glad you have made the necessary decisions and arrangements without waiting for the other arrivals. A confusion of tongues just adds to a confusion of ideas," Lance McClain remarked, jumping from his bicycle and unexpectedly joining the small group.

Apparently he had ridden on ahead of his Scout Troop.

He turned now and greeted Miss Frean.

Then he came over toward Tory.

"I don't wish to be teased, Lance. Of course I have not made any decision and nothing positive can be decided until the vote is taken. I have only been entertaining myself by dreaming that this is to be the chosen site. I can see a mental picture that is very wonderful."

Lance shook his head and laughed.

"I am not wishing to be disagreeable, Tory. Of course this is the ideal spot. It takes you and me to recognize the fact."

For some reason neither of them understood, Victoria Drew and Lance McClain usually argued unimportant issues and agreed upon the important ones.

From a little distance beyond, the rest of the Boy Scout Troop could now be seen approaching.

"Yes, Don will be here in a little while, Tory. Don't you and Dorothy worry. I rode over because the camp doctor thought I wasn't in very good shape. I am not in high favor at camp at present, so I thought I'd do what I was told on this occasion," Lance remarked.

Only three girls were sufficiently near at this instant to overhear his speech, Tory, Dorothy McClain and Louise Miller. The other girls and Miss Frean had moved over to meet the advancing Troop.

"What are you talking about, Lance? What have you done of late to break the camp discipline? If you don't care for your own sake, I think you might consider how much Don and I care for your Scout record. It was enough for you to have originated the ridiculous excursion that resulted in the trouble between your Troop and our own that has lasted until now. Please, please don't get into any more mischief."

In Dorothy's tone there was something maternal. Lance alone of all her brothers called forth this spirit in her.

"Sister of mine, you take me too seriously. I have only wandered off from camp now and then for a stroll in the woods. I am obliged to meditate. I have not broken any of the commandments. It is my misfortune to be unlike other people. You have told me this a good many times. So perhaps I am frequently misunderstood."

Lance's tone was so indifferent and teasing that Dorothy was seriously annoyed.

"I don't mind if Louise and Tory do hear what I have been wanting a chance to say to you, Lance. You had no right to tell Teresa Peterson that she would be chosen to play the part of Penelope in our Greek tableaux. She has been dreadfully disappointed and it has made things hard for all of us."

"Teresa Peterson to play Penelope! Who says I made any such suggestion, Dorothy? Teresa looks more like a pretty doll than the model of Greek faithfulness and propriety."

Dorothy looked puzzled.

"Teresa told me herself, Lance. She told me she had met you two or three times by accident and you had talked to each other for a little while. She seemed to feel she ought to speak of it to me and to Miss Mason. Teresa is a dear, but she isn't as clever as some of the other girls and I don't think you would ever care to be very intimate friends. She never could understand you as Tory and Louise do. You did tell Teresa she was to be chosen for Penelope, didn't you?"

Lance whistled.

"I suppose so, if she insists upon it."

"Well, I wish you would stick to one story or the other, Lance," Dorothy protested, moving away with Tory Drew and leaving her brother and Louise Miller together.

"I suppose there are not many things I would not forgive you, but I never should forgive your not being truthful."

Lance and Louise remained silent a few moments after the others had departed.

Reproachfully Louise studied the thin, eager face.

"Lance, I can guess it is in your code to protect a girl by telling a half truth. I suppose Teresa somehow got the impression she was to be chosen for Penelope without your having said so. She is a vain little thing. But what I want to say is, please never hurt Dorothy in order to protect anyone else. Perhaps she is only your sister, but she hates deceit more than anything in the world, and you know how devoted she is to you."

Lance frowned.

"See here, Louise, I'm not in the habit of telling fibs, so don't preach. I am not going to have Teresa suffer any more criticism from the rest of you girls. I have met her a few times and we have talked. She seemed to think perhaps it was a mistake as long as our two camps were not friendly, so I am glad she has spoken of the fact to Dorothy and Miss Mason. I wasn't going to say anything first.

"You need not worry over Dorothy and me, Ouida. We have our scraps now and then, but there isn't another girl I think holds a candle to her at present, not even you or Tory.

"By the way, we ought to be special friends. We are both 'different,' and no one ever really likes being. Dorothy says you have got some queer idea in your head that you would like to be a naturalist. That is almost as good as my wishing to be a musician, when we both have our own livings to earn, the sooner the better for ourselves and families. We aren't all Tory Drews in this world!"

Louise's earnest pale gray eyes with their dark lashes were staring intently at her companion.

"I agree with the first part of your speech, Lance, but I really don't understand what you mean about Tory," she returned.

"Don't you? Well, nothing important. Only Tory is one of the people who has talent and charm and things are going to be fairly easy for her compared to you and me. When the time comes for her to study art she will have her chance. Most people are fond of her. At present in our family old Don and father will do pretty much anything she asks. So I thought maybe you and I might be kind of special friends, Ouida. I may probably get into a scrape some day and not know the best way out and want your help."

"You can always count on me, Lance, if for no other reason than because you are Dorothy's favorite brother," Louise answered simply.

Observing that Miss Mason's car had arrived and several others, Lance and Louise moved toward the newcomers.

Three members of the Boy Scout Council and three other members of the girls had driven out with Mr. Fenton. It was rare in the history of the Scout movement that the girls and boys should take part in the same entertainment and the subject was being seriously considered.



Chapter XVI

The Greek Spirit


"What is the Greek spirit, Mr. Fenton?" During one of the rehearsals for the presentation of Odysseus, Lance McClain made this inquiry.

No one else among the group of boys and girls surrounding Mr. Fenton at the moment would have asked the question. Yet, overhearing Lance, a number of them stood waiting for the answer.

The weeks of outdoor work and study had awakened new ideas and interests.

Mr. Fenton did not reply immediately; instead, he appeared to be considering the question deeply.

Frequently he had talked of the Greek spirit. Therefore, what did he actually mean?

"I am glad you put that query to me, Lance," he returned finally. "Half a dozen times since we began our rehearsals I have spoken of the 'Greek spirit.' I have emphasized the wish that we reveal it in the presentation of our tableaux. One ought not to talk glibly and be unable to offer a simple definition.

"At least I can tell you what the 'Greek spirit' means to me and why I want us to give expression to it in our pageant.

"Try not to be bored if I discuss the subject seriously for a few moments. You know I have been a student, not a speaker, all my life, and there are times when we all wish for the gift of tongues."

Observing that Mr. Fenton was addressing not Lance alone who had asked the question, but the crowd of young people nearby, Memory Frean and Sheila Mason, Captain Curtis and several others came and stood on the edge of the crowd.

This afternoon they were together on the side of the stream of water where the tableaux would be presented.

In nearly every detail Tory had been correct in her original conception. The pageant would be presented in the clear green space with the grove of shadowy trees as background.

Across the water the audience were to be seated in a natural outdoor auditorium. On a slight elevation of land near the stream the Father of the Scouts, who had promised to appear for the evening's entertainment, would read aloud portions of the Odyssey.

This afternoon, however, the Scouts were busy building and arranging details of the outdoor scenery.

It must be as simple as possible to serve their purpose.

Observing the crowd gathering about Mr. Richard Fenton, the builders also stopped their toil to join the others.

A rare experience had come to Mr. Fenton late in life, and although she never realized the fact, Tory Drew was chiefly responsible.

Almost as a recluse Mr. Fenton had spent the years of his middle age. He was under the impression that he was not sympathetic with most people and that they did not care for him. With a sufficient fortune for his needs, he had not found it necessary to engage in an occupation for the sake of making money. Therefore he had devoted most of his time to study and thought.

The result had not brought him a deep satisfaction. In his young manhood he had not planned this kind of existence.

He had contemplated being a public man, a statesman should he reveal the necessary ability. In those days he had been young and meant to make Memory Frean proud of him. They had separated and he had sought consolation among his books.

Then into his own and his sister's well regulated lives Tory had entered the winter before. She was not Tory to them then, but Victoria Drew, as Miss Victoria Fenton still insisted upon calling her niece.

To Mr. Fenton the young girl had made an unconscious appeal. Lonely and feeling herself out of place in a new and strange environment, she appeared like a gay little tropical bird or flower transferred to a harsher environment. When he and Tory became friends the coldness of the old maid and old bachelor establishment changed to a pleasanter warmth.

Introduced to her girl friends, Mr. Fenton had become a member of their Scout Council. But not until this summer had he developed into their chief mentor, and fairy godfather.

Now to his surprise, added to his other unsought honors, he found himself the director of the Greek pageant, one of the performers as well, and far more popular with his fellow-players than he yet appreciated.

Daily they were coming to him with their problems and their ambitions. As yet their confidences related only to the approaching performance.

Lance's question was more general than any other that had been propounded. While Mr. Fenton was replying he looked at Lance with more interest than he had felt in the boy before.

If no one else understood what he was endeavoring to make plain, he believed that Tory and Lance would catch the import of his words.

"Among the nations the Greeks are rarely fortunate," Mr. Fenton began. "They left us such inheritances that we have remembered their great days; with other nations we are too apt to recall the years of their decay, their mistakes.

"Perhaps one reason for this is that the Greeks were our forefathers, a branch of the Aryan-speaking peoples who in the faint twilight of early history, a nomadic, wandering people, moved southward, and combined with the inhabitants of Crete. This gives us the story of the Odyssey, one of the two great Greek poems, but more filled with legend than the story of the Iliad, which is the siege of Troy."

Mr. Fenton paused.

"I am not tiring you too much? Still I must go on. We must try as far as we can to understand what we have undertaken to present to others. And I have not yet told you what I mean by the Greek spirit.

"It revealed itself even as far back as these two poems. The Greeks were then possessed of two great passions, the love of adventure and the love of beauty. Those two possessions I want to be equally the heritage of the American Girl and Boy Scouts.

"Later, in what is known as the Age of Pericles, the Greeks entered into their third ardor, Democracy, the love of freedom. So what I call the Greek spirit is the love and pursuit of these three things: Beauty, Adventure, Freedom.

"I might talk longer and you would understand me less well. Understand, there may be danger in these three desires. One must not seek beauty, adventure and freedom at the expense of other people, but in order to share it with others as the Greeks have done.

"Now I am through with my lecture, will some one give me a hammer? I'll try to assist Don in building a footstool for one of Penelope's maids. I'm afraid I am no better carpenter than I am lecturer. Do you understand what I have been trying to explain, Lance? We may talk the question over together some other time."

Lance nodded.

"I think I do understand what it means in regard to the Scouts."

A moment he stood dreaming when the others went back to work. Beauty, adventure, freedom, the Scouts were finding in the outdoors during the weeks of their summer camp.

At present in front of the grove of trees Mrs. Phillips was starting a rehearsal of the Greek dance that was to form a part of the coming pageant.

Fascinated, Lance stood watching.



Chapter XVII

A Classic Revival


Only now and then does nature allow us a perfect thing.

The day of the presentation of the Greek poem of the Odyssey by the Girl and Boy Scouts was a perfect day.

It occurred during the last week in August. Here at the fringe of the deep woods the afternoon was like early September; there was more color, more radiance than one associates with any other month of the year.

Beyond the woods the wheat fields were golden, the final growth of the summer gardens a riot of purple and rose and blue. The corn fields having ripened, bent their green maturity to the breezes, the silk of the corn tassels made valiant banners. In the forests the beech trees showed bronze leaves amid the midsummer foliage, the sumach and the woodbine were flaunting the scarlet signals of autumn.

Along the road leading from Westhaven to the site in the woods where the Greek pageant would take place, from an early hour in the afternoon motor cars moved back and forth.

The first cars transported the players and their costumes and such odds and ends of scenery as had to be attended to at the last.

The same cars returned for the families and friends of the actors. Every automobile and carriage the town could spare for the occasion had been commandeered.

The interest the town of Westhaven and several neighboring villages displayed in the Greek pageant was beyond the realms of possibility in the original conception of the Girl and Boy Scouts.

But the summer was closing. In a short time a good many of the summer residents would be returning to their city homes. The thought of a final entertainment, a final memory of the summer days became inspiring.

Moreover, a Greek pageant was unusual presented by groups of American girls and boys. Probably they would make a failure of so ambitious an effort, yet it would be worth while to see.

The first arrivals among the audience found several hundred chairs placed in more or less orderly array upon one side of a stream that ran straight as a ribbon along this part of the countryside.

Upon an elevation a small platform had been constructed with a table and a chair so banked with golden rod and Michaelmas daisies and green boughs that the wooden outlines were concealed.

On the further side of the water was an ingenious structure, half palace and half tent.

The walls were of a heavy white canvas, the roof had been made of narrow lattice and this covered with green branches.

In front was the court yard of the palace. The furnishings were severely simple, a long bench and a table, a few straight chairs, little more than stools, and painted white to suggest marble.

No other paraphernalia of the approaching performance was visible.

Now and then a figure appeared from the background of trees, never one of the players, only some assistant bent upon an errand.

Not upon the shore-line supposed to represent ancient Greece, but immediately facing the audience waved a giant American flag. On either side were the Scout flags, one bearing the imprint of an eagle's wing, the insignia of the Girl Scouts, the other an elm tree, the flag of the boys.

At four o'clock in the afternoon the pageant began.

Before that hour not only were the seats filled but a number of people were standing.

A guest of honor of the occasion was one of the distinguished men who originated the Scout movement for boys in the United States. Another guest of honor was a member of the National Girl Council, who had come up from the headquarters in New York for no other reason than to be present at the pageant.

With simple Scout ceremonies the entertainment opened.

A few moments after the applause had subsided, a beautiful resonant voice read aloud the first lines describing the Odyssey:

"Sing us the song of the hero, steadfast, skilful and strong, Taker of Troy's high towers who wandered for ten years long Over the perilous waters, through unknown cities of men, Leading his comrades onward, seeking his home again. Sing us the song of the Wanderer, sing us the wonderful song."

A moment later slowly rowing down the stream appeared a solitary figure, Odysseus, seated upon a raft to which were fixed sails and a rudder.

Before reaching the place along the shore where the boat, built by Odysseus on the island of Calypso, was to land, a storm was supposed to beset the hero. The audience beholds him struggle with the storm and then reach a safe harbor.

On the shore he piles up branches and lies down upon a bed of leaves.

A short time passes and Odysseus sleeps.

This opening scene in the tableaux Donald McClain insisted was the most difficult in the entire program. During the rehearsals he had been possessed by the fear that he would not be able to produce the illusion, so that his audience would not take him seriously. Therefore, the tableaux would begin and end in disaster.

Don need not have troubled. Very handsome and heroic he appeared, his dark hair grayed to represent the age of the Greek hero who had wandered so many weary years after the siege of Troy.

While Odysseus slumbers the Princess Nausicaa and her maidens come down toward the river. Unaware of the sleeper, they begin washing their clothes in the river and afterwards spread them out to dry in the sun.

Victoria Drew, as the Princess Nausicaa, wore a gown of bright blue with a Greek design in silver braid. Her bright red-gold hair was bound in a silver fillet. Her maids were Margaret Hale, Edith Linder, Martha Greaves and Julia Murray. Their costumes were white and crimson, yellow and green.

In making a careful study of the costumes worn by the early Greeks, Miss Frean and the Troop Captain had been surprised to find that white did not play so important a part in their dress as they had supposed. Together with their love for the beauty of line and form the Greeks possessed an equal love for color.

Nausicaa and her maidens begin a game of ball on the sands. The princess misses the ball and as it rolls into the water she gives a cry that awakes Odysseus.

He comes forward and asks Nausicaa's aid.

Together they move toward the palace of the Sea-kings, when the first tableau ends.

The second scene shows Odysseus seated inside the tent narrating his adventures to the good King Alcinous and his wife, Queen Arete.

Again the voice of the interpreter recited further lines from the Greek poem:

"Hither, come hither and hearken awhile, Odysseus, far-famed king! No sailor ever has passed this way but has paused to hear us sing. Our song is sweeter than honey, and he that can hear it knows What he never has learnt from another, and has joy before he goes; We know what the heroes bore at Troy in the ten long years of strife We know what happens in all the world, and the secret things of life."

A thrill of appreciation and sympathy stirred the larger portion of the audience at the outset of the next tableau.

Strangers, slightly puzzled to guess the cause, found that a few hurried words made the situation clearer.

Odysseus has sailed from Crete and comes at last to his own land.

No change of scenery was possible. The hearers learned from the recitation that he had reached the island of Ithaca. Here his ship was moored in a haven between two steep headlands near a shadowy cave, where the water-fairies come to look after their bees and weave their sea-blue garments on the hanging looms.

Odysseus, knowing not that he has reached his home at last, walks up the steep incline from the shore. Here he meets the Goddess of wisdom, Pallas Athena.

Contrary to her own judgment Katherine Moore had agreed finally to represent Athena; in spite of the difficulties to be surmounted not to have accepted would have been too ungracious.

From beyond in the grove of trees the Goddess advances. She is seated in a chariot drawn by four children. The children wore costumes of white, short skirts to their knees and sandals on their feet.

The Goddess herself was clad in white with a wreath of green leaves about her hair. Had the audience been closer she would have appeared a pale and fragile Goddess with wide gray eyes set in a delicate, bravely smiling face. For the old-time Kara had been doing her best to return these days in order to cast no gloom upon the pleasure of her friends.

Better for Kara perhaps that the general effect of the tableau was what was desired and not a too apparent view of details!

This, however, was not true concerning the little group of children who drew the chariot.

So startling was Lucy Martin's beauty that not only the Girl Scouts and their older friends discussed it among themselves, the Boy Scouts, not so apt to notice a little girl's appearance, also spoke of it to one another privately.

Fortunately Lucy, in spite of her wilfulness, was not self-conscious.

To-day evidently she was thinking not of herself but of Katherine Moore and Billy, her former friends from the Gray House on the Hill.

A blond Cupid grown slightly older and thinner, Billy Duncan appeared, with his blond hair and large childish blue eyes and his somewhat expressionless face.

Either the performance of the Greek tableaux or the presence of the little girl who had so dominated him during the years they had spent together at the Gray House made Billy dazed and speechless.

There was no need, however, that he should use any intelligence save to do what Lucy commanded.

Her dark eyes sparkled with a brilliant excitement, her rose cheeks glowed. The stiff aureole of her dark hair made a striking contrast to the whiteness of her childish costume.

The other two children were acquaintances of Lucy's from the Gray House and equally ready to do her bidding.

So, whatever the others may have believed, Lucy Martin was convinced that she had taken complete charge of Kara's tableau.

Watching the little girl, Kara in a measure forgot what she felt to be her own unfitness for her distinguished rôle.

Athena touches Odysseus with her magic wand and he changes into an old man, not wishing to be recognized on his return to his own palace. Athena's chariot is then drawn back into the grove of trees and Odysseus, now disguised as a beggar, once more sets out for his home. The Goddess has presented him with a worn coat which he places over his former costume.

The tableaux did not consume any length of time, scarcely longer than it requires in the telling, nevertheless the entire drama of Odysseus could not be unfurled in a single afternoon's pageant.

The meeting of Odysseus with the faithful steward, Eumaeus, played by Mr. Fenton, was presented without the details one finds in the story.

Immediately after the son of Odysseus, Telemachus, makes his appearance.

Neither Lance McClain nor Donald had ever acted until to-day.

They had both been fearful that playing together would have its drawbacks, as one is inclined to be more nervous and critical with regard to one's own family. Actually the brothers were more surprised by each other than they could have surprised their audience.

The change in costume, the gray in his hair, the lines of makeup on his handsome boyish face, gave Donald a look of maturity, while Lance's slenderness and the fact that he was several inches smaller carried with it the necessary suggestion of graceful youth.

Together the father and son set forth to their home, crowded with the suitors who, believing Odysseus dead, have come to seek the hand of Penelope.

Instead of going directly to the palace they retire toward the woods to suggest a lapse of time.

So far the Greek tableaux had been dominated by single figures, chiefly the hero of the poem.

Now a change occurs.

In the courtyard before the palace Penelope is seen to appear accompanied by her maidens.

A serene and stately Penelope robed in ivory and gold, her ash-brown hair braided and coiled low on her neck, a gold band in her hair, Joan Peters had never looked so handsome.

About her the troop of maidens like a swarm of brilliant, many-colored flowers.

They moved from the yard and onto a broad space of ground untouched by tree or shrub. Here the grass had been closely cut so that it formed a velvet greensward.

Penelope stands in the background and her maidens advance.

They were sixteen in number and represented the four seasons.

As Kara's illness made it impossible for her to be of their number, the sixteen girls were not alone Girl Scouts from the camp in Beechwood Forest. Four of them were gowned in white, four in pale green, four in blue and four in scarlet.

Their costumes were like the simple, flowing draperies of the Greek dancing girls seen upon the friezes of the ancient Parthenon at Athens.

Carefully Mrs. Phillips had made a study of every detail of Greek dancing and costuming. Anxious to impress the people of Westhaven with her ability as a teacher of dancing, she appreciated that no such opportunity as the present one would be offered her again.

Evan Phillips was to lead the Greek Dance of the Four Seasons; one of the dancers representing winter, she was dressed in white and silver.

Advancing, the entire line made a streak of rainbow beauty upon the farther edge of the silver stream of water.

The line recedes, forming a crescent about the solitary dancer.

Then Evan danced alone. Her dancing was a series of graceful gestures, of movements of her arms and postures of her body, not toe dancing or a skilful employment of her feet, such as we associate with modern dancing.

In the midst of her dancing she summons the four seasons to advance. Winter comes first. They seem to be blown forward by a gust of winter wind that sets them dancing and shivering forward. Supposedly the snow falls and their arms, partly covered by delicate white draperies, are raised as a shield.

The sun shines, the snow melts and they move backward to give place to the birth of spring, the four Girl Scouts in shimmering green costumes.

The dance of the Spring recalled Evan Phillips' dance of the young beech trees, save that it was more stately. As far as possible her mother had adapted her idea to the Greek model.

Summer follows spring and the dance suggests the blossoming of the flowers. The scarlet succeeds the blue and autumn comes with its portents of flying leaves and birds moving southward.

The dance ends and for the first time the audience broke into enthusiastic applause. Nothing so beautiful had ever been witnessed in Westhaven!

Penelope and her maidens return to the palace. Later Odysseus wanders into his own home, unrecognized by his family and friends.

The Girl Scouts composed the household of Penelope, the Boy Scouts found their opportunity as the impatient suitors of the lady Penelope. They remain about her palace, playing at games, feasting and wasting her substance and that of her son, Telemachus. The hour must be near when she shall make up her mind who is to fill the place of her lost husband, Odysseus.

In the games that took place the Boy Scouts found their chance to exhibit their prowess in outdoor sports.

Penelope fetches the bow and the quiver full of deadly arrows. She then goes to meet the princes, her attendants following carrying the axes.

To the suitor who wins at the trial of the bow Penelope vows to give herself in marriage.

Odysseus, with as little trouble as a minstrel fits a new cord to his lyre, bends the mighty bow with an arrow caught up from the table at his side.

Even when the bronze-tipped shaft goes clean through twelve axes set up in a row, the blinded Penelope fails to know her lord.

The last scene reveals Odysseus, his shabby coat cast aside, his figure no longer bent and aged, a shining hero seated opposite Penelope in the courtyard of his home, united at last after long parting.

The Greek tableaux were over. Within a quarter of an hour the audience departed for their homes, the Girl Scouts to their own camp and the boys to theirs on the other side of the hill. Yet not until bed-time was any other subject discussed by the players and their audience than the surprising success of the Greek pageant given that afternoon in the familiar setting of the New England woods.

So the beauty of the past held its re-birth in the present.



Chapter XVIII

The Passing


Outside the opening into her tent Teresa Peterson sat presumably playing upon the banjo. The sounds she was making were not particularly pleasing. Yet the camp was fairly deserted. Only a few of the other girls were to be seen and they were busy and nowhere near Teresa.

In fact, the camp in Beechwood Forest would be vacant within the next few days. Summer was closing with the soft loveliness that makes one forgive and forget her less charming moods.

Already the evergreen house, which had been the center of the camp life, was being dismantled.

Katherine Moore had returned to the Gray House on the Hill. After the performance of the Greek tableaux she had not been so well and Dr. McClain had additional reasons for desiring her presence in town at this time.

Impatient always to fulfill his own wishes, no sooner was Mr. Hammond aware of Kara's departure to town than he requested permission to have the floor of the old cabin removed and the search begun. Kara was not to be told of the effort until the work was accomplished. Not one chance in a thousand, Mr. Hammond agreed, that any trace of Kara's past history be located here, therefore she had best not be excited or worried until the task was finished.

This afternoon, as Teresa twanged at her banjo strings, she looked oftener than was good for her music at the group of men who were at work in the evergreen cabin.

So far they had only started the removal of the old boards.

When this was concluded the Girl Scouts had determined to organize the searching parties among themselves. Mr. Hammond would join them; no one else was supposed to feel a sufficiently keen interest in the investigation to be allowed to take part.

In spite of her music Teresa observed Lance McClain coming toward the Girl Scout camp when he was still some distance away. He was not wearing his Scout uniform as might have been expected.

Even at a distance Lance appeared unlike the other boys. He was smaller than a number of them, more slender and graceful. He had a peculiar carriage of the head. He seemed to bend forward slightly and yet his eyes were nearly always upturned. He apparently did not look at the objects directly in front of him.

"Hello, Lance, I am awfully glad to see you! I was feeling dull," Teresa called out. "How did you happen to walk over to camp and not be wearing your uniform? Miss Mason is lying down in her tent; if you like I'll tell her you are here and then you can stay and talk to me, or else I'll play to you."

Lance made a funny grimace.

"Thanks awfully, Teresa, but I want to see Dorothy for a special reason. I can't stay long. I wonder if you will tell me where I can find her?"

Teresa frowned.

"I thought you always claimed to be fond of music, Lance, so I don't see why you need be in such a hurry."

Again Teresa twanged at her banjo, a little angrily on this occasion, so that the boy's sensitive face twitched.

"Oh, for goodness sake don't make that noise, please, Teresa, and don't be annoyed. I'd like to talk to you if I had time. I don't think I am fond of the banjo as a musical instrument, but I've simply got to find Dorothy. If you don't know where she is will you ask Miss Mason? Tell her it is important or I would not have appeared. Oh, yes, I know the Boy Scouts are more welcome visitors at present than they were, still I really have too much else to do ordinarily!"

So worried was Lance's expression that Teresa relented.

"You might tell me what you have on your mind. If you don't wish to, why, I do know where Dorothy is. She and Tory Drew and Louise and little Lucy rowed over to the other side of the lake, not far off. If you are in a hurry you can take the other canoe and join them. It will require less time than walking around the shore and I'll go with you if you'd like to have me come."

Lance flushed.

"You will think I am rude I am afraid, Teresa, but it is rather a private matter I want to talk over with Dorothy, so if you don't object I'll row over alone. Some other time you and I --  -- "

The girl shrugged her shoulders.

"Oh, it does not make any difference," she returned, and began humming a gay little tune and playing more softly.

As he entered the silver canoe and started paddling across the shallow lake Lance regretted his decision. His was a nature not so uncommon as people suppose. He disliked hurting people in small ways, in larger and more important ways he was apparently indifferent.

He liked Teresa and thought her extremely pretty.

After all, Dorothy would not be alone, although they could go off somewhere nearby together. Yet Lance knew he would not particularly object to the presence of Louise Miller and Tory Drew.

No difficulty arose in discovering the group of girls. Before Lance shoved his boat from the shore he observed them at a point about three-quarters of the way down the opposite shore. He could not distinguish one from the other nor tell the exact number.

As he approached nearer he observed that Tory was seated with an easel in front of her, and at a short distance away Lucy was posing. The other girls were not in sight.

So intent was Tory upon her work that she did not see Lance until he was within a few yards. Then he called out to her, and Lucy, glad of a chance to change her position, ran down to meet him.

They came up hand in hand.

"Not so bad, Tory, for a girl, and one no older than you!" Lance murmured, staring at the drawing of the youthful artist, his brows drawn into a fine line, half of criticism, half envy.

Donald and Dorothy McClain and most of her younger companions would have felt only enthusiastic admiration for Tory's work. Had they known, Lance's attitude was more flattering. He expected more of Tory's ability than the others knew how to expect.

She shook her head.

"This is my third attempt, Lance, to make a picture of Lucy that I shall be willing to submit to the judges in our Council or show father. I can't try again, we are going away from camp so soon. Now and then I think this may do, and at others I am discouraged. I must not talk about myself. How did you happen to turn up here? Are you looking for Dorothy? I hope there is nothing the matter, you are so serious."

Before it became necessary for Lance to reply a voice interrupted him.

Overhearing the conversation, Dorothy and Louise Miller, who had not been far away, were returning.

With an unexpected display of affection, Dorothy McClain, not accustomed to showing her emotions, put her arm through her brother's and held tight to him.

"What are you doing not in your Scout uniform, Lance? We were just saying that it was too dreadful to think that our summer camping days in Beechwood Forest would soon be a thing of the past. Nevertheless, I will be kind of glad to return to my own family. Tory and Ouida and I have been making all sorts of plans for the winter. You must help us with some of them, Lance, you and Don."

"Afraid I won't be able to, Dorothy," Lance answered in an odd voice.

The three girls studied him more intently.

Lucy, seldom interested in the conversation of older persons, had wandered away and was throwing pebbles into the clear water.

"Why not, Lance? You are not usually unaccommodating, and though you may consider you are wasting your valuable time to spend any of it with girls, you won't count Tory and Ouida and me with the others?"

"I won't be at home next winter, Dorothy, at least I think not. I came out to camp this afternoon to have a private conversation with you, but if Ouida and Tory won't be bored I don't mind if they hear what I wish to say. Perhaps if you don't see things my way to the extent I want you to, they may help me."

Dorothy looked frightened. "Oh, Lance! What in the world are you going to propose? Please don't ask me to take your part if you have been having an argument with father. I may not think you are in the right. Suppose we have afternoon tea before you tell us anything. We brought the tea things over in the canoe and Ouida and I have been collecting the materials for a fire."

Doggedly Lance shook his head.

"No, it will take more than a half hour before the water can possibly boil. I can't wait so long.

"I have had an argument with father, Dorothy. I don't see how you managed to guess. I went in to see him yesterday and stayed all night at home. We talked until after midnight. I am going back home now after I have confided in you, so I did not care to wear my uniform."

As if she suddenly had grown tired, Dorothy seated herself on the ground, Lance standing above and staring down at her an eager, appealing light in his brown eyes.

Embarrassed by their own position, Tory and Louise were moving away when a swift inclination of Lance's hand beckoned them to remain.

"I want you to stay, please do. I believe Dot is going to be difficult. I did not think so when I came out to talk things over with her. She is always claiming that I am her favorite brother yet when it comes to a test she is far oftener on any one's side than mine."

"That is not because I do not care for you but because I feel you are often wrong, Lance, and for your own sake I am obliged to differ with you," Dorothy answered, as if she were on the defensive.

"Oh, well, all right, here goes. Perhaps I am wrong again," Lance returned. "Nevertheless you and father might as well understand that I am in earnest and sooner or later mean to have my way."

At this instant Lance sat down beside his sister, Tory and Ouida following his example, but a few feet away as if they were interested but reluctant.

Persuasively Lance placed his arm around his sister.

"Dot, does it ever occur to you that a fellow may have a right to his mistakes? The rest of my family is so almighty sensible that if I am never to be allowed to have my own way I'll never learn anything.

"Do you remember about two weeks ago when Mr. Fenton talked to us about the Greek spirit? He said that to him it represented, beauty, adventure and freedom."

Dorothy sighed.

"Dear me, Lance, I was afraid at the time you might take Mr. Fenton's speech personally! What are you planning to do in quest of beauty, freedom and adventure?"

Dorothy's expression was worried but amused, and Lance flushed. Upon only one subject was he particularly sensitive, his devotion to music and his own lack of any knowledge of it.

In a measure his sister could surmise something of what he had in mind.

"My effort was not to be a very serious one, Dot," he said slowly; "at least I did not feel it go until after my talk with father. He seems to have gone up in the air. I don't want to spend next winter in Westhaven. I simply can not endure any longer never having music lessons from any one who knows how to teach and not even hearing any music worth listening to."

Lance set his teeth.

"I don't ask anyone to understand, you can't if you try."

Dorothy's blue eyes grew more troubled.

"I know, Lance, but I do try," she returned. "And I would give anything, make any sacrifice I knew how to make if father were willing or had the money to send you to New York to study. But he is not willing and he has not the money."

"I know, that is just it. I don't mean to ask him for money. I have been writing letters to people in New York and trying to get work and now I have succeeded in landing something that will give me enough to live on, so you won't have to worry."

"But, Lance, there is school. You are only fifteen and you can't stop school, it is even against the law. You must have pretended you were older."

"I can go to school at night when I have finished working; I explained this to father," Lance argued patiently.

"What about the music? When will you have money or time for lessons?" Tory interrupted, not intending to intrude upon the discussion, but in her interest forgetting her resolution.

A little less self-confident Lance appeared.

"Honestly, I don't know, Tory," he replied. "I think I feel that if once I get where music is, the opportunity will come to me as rain and sunshine come to trees and the things that need them. Gee whiz, I am talking like a poet or a girl! Father would not think this line of conversation convincing. You'll think up a better line of argument, won't you Dorothy? Then when your time comes and you want something a whole lot I'll do my best for you."

"But, Lance, I -- " Dorothy hesitated -- "I don't want you to go away from home; I don't think it best for you. You ought to wait several years anyhow. You are not strong and you'd be ill. You don't believe it, but father cares more for you than for the rest of us because you are more like mother. Please put things off a while longer in your own mind. Truly, father will not consent for the present."

Lance got up.

"All right, Dorothy, don't say anything to father on the subject. If you try to do your best for me what you really think will be plain enough. I am sorry to have interrupted you; I'm off."

Nor would Lance remain in spite of the pleading of his sister and friends.

Disconsolately they watched the slender figure in the canoe push away from shore.

Afterwards they made no pretence of cheerfulness. Tory would not return to her drawing; Dorothy was too depressed even to assist in making tea.

An hour later they were on the way back to their own camp.



Chapter XIX

Letters


Mr. Jeremy Hammond personally conducted the search.

The evergreen cabin had been erected without foundation save a number of cross beams. There was no cellar except one a few feet square under the small room that served as a kitchen. The logs that upheld the old house were singularly free from decay.

Standing upon one of them, a line of Girl Scouts on either side of him, Mr. Hammond gazed downward with an air of discouragement.

"I am obliged to confess I see no place that gives one a right to believe we shall discover a secret treasure," he remarked. "I am glad Kara is unaware of our effort. I was wrong in speaking to her on the subject. I suppose I am hopelessly romantic and have been cherishing the idea of some day discovering further information about the little girl I rescued a number of years ago. We shall find nothing here."

Tory touched him on the arm.

"Please, Mr. Hammond, don't let us start out upon our search in such a hopeless spirit. I feel as you say you do about Kara. Ever since I met her I have been convinced we would learn that she had a delightful background of some kind, which would explain why she is so brave and charming."

Mr. Hammond smiled.

"No, Tory, I cannot go so far as you. I have never anticipated so much. Besides, I do not consider it necessary. Personality is the strongest force in the world, not the question of one's immediate ancestors. I am not decrying the ancestors, only if one possesses an unusual personality it may come from further back in the stream of life and the stream was the same for us all in the beginning.

"I have merely hoped to come across a clue which might give Kara an idea of her parentage, or perhaps, a relative who would be kind and interested in her."

Tory looked disappointed.

"Kara has plenty of people who are interested in her, and friends may be as satisfactory as relatives." In this sentiment Mr. Hammond may or may not have agreed. Already he had commenced tapping on the logs with the end of his cane and digging underneath in any stray spot that he hoped might develop into the receptacle of a box or treasure of some kind.

The girls went about upon their own quests. Unfortunate that there was no greater amount of space, no secret chambers and passages to be investigated. This would have lent a glamour, a romance that nothing about the little evergreen cabin afforded.

An hour and the exploration became of necessity over.

Nothing of any interest had been unearthed.

Disconsolately Mr. Hammond seated himself upon an upturned stool. A few of the Girl Scouts clustered about him; the others unwilling to give up, were still poking about in unlikely places.

Alone Tory Drew's original ardor continued unquenched.

All day she had a vision of herself going to Kara at the old Gray House with information that would bring a new happiness into the clear gray eyes grown so wistful in these weeks of a summer time they had thought to be so happy.

No one place had been more thoroughly searched than the corners of the old brick fireplace that divided the living room and the kitchen with a single chimney.

Yet kneeling down once more Tory began a last search, poking about into impossible crannies.

Exhausted, she finally surrendered. No reward was to be theirs, and they had only been wasting valuable energy and time.

Nevertheless Tory did not feel in the mood for discussing this obvious fact with the others.

Near the old fireplace was a small collection of loose bricks. Arranging them into a low square Tory seated herself, leaning her head against the left corner of the chimney.

Suddenly she had a sensation of dizziness. Her head seemed to be swimming from the fatigue perhaps and the disappointment of her futile search.

She straightened, biting her lips and wondering why she was not more physically uncomfortable than she felt herself to be.

Then hearing a crumbling noise behind her, Tory turned her eyes. The bricks against which her head had been resting had been loosened. She had not been dizzy, the movement had taken place in them.

Picking up a stick that lay beside her feet she thrust it idly inside a tiny crevice.

Actually by this time Tory had lost interest in what had been an ardent enthusiasm earlier in the day.

She was excited, however, when a brick, displaced from its former position, tumbled to the ground, yet for the moment uttered no exclamation that might attract attention.

Thrusting her hand into the opening she tugged at another brick. The exertion was unnecessary. It yielded at once to her touch. Two other bricks were as easily removed.

Tory then discovered a hollow opening several feet deep.

There was nothing visible inside; the space appeared dark and empty.

Then Tory did call out and Mr. Hammond and the group of Girl Scouts crowded close about her.

"Would you mind thrusting your hand inside and seeing if there is anything stored away? I don't think it very nice of me to ask you because I am afraid of touching something spooky or clammy. Do you mind?"

Apparently Mr. Hammond did not object. Unmindful of his coat sleeve, he was thrusting the entire length of his arm into the hollow recess.

"I wonder if this was not a Dutch oven that was covered over when it failed to be used. In that case I may find a petrified loaf of bread or pumpkin pie," Mr. Hammond remarked in a slightly ironical tone, bored by this time.

An instant later his expression altered sufficiently for the group of girls watching to become conscious of the change. The next he drew forth a small package of letters tied together with a worn cord.

Were they of the remotest interest or value?

No one could say. At least the audience was willing to offer them the benefit of an investigation.

Joan Peters went away to her tent, returning with a candle.

If there was anything else inside the dark enclosure the lighted candle would show it forth.

Except for the letters the recess was empty.

Mr. Hammond continued to hold the packet and stare at it.

"Don't you think you had best open the letters and read what they say?" Tory asked restlessly, wishing that Mr. Hammond would give her the opportunity. After all, she had been the real discoverer, even if her hands had not first touched the yellowed papers. Perhaps they would contain thrilling information for Kara. She might be an heiress or possessed of a more romantic heritage.

Mr. Hammond appeared doubtful.

"I don't know; I don't feel as if I were at liberty to open the letters. I have no authority and they can have no association with me. Perhaps I had best speak first to Dr. McClain and then take them to Kara."

"But, Mr. Hammond," Dorothy McClain protested, "why should you conclude that a small package of letters discovered in the way that we have come across these can have any connection with Katherine Moore? The letters may have been thrust into the old fireplace to burn and been forgotten. Surely there can be no objection to your looking over them first! Then you may be able to decide to whom they should be presented. After all, the little evergreen cabin belongs to our Troop of Girl Scouts. Mr. Fenton bought the place and gave it to us. You have our permission. Besides, we would like to look at the letters with you. I am so excited I really cannot endure to wait any longer."



Chapter XX

Looking Forward


Devoted attention to every line contained in the little package of letters failed to develop information which appeared to be of interest to Katherine Moore or any one else.

Carefully each line was read by Mr. Hammond and the Girl Scouts on the afternoon of their discovery. Later the letters were given to Dr. McClain and to Mr. Hale, Margaret Hale's father, who was a prominent lawyer, for an equally painstaking perusal. They agreed that they were merely a trivial collection such as any one might receive from a dozen friends, preserved for the sake of the affection, not the value of the communications.

There were no papers save the letters.

Only one or two seemingly unimportant details connected the letters in any possible fashion with Katherine Moore. Three of them were signed with the initials O. M., which may or may not have had any association with the name Moore. In point of fact, it would have appeared a straining of the imagination, save that the name Moore was signed to one short note.

In any case, it was agreed that, since there was no one else to claim them, the little package might be consigned to the girl who was discovered as a baby in the forsaken cabin. No one had been known to be living there at the time, so there was no reason to believe otherwise than that the baby had been carried there and immediately abandoned.

As Dr. McClain was at present seeing Kara daily at the Gray House, the letters were given to him for safe delivery. Not until twenty-four hours after was Tory Drew permitted to call and find what the influence and effect of so unsatisfying a communication had been.

She found Kara in the big room downstairs which had been given over to her use since her accident whenever she was living at the Gray House.

When Tory entered the room Kara must have been re-reading the letters, since they lay open upon her lap.

"You were not disappointed over our discovery, dear? The letters do mean something to you? You have the faith to believe that something important to you will develop from them some day? I believe it if you do."

Kara laughed.

"Beloved Tory, if with all your imagination and sense of romance you could find nothing of value in the old letters why expect it of a practical, matter-of-fact, stupid person like I am? The letters are ridiculous to my mind so far as they are supposed to have any reference to me."

Still the gray eyes were shining and to-day Tory beheld the half quizzical lines about the lips that belonged to the Kara of other days.

"But if you have no faith in the letters, why do you seem so much happier and like your old self?" she queried.

Her companion hesitated.

"Hasn't Dr. McClain told you?"

"He has told me nothing save that I might come to see you if I would not stay too long, which is the permission he gives to all our Girl Scouts."

Kara's voice was steady with the old-time gentle drawl.

"Promise me then not to expect too much or be too disappointed if things do not turn out altogether well? Of course I am happier to-day, happier than a dozen letters proclaiming me an heiress could ever make me.

"Dr. McClain and two other surgeons who have seen me believe there is a possibility I may be well. They are not absolutely sure. Don't look so queer, Tory."

"I don't look queer, go on," the other girl whispered, bending her face down so that her lips touched Kara's hair and her face could not be seen.

"There isn't anything else to tell, except that I am to go to New York City to be treated and to spend the winter and that Mr. Fenton and Mr. Hammond and Dr. McClain and several other people have made the arrangements and will pay all my expenses."

Here for the first time Kara's voice trembled.

"Who says one cannot have beautiful things happen to one even if lost letters do prove disappointing?"

She put out her hand and caught hold of her companion's.

"Tory, you don't think I have failed to appreciate your loveliness to me this summer. All the time when I have appeared most ungrateful I have cared most. I won't talk about it now, only as you are an artist you understand better than I how one may see things in a wrong perspective. My view is clearer now whatever happens."

Tory kneeled down:

"I wish I might be Ruth to your Naomi."



Chapter XXI

Kara's Departure


Believing that it would do his patient no possible injury, Dr. McClain agreed that Kara should see as many of her friends as she desired upon the last few days before departing for New York City.

Every spare hour Kara and Tory were together. The last few days Miss Victoria Fenton had asked Kara to stay with them at their home in the village. Farewell could be more easily said from there than at the Gray House on the edge of the town. There would be less difficulty in finally getting away.

Dr. McClain was to accompany Kara to New York in order to see the New York physicians. Mr. Jeremy Hammond had offered to motor them down, as he owned a handsome car and Kara would be spared having to be lifted in and out of the train.

Kara's farewell Scout meeting was by her own request a quiet one. No one would be present save the Scout Captain and her own Patrol. There was only one other person who would come for half an hour to say good-by, Memory Frean.

Fortunately the Fenton house had a bedroom on the first floor, so that Kara could be comfortable without the problem of the stairs.

One admirer Kara had acquired without realizing the fact. She was to make the discovery on the afternoon that she and Miss Victoria Fenton sat talking, waiting for Tory to announce that preparations were ready for tea.

From the beginning of Tory's first acquaintance with Katharine Moore, Miss Fenton had been quietly watching the other girl. She had liked Kara's fashion of never referring to the difference between her own life and that of her more fortunate friends. When it was natural to mention the orphan asylum, where she made her home, always she spoke of the place with affection, never criticism or resentment.

Knowing nothing of her parentage, Miss Victoria concluded for reasons of her own that Kara had come of well-bred people. And she meant more than ordinary breeding. She was under the impression that Kara revealed rare tact and sweetness in a difficult situation. Now and then she considered that her attitude bore a quality of high courage. But not until after Kara's accident was Miss Fenton convinced that courage was the characteristic that lay behind her other attributes.

In the twenty-four hours the young girl had been her guest with the prospect of such a test of patience and fortitude before her, Miss Victoria had surrendered completely.

Silently Tory Drew had been aware of Miss Victoria's state of mind. She had observed a new tenderness in the older woman's manner and voice whenever she spoke or looked at her guest that she never had seen her display.

This afternoon on the day before Kara's departure, when Miss Victoria entered Kara's bedroom, with a hurried excuse Tory withdrew.

Kara, who was lying on a couch in a dark corner of the square old room, struggled to sit up as the older woman entered.

With hands that were large and kind the older woman pushed her gently back upon the pile of soft cushions.

Then, untying a parcel and flushing as if she were embarrassed, Miss Victoria laid a dressing gown over the reclining figure.

The gown was a beautiful one, with nothing of the plainness or severity one might have imagined Miss Victoria would choose. It was of blue silk, the shade known as old blue, indescribably deep and soft in tone. The lining was of pale gray. A little hood hung at the back and a cord was knotted about the waist.

Kara might wear it for a number of occasions. She could receive guests in it, as it would doubtless be difficult for her at all times to be formally dressed.

Kara's voice shook a little as she touched the silk with one hand and caught Miss Victoria's hand with the other.

"Everybody is being too good to me. I wonder if it is going to make it harder or easier for me this winter. I shall miss my friends the more and at the same time want to show them how deeply I appreciate what is being done. May I write to you now and then, Miss Victoria?"

Miss Fenton showed and expressed pleasure, although she had written her niece only a single letter in more than a month's absence from the village.

"I have something else for you, Kara, something I want you to prize, not because of its great value but because it means a great deal to me.

"It was given me by the bravest person I have known. I will not tell you about him now. Perhaps I will some day. If ever life seems to be too difficult for you, my dear, you must tell me and then perhaps my story may help you find new courage. Please don't speak of this to any one except to say I wished to give you the little pin as a parting gift."

As Tory softly turned the handle of the door to come back into the room and announce the Girl Scouts, she observed Miss Fenton stoop and pin at Kara's throat a small pin. As she came nearer she saw that it was a beautiful sapphire set in an old-fashioned band of gold. In truth, the pin was handsomer than either girl appreciated.

A moment later, before Kara could thank her properly, the older woman hurried away, insisting she had a household duty to look after.

The Girl Scouts had been warned.

Kara's farewell to her Patrol must be as casual and matter-of-fact as possible. There must be no heroics at parting; she would leave in the early morning and must reserve all her strength.

At shortly after five o'clock the girls and the Troop Captain had departed and Kara was again lying down alone until the evening meal.

Afterwards Dr. McClain and Dorothy were to come in for a few moments.

Kara and Tory, Miss Victoria and Mr. Richard Fenton were in the drawing-room when they entered. Unexpectedly Lance accompanied them.

"We did not intend allowing Lance to appear, Kara," Dorothy apologized, "but he insisted he had something of special importance to say to you and never had been allowed the opportunity, you have been so surrounded."

Not long after, stating that he was satisfied with her condition, Dr. McClain departed to call upon another patient. A few minutes later Miss Victoria and Mr. Fenton left the drawing-room to the younger guests.

Kara was in her wheeled chair. Lance was standing near her. Dorothy was seated on a stool nearby, while Tory remained on the rug with her back to the fire, facing the others.

Dorothy smiled.

"Do you remember, Kara? Tory is wearing a green dress to-night as upon the occasion of our first visit to this drawing-room to ask her to become a Girl Scout. Dear me, what is that commotion?"

The two girls ran over toward the window. Lance had the thoughtfulness to wheel Kara's chair so that she might equally gratify her curiosity.

Tory had drawn up the curtain and the four of them could see a small group of figures standing in the street beneath the drawing-room window.

There was a light coating of snow on the sidewalk.

"What in the world is the matter?" Dorothy asked anxiously. "Isn't Don one of the boys down there? I wonder what they intend?"

Lance made an odd grimace.

"Intend? Good gracious! I always felt Don had no sense of humor, but this is worse than I feared.

"Don't you girls appreciate the fact this is to be a farewell serenade for Kara? Yet Don has read 'Seventeen'! They are half a dozen of the Boy Scout Band."

"It is very kind of them, I am sure; no reason for you to be so superior, Lance," Tory answered.

Outside the musicians were beginning the strains of "Auld Lang Syne" and the little crowd inside the room were silent, Tory thrusting the girl for whom the honor was intended into the most conspicuous position and a moment later wrapping a blue scarf about her thin shoulders.

With their heads close together they listened and watched.

"What are we to do when they have finished, Tory, to show our appreciation?" Kara whispered. "I am afraid Dr. McClain would not be willing to have me see them. Shall I go to my room while you receive them?"

"No," Tory shook her head, glancing about the room. On a center table was a bowl of red roses, the flowers Mr. Fenton cared for most, that he had brought as a farewell offering to Kara.

Tory gathered half a dozen in her hands.

"Throw these out and wave good-night," she murmured.

Kara was not able to reach so far and seemed shy at making the attempt, so that the other girl threw the roses and saw them fall, crimson spots of color on the white snow.

Don picked one up and waved it, lifting his hat. The other boys followed his example.

"Good-night, good-by, Kara," they called.

Donald's last glance and good-by was for Tory Drew.

As they closed the window and reluctantly turned away, Dorothy McClain wore an unusual expression. She was frowning and biting her lips, her color warmer than usual.

"Do you know, Tory, I believe Don is growing to be as fond of you as of me."

She slipped her arm through Lance's and held it close.

Lance gave her a reassuring glance.

Tory laughed.

"Never in a thousand years! But if Lance really wants to speak to Kara, perhaps he would rather we give him the opportunity alone.

"Suppose you come over here and sit on the sofa beside me. You must be specially good to me when Kara is away."

Seldom was Lance awkward in manner or apparently at a loss for words. Now he appeared embarrassed and silent.

"No, please don't go away, Tory, you and Dot, not if you can bear remaining. And you must, to brace up Kara. The truth is I had nothing special to say to her, but the other afternoon I composed a little piece of music in her honor as a farewell. I am wiser to-night and she shall not be afflicted with it."

Again Lance's brown eyes were slightly sarcastic, slightly challenging.

"How can you care for my poor efforts after the serenade?"

Tory made no answer save to attempt to lift the cover from the piano, so that Lance was compelled to come to her assistance.

"Sit down, Lance," she ordered quietly, attempting to place the stool in position. "I am glad to say the old piano was tuned only a few days ago, although no one here uses it. You know you want to play what you have written for Kara, so why pretend otherwise?"

Tory's manner left no chance for argument, so Lance, with a whimsical smile of agreement, meekly obeyed.

He sat under a light from a reading lamp, the two girls standing beside Kara's chair.

"My musical composition has the advantage of not being long and is merely an attempt to express our sorrow over Kara's departure, our faith in her good courage and our splendid hope for her return. Yes, and perhaps a little of my envy that she goes to the city of my dreams. Perhaps after all I shall meet her there."

Lance's words trailed away into silence as his slender fingers touched the keys in a simple melody of farewell.

<eob>

Bunny Brown And His Sister Sue On An Auto Tour

By

Laura Lee Hope



Chapter I

The Boy Next Door


"Oh, mother!" cried Bunny Brown, running up the front steps as he reached home from school. "Oh, something's happened next door!"

"What do you mean, Bunny? A fire?"

"No, it isn't a fire," said Sue, who was as much out of breath as was her brother. "It's sumfin different from that!"

"But, children, what do you mean? Is some one hurt?" asked Mrs. Brown.

"It sounds so," answered Bunny, putting his books on the table. "I heard Mrs. Ward crying."

"Oh, the poor woman!" exclaimed Mrs. Brown. "She must be in trouble. They have only just moved here. I'd better go over and see if I can help her"; and Mrs. Brown laid down her sewing.

"I guess it must be about their boy Fred," suggested Bunny.

"What happened to him?" asked Mrs. Brown. "Was he hurt at school? He goes to school, doesn't he?"

"Yes, but he wasn't there to-day," went on Bunny. "And it's Fred who's in trouble I guess, for I heard his mother speak his name, and then Mr. Ward said something else."

"Oh, dear, I hope nothing has happened," said Mrs. Brown, looking up at the clock to see if it were not time for her husband to come home from his boat and fishing pier. "We must do what we can to help, Bunny. Now tell me all about it. Not that I want to interfere with my neighbors' affairs, but I always like to help."

"And I think Mrs. Ward needs some help," said Sue, "'cause she was crying real hard."

"Then I'll go right over and see what is the matter," said kind Mrs. Brown.

"Oh, and may we go too?" asked Bunny.

"Please let us," begged Sue.

Their mother thought for a minute. Sometimes, she knew, it was not good for children to go where older persons were crying, and had trouble. But Bunny Brown and his Sister Sue were two wise little children, wiser than many of their age, and their mother knew she could depend on them. So, after a few seconds, she said:

"Yes, you may come with me. We shall see what the matter is with Mrs. Ward."

"And we'll help her too, if we can," added. Bunny, bravely.

Mrs. Brown, followed by Bunny and Sue, started for the home of Mrs. Ward. A wide lawn was between the two houses, and on this lawn Bunny and Sue, with their dog Splash, had much fun.

The Wards were a family who had lately moved to the street where the Browns had lived for years. As yet Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Ward had gotten only as far as a "nodding acquaintance." That is, Mrs. Brown, coming out into her yard, would see Mrs. Ward, and would say:

"Good morning. It's a fine day; isn't it?"

"Yes, indeed it is," Mrs. Ward would answer.

Sometimes it would be Mrs. Ward who would first speak about the fine weather and Mrs. Brown would answer. Both women would soon become better acquainted.

Mr. Brown had seen Mr. Ward several mornings on his way to work, and, knowing him to be the man next door, had nodded, and said: "Good morning!" And Mr. Ward had said the same thing. They, too, would soon be better acquainted.

"I know the Wards are nice people," said Sue, as she trotted along beside her mother.

"What makes you think so?" asked Mrs. Brown, as she walked slowly across her lawn toward the house next door.

"'Cause they have a nice dog named Dix, and he and Splash are good friends. First they sort of growled at each other, and then they smelled noses and now they always wag their tails when they meet."

"Well, that's a good sign," laughed Sue's mother.

"But I wonder what can be the matter with the boy next door," said Sue to her brother. "Are you sure you heard Mr. and Mrs. Ward talking about Fred?"

"Yes, I'm sure," answered Bunny.

"Well, I didn't hear that part," said Sue. "But we'll soon find out what the matter is."

As the Browns walked across the lawn, a dog came running out of the house where lived "the boy next door," as Bunny and Sue called Fred Ward, even though they knew his name. They had spoken several times to him.

"Is that dog savage?" asked Mrs. Brown.

"No, Momsie," replied Sue. "He's just as nice as he can be. He and Splash are good friends. Here Dix!" she called.

With a joyful bark the dog bounded toward Sue. He evidently knew the children, and soon made friends with Mrs. Brown.

"He's a strong dog," she said to the children.

"And he's good, too!" exclaimed Bunny. "I was talking to Fred one day and he told me that his dog Dix saved him from drowning when they lived in another city, near a river."

"That was fine!" cried Mrs. Brown. "I think I shall like Dix."

By this time they were under the dining-room windows of the Ward house, and Mrs. Brown and the children heard the sound of a woman sobbing, and a man trying to comfort her.

"Now don't worry, Martha," said the man. "Everything will come out right, I'm sure, and we'll find Fred."

"Oh, I hope so!" moaned the woman. And she kept on crying.

"Excuse me," said Mrs. Brown, calling in through the open window. "But I fear you have trouble, and I have come over to see if I may not help you."

Mr. Ward looked out of the window.

"It's Mrs. Brown," he said, evidently speaking to his wife in the room behind him.

"I have been intending to come over to see you," went on Mrs. Brown. "But you know how it is I suppose, Mrs. Ward," for now the other lady had come to the window. "We keep putting such things off. And really I have been so busy since we came back from our camp in the big woods that I haven't had time to set my house to rights."

"I know how it is, Mrs. Brown," replied Mrs. Ward, wiping the tears from her eyes, "and I am glad to see you now. Won't you come in?"

"I really don't know whether I ought to or not. My children, on coming home from school, said they heard sounds of distress in here, and knowing you were strangers I thought perhaps you might not know where to apply for help in case you needed it. My husband is one of the town officials, and if we can do anything --  -- "

"It is very kind of you," said Mrs. Ward. "Thank you so much for coming over. We are in trouble, and perhaps you can give us some advice. Please come in."

She went to the front door and let in Bunny, Sue and their mother, the two children wondering what could have happened to the boy next door, for they did not see him, and it seemed the trouble was about him.

"It won't take long to tell you what has happened," said Mrs. Ward, placing chairs for Mrs. Brown and the two children. "Our boy Fred has run away from home!"

"Run away from home!" exclaimed Mrs. Brown.

"Yes, that's what he's done," said Mr. Ward. "I never thought he'd do such a thing as that, even though he is quick tempered. Yes, Fred has run away," and he turned over and over in his hand a slip of paper he had been reading.

"Perhaps he only went off in a sort of joke," said Mrs. Brown sympathetically. "I know once Bunny --  -- "

"Yep. I ran away, I did!" exclaimed Bunny. "I got away down to the end of the street. I saw a man and a hand organ and he had a monkey. I mean the man did. And I wanted to be a hand-organ man so I ran away and was going off with him, only Bunker Blue chased after me, so I didn't run far, though I might have."

"Bunker Blue is a boy who works on Mr. Brown's fishing pier," explained Mrs. Brown. "Yes, Bunny did run away once, but he was glad to run back again."

"And I was lost!" cried Sue. "I was out walking with my daddy, and I went down a wrong street, and I couldn't see him and I didn't know what to do so I -- I cried."

"Yes, Sue was lost a whole morning before a policeman found her and telephoned to us," put in Mrs. Brown. "She was glad to get back. Undoubtedly your boy will be the same."

"No," said Mr. Ward slowly, "I don't believe Fred will come home soon. He has gone off very angry."

"Are you sure he didn't go to the home of some neighbor or of a relative?" asked Mrs. Brown. "Children often do that, never thinking how worried their fathers and mothers are."

"No, Fred is too old to do that," said Mrs. Ward, wiping the tears out of her eyes. "He has gone, intending to stay a long while."

"What makes you think so?" asked Mrs. Brown.

"Because of this note he left," answered the father of the boy next door. "You see, Mrs. Brown, I had to correct Fred for doing something wrong. He spent some money to buy a banjo that he had promised -- I had told him I would get him a fine banjo next year, but --  -- 

"Well, he disobeyed me, and I felt I had to punish him. So I sent him up to his room to stay all day. He went to his room, and that is the last we have seen of him. He left this note, saying he was never coming back."

"Read Mrs. Brown the note," suggested Mrs. Ward. "Maybe she can think of some plan to get Fred back."

Mr. Ward was about to read the note when Mr. Brown's voice was heard under the dining-room windows saying:

"Hello, Mother, and Bunny and Sue! Mary told me you had come over here, so I thought I'd come to pay a visit too. I've news for you."

"Oh, it's daddy!" cried Sue, and she ran to let her father in through the front door.

"I wonder what news it is," said Bunny to himself. "I wonder if he has found Fred."



Chapter II

An Offer Of Help


As Mr. Brown walked into the home of the Ward family he saw at once, by a look at his wife, and by the expressions on the faces of Mr. and Mrs. Ward, that something had happened.

"Oh, I beg your pardon," Mr. Brown said. "Perhaps I shouldn't have come in. I'll call another time. But --  -- "

"What about the good news you have, Daddy?" asked Bunny.

"I didn't say it was good news, Son."

"Yes, it is. I can tell by your eyes!" exclaimed Sue.

"Whatever it is, it will keep a little while," said Mrs. Brown, with a look at her husband, which he understood. "Our neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Ward," she continued, "are in great distress. Their only son, Fred, has run away from home."

"Oh, that's too bad!" exclaimed Mr. Brown. "I shouldn't have come in. I'll --  -- "

"No, stay, we'll want your advice," said Mrs. Brown. "Mr. Ward was just going to read a letter his son left. I want you to listen to it and tell us what is best to do. You know you are on the police board."

"Of course I'll do all I can," said Mr. Brown. "First let me hear the letter. You can sometimes tell a good deal of what's in a person's mind by the way he writes."

And while Mr. Brown is listening to the letter left by the runaway boy, I'll tell my new readers something more about Bunny Brown and his Sister Sue, and the things that happened to them in the books before this.

The first volume is named "Bunny Brown and His Sister Sue," and it tells of what happened to the two children in their home town of Bellemere, on Sandport Bay, near the ocean. There the little boy and girl had fine times, and they took a trolley ride to a far city, getting lost.

The second book told of "Bunny Brown and His Sister Sue on Grandpa's Farm," and you can imagine the fun they had there, getting lost in the woods and going to picnics. After that the two children played Circus in the book of that name, and they had real animals in their show, though you could not exactly call them wild.

"Bunny Brown and His Sister Sue at Aunt Lu's City Home," is the name of the fourth book, and in the big city Bunny and Sue had stranger adventures than ever.

After that Mr. Brown took the whole family to "Camp Rest-a-While." It was a lovely place in the woods and they lived in tents. Uncle Tad went with them, and ever so many things happened to the children there. Their dog Splash had good times too.

Camp Rest-a-While was near the edge of the big woods, and in the book called "Bunny Brown and His Sister Sue in the Big Woods," which is just before this one, you may read of the adventures with Bunny's train of electric cars, and of the fun Sue had with her electrical Teddy bear, which could flash its eyes when a button was pressed in his back -- or rather, her back, for Sue had named her Teddy bear Sallie Malinda, insisting that it was a girl bear.

And now the Brown family was home again from the big woods, ready for other happenings. And that they were going to have adventures might be guessed from what Mr. Brown started to say about some news. But just now he was reading the letter Fred Ward had written to his parents.

"Hum! That is a strange note for a boy to leave," said Mr. Brown slowly. "He evidently doesn't intend to come home very soon."

"Oh dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Ward, and commenced to weep once more.

"I tell her he may come home soon, for he has no money -- or at least very little to live on," said the missing boy's father. "You see Fred has a high spirit, and he did not like it when I had to punish him. But I did it for his good. He must learn the value of money, and he must not spend when I tell him not to."

"No, that is not right," said Mr. Brown thoughtfully. He handed the note to his wife. She read this:

"Father and Mother: I am not coming back for a long while. I do not think you treated me right. I am more than fifteen years old and I have a right to have a banjo if I want it. I want to be a player and play in the theater. That is what I am going to do. I am not going to be treated like a baby by my father. I am too old."

"I did not mean to treat him like a baby," said Mr. Ward. "But our children must be made to obey in things that are right."

"That is true," agreed Mrs. Brown.

"We mind sometimes," said Bunny. "Don't we, Momsie?"

"Yes, once in a while. But please run away and play now, until we call you. There comes Splash over to have a game with Dix. You children can go out with the dogs."

Bunny and Sue were eager enough to do this. They thought they had heard enough about the missing boy. They were to hear more in a short time.

"And so Fred has run away," said Mr. Ward, speaking to Mr. and Mrs. Brown. "How can I get him back? It is not good that he should be away. I will talk about the banjo to him, and if I find he really thinks it is the best instrument for him to play I may let him have it. But where can I find him?"

"Perhaps I can help," said Mr. Brown. "I am a member of the town police committee. That is, I and other men look after the policemen. We can tell them to be on the lookout for Fred."

"Oh, that is kind of you!" cried Mrs. Ward.

"And I can also send word to the police of other cities and towns," went on Mr. Brown. "We work together on cases like this."

"I shall be greatly obliged to you," said Mr. Ward. "I want Fred to come back."

"When did you find out he was gone?" asked Mr. Brown.

"Just a little while ago," answered Mr. Ward. "I sent him up to his room this morning. He did not come down to dinner, for I said he should not eat until he said he was sorry for what he did. Perhaps I was wrong, but I meant to do right."

"You did it for the best," said his wife. "When I went up to Fred's room this afternoon, he was gone, and there was this note. It was then I cried," she went on, turning to the parents of Bunny and Sue.

"I am so sorry," said Mrs. Brown. "But I think it will all come right. My husband will help find your boy."

"I'll get the police to help, too," said Mr. Brown. "They will search for him."

"And we'll help!" exclaimed Bunny and Sue, coming in just then from having a romp on the lawn with the two dogs. "We'll try to find Fred for you."

"Bless their hearts!" cried Mrs. Brown, as the children ran out again. "They get into all sorts of mischief, but they manage to get out somehow. Bunny is ready for anything, and Sue is generally ready for whatever follows."

"But they are learning a good deal," said Mr. Brown. "Their life in the woods and on the farm was good for them -- as good as the time they spend in school."

"Yes," said Mr. Ward. "Sometimes I think I may have kept Fred too much at his books. I wish I had him back."

"Oh, we'll find him," said Mr. Brown.

"I hope so," sighed Mrs. Ward. "It is very kind of you to offer to help us."

"Why shouldn't we?" asked Mrs. Brown. "That is what neighbors are for -- to help one another. We'll go, now. But Mr. Brown will come back and get you to tell him what Fred looks like, and how he was dressed, so the police will know him if they see him. They will send you word where he is if they find him."

"I will give you his photograph," said Mr. Ward.

As Mr. and Mrs. Brown walked across the lawn, they saw Bunny and Sue playing with the two dogs. Bunny was on Splash's back as though the dog were a horse, and Sue was doing the same thing with Dix.

"Gid-dap! Gid-dap!" cried the two little ones, holding to the dogs' long ears so they would not fall off -- I mean so the children would not fall off, not the dogs' ears.

"Aren't they having a good time?" asked Mrs. Brown smiling.

"They certainly are," agreed her husband.

"I'm glad it is neither of our children who is away."

"I can't bear even to think of that!" said Mrs. Brown, with a shudder.

"Look out! They'll run us down!" she went on, for the children, on their dog-horses, were rushing right at them.

"Clear the track! Clear the track!" cried Bunny, wildly.

"Yes! All aboard for the north pole!" yelled Sue.

"Bow-wow!" barked the two dogs, as happy as the children.

"Oh, Daddy! Do you know how to find Fred?" asked the little girl as she fell off her dog into the soft grass.

"Well, we are going to try," answered her father.

"And we'll help," cried Bunny. Then, as he happened to think of something, he exclaimed:

"Oh, Daddy! What about the good news you were going to tell us?"

"We want to hear it now," added Sue.

"You did say something about a surprise," added Mrs. Brown. "So much has happened to-day that I had forgotten."

"Maybe you won't think it such news after all," observed Mr. Brown. "But it occurs to me that there is going to be some warm weather yet, as the Fall is not yet over. So I was thinking we could take the big automobile -- the one we used when we went to Grandpa's farm -- and have a tour in it. I have to go to a distant city on business, but there is no hurry in getting there. We might all go in the big car. Shall we go?"

"Shall we go? Of course!" cried Bunny, dancing about.

"That's what I say!" added Sue, also capering wildly. "Oh, Bunny!" she cried, "haven't we got just the bestest daddy in the whole world?"

"We have! We have!"

"Then let's both kiss him at once!" proposed Sue, and they made a rush for Mr. Brown, who pretended to be much afraid.



Chapter III

Ready For The Trip


"Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Go and love your mother for a change!" laughed Mr. Brown as he squirmed away from Bunny and Sue, who had hugged him and kissed him half a dozen times. "You've mussed my hair all up! Isn't my hair sticking up seven ways, Mother?" he asked his wife.

"Indeed it is. If you children muss mine that way I shall have to comb it again before supper, and I'll hardly have time if father is to explain about the auto tour. This is as much news to me, Bunny and Sue, as it is to you."

"Oh, Mother made a rhyme! Now we'll have a good time!" cried Bunny. "Come on, Sue, we'll kiss her easy-like, and then we'll hear about the trip. When are you going, Daddy?"

"And where?" asked Sue.

"One is about as important as the other," laughed Mr. Brown. "But I think you will have to wait a while. I want to telephone to the chief of police, and have him start the search for Fred Ward. We have to work quickly in the cases of runaway boys, or they get so far away that it makes them harder to find."

"What makes boys run away?" asked Bunny.

"Well, it's hard to tell," said Mr. Brown. "Sometimes it's because they feel ashamed at being punished, just as Fred was, and as you might be, Bunny, if I scolded you for being bad. Not that you are often naughty, but you might be, some time."

"But I wouldn't run away," Bunny said, shaking his head very earnestly. "I like it here too much. I read a story once, about a boy who ran away, and he had to sleep in a haymow and eat raw eggs for breakfast."

"Oh! I'd never do that!" cried Sue. "I wouldn't mind playing with the little chickens that came out of the eggs, but I wouldn't run away," she said earnestly. "I wouldn't want to sleep in a haystack lessen Bunny was with me."

"Well, when you two make up your minds to run away," said Mrs. Brown with a laugh, "tell us, and we'll come for you when night falls and bring you home. Then you can sleep in your own beds and run away the next day.

"That will be great!" cried Bunny. "We'll do it that way, Sue."

"That's what we will!" said she.

They were at the Browns' house now, and Dix, the dog that belonged to the runaway boy, turned to go back home. Splash barked at him as much as to say:

"Oh, come on, old fellow, stay and have a good time. Maybe I can find a choice bone or two."

But Dix wagged his tail and barked, and if one had understood dog language, of which I suppose there must be one, he would, perhaps, have heard Dix say:

"No, old chap. I'm sorry I can't come to play with you now. Some other time, perhaps. There's trouble at home you know, and I'd better stay around there."

Then Splash and Dix looked at each other for a little while, saying never a word, as one might call it, only looking at each other. They seemed to understand, however, for, with a final wagging of their tails, away they ran, Dix back to the Ward home where the mother and the father were grieving for their lost boy, and Splash on to the happy home of the Browns.

"Now, Daddy, you can tell us about that auto trip we are going to take, while mother is seeing to the supper," called Bunny as he pulled his father toward a big armchair, while Sue clung to her father on the other side.

"Not until after the meal," insisted Mr. Brown. "I want to tell it to mother and you all at the same time. That will save me from talking so much. Besides, I haven't yet told the police about missing Fred Ward."

Mr. Brown soon called the chief on the telephone wire. Being the president of the police board, Mr. Brown often had to give orders.

In this case he told the chief about Fred running away, how long the boy had been gone, and about the note saying he was going to join a theater company.

"We'd better get some circulars printed, with the boy's picture on them," said Mr. Brown to the chief. "These we can send to other cities. And we'll notify the police by telephone. I'll be down to see you this evening."

"All right," answered the chief. "I'll get right after this boy."

"And tell whoever catches him to be good and kind to him," said Mr. Brown. "Fred is not a bad boy. He feels that he has not been treated well, and he'll do his best to hide away. But a boy with a banjo, who is crazy to play in a show, ought not be very hard to find."

"No, I think we'll soon pick him up," the chief said.

"Well, pick him up as soon as you can," said Mr. Brown.

"Pick him up!" repeated Bunny, who had been listening to his father's side of the conversation. "Did Fred fall down?"

"No. 'Pick him up' is a police expression," explained Mr. Brown. "It means find him, or learn where he is."

"Oh, I see," murmured Bunny. "Well, I hope they'll soon find Fred."

The talk at supper time drifted from the running away of the boy next door, and what might happen to him, to the trip the Browns were to take in the big car.

"Well, now are you ready to tell us?" asked Bunny, as he saw his father finish his cup of tea.

"Yes, I'll tell you a little now, and more when the time comes, as I have soon to go down to the police station with Fred's picture. But I'll tell you enough so you can sleep easy," said Mr. Brown with a laugh. Then he sat thinking for a while as to the best way to tell his news.

"In the first place --  -- " began Mr. Brown, only to have Bunny interrupt him with:

"Oh, it starts off just like a story!"

"No," cried Sue. "A story begins: 'Once upon a time.'"

"Well, never mind about that now," said Mr. Brown with a laugh. "Let me get on with what I have to tell you. The first part is that I have to go to a city called Portland, about three hundred miles down the coast. I have to go there on business, but there is no particular hurry. That is, I can take my time on the road. Just what the business is about needn't worry your heads, except that I'm going to look at a big motor boat which I may buy."

"And may I have a ride in it?" cried Bunny.

"I want to ride myself," cried Sue, "and I want to learn how to steer."

"Well, we'll talk that over later," said her father. "Just now I am going to tell you about our auto tour. We are going, as I said, to the city of Portland. It is three hundred miles there, but the roundabout roads we will take may make it longer."

"Can we stop over a day or so here and there?" asked Mrs. Brown.

"Yes, several days, if we like," said her husband. "We are going in the big enclosed auto, in which we went to grandpa's farm."

"That will be lovely!" cried Sue.

"Just dandy!" exclaimed Bunny Brown. "And I'm going to sit on the seat and steer, just as I did when Bunker Blue took us to grandpa's."

"I don't know that Bunker is going this time," said Mr. Brown, speaking of the boy who worked for him and ran some of the motor boats when parties of men and women wanted to go out in the bay fishing.

"Oh! Bunker not going?" cried Bunny, somewhat disappointed.

"But we'll take your dog Splash and Uncle Tad," said Mr. Brown.

"That will be all right," agreed Bunny. "Go on, Daddy. Tell us some more."

"Well, I don't know that there is any more to tell. We are going in the big automobile, have a nice trip, and come back when we get ready. It will be Indian Summer most of the time, the nicest part of the year, I think, so we ought to have good weather. Now the rest is in your hands and your mother's -- getting ready for the trip."

Those who have read the book telling about the time spent on grandpa's farm will remember the big automobile in which the Browns traveled to the farm.

It had been a furniture moving van, and you know how big and strong they are. Inside they are just like a big room in a house, only they move about by a motor in the front, just as does a small automobile.

But this moving van was very different from the kind usually seen. The inside had been made over into several rooms. There were little bunks, or beds in which to sleep, a combined kitchen and dining room, and a little sitting room where, in the evenings after the day's travel, the children could sit and read, for the traveling automobile was lighted by electric lights, from a storage battery carried in it.

On bright, sunshiny days the little table was moved out of the van to the ground beside it and there the meals were served. Sometimes cooking was done out-of-doors, also, on a gasolene stove. A tent was carried, and if any company came they could sleep in that if there was not room in the auto-van.

When the Browns wanted to travel through the rain they could do so without getting wet, for there was a stout roof on the automobile.

Windows had been cut in the sides of the van so the children could sit beside them in stormy weather and look out, just as if they were in a railroad car. And in the big car was a place for some of the children's toys.

There was room for plenty of food to be carried, and even a small ice-box that could be filled with ice whenever they stopped in a city.

"Well," said Mr. Brown, after he had told Bunny, Sue and their mother about his plan, "do you think you'll like it?"

"I'll just love it!" cried Sue.

"So will I," said Bunny. "Let's hug and kiss daddy and momsie!"

"No, I'll have to beg off!" cried Mr. Brown. "Just one kiss each, and don't muss my hair for I've got to go to the police station to take Fred's picture. I'm sure his father would feel bad about doing a thing like that so I'll do it for him. I'll be back soon."

"And we'll talk about the trip while you're gone," said Mrs. Brown.

Bunny and Sue were in bed when their father returned. The next morning their mother told them, after Mr. Brown had gone to work, that he had asked the police to do all they could to find Fred Ward.

"And now we must get ready for our trip," went on Mrs. Brown. "I must get both of you some new clothes, for you wore out many suits while we were at Camp Rest-a-While and in the Big Woods."

"But don't get too many. It will take too long to get 'em," remarked Bunny. "We want to get started on our auto tour."

Not long after this Mrs. Brown announced that she was ready for the trip -- that she had bought the new clothes, and had arranged for the food they were to take with them.

"Then I'll bring the big auto around here to the house to-morrow morning and let you look at it," said Mr. Brown. "I have made a few changes in it. I hope you will like it."

"Oh, we'll be sure to," said Mrs. Brown.

That night, when Bunny and Sue were ready for bed, Bunny looked out of the window toward the Ward house. There was a bright moon.

"I see Dix and Splash playing together on the lawn," he said.

"And I see something else," added Sue.

"What?" asked Bunny.

"I see Fred Ward coming home. There he is, going up the back steps now."

Sue pointed, and Bunny saw a tall lad, who did look very much like the runaway boy, at the back door of the Ward home.

"Oh, let's tell daddy and momsie!" cried Bunny, as he and his sister, in their bare feet, pattered their way downstairs.



Chapter IV

Bunny At The Wheel


Bunny and Sue raced downstairs and burst into the sitting room where their mother and father were sitting.

"Oh, Daddy!" cried Bunny.

"Oh, Momsie!" exclaimed Sue.

They were both out of breath.

"Well, what's the matter now?" asked Mrs. Brown. "Why aren't you in bed?"

"We saw something -- anyhow Sue did," explained Bunny.

"But first Bunny saw Splash and Dix playing on the lawn in the moonlight," said Sue, breathing fast.

"And then Sue saw Fred coming home -- in by the back way," added Bunny, his eyes big with wonder.

"What's that?" cried Mr. Brown, almost as excited as the two children.

"You say you saw Fred Ward?" asked Mother Brown.

"Well, it looked like him," replied Bunny, not quite so sure now that questions were being asked of him and his sister.

"And he was going very carefully and quietly around the back way," added Sue. "Who could it be but Fred? He's getting tired of sleeping in haystacks and eating raw eggs, and he's come home, I guess."

"Look here, Sue and Bunny," said Mr. Brown, a bit firmly but still kindly. "Did you both see this? Or did you make it up or dream it?"

"We didn't dream," said Sue, "'cause we hadn't gone to sleep yet."

"And we didn't make it up, for we weren't playing make-believe," added Bunny.

"Then you must have seen something," said their father; for when Bunny and his sister spoke in this serious way their parents could tell they were in earnest.

"What could it be?" asked Mrs. Brown, with a wondering look at her husband.

"I'll run over and see," he replied. "You children hop back into bed. You'll catch cold."

"Oh, Daddy! It's Summer yet, and we're even going to sleep out in the tent when we're on the auto tour," said Bunny. "Let us wait up and see if Fred really has come home. I hope he has!"

"I hope so, too," said Mother Brown. "Let them lie awake in bed, Daddy, until you come back from the Ward home."

"All right, I will," Mr. Brown agreed, and as he started across the moonlighted lawn Bunny and Sue, with many whisperings, noddings and giggles went back upstairs to their room.

But they did not go to bed. This was one of the times when they did not do as they were told. But it was only once in a while they did anything like that. Bunny and Sue were, as a rule, very good.

Well, instead of going to bed they stood by the window where they could watch the lawn on which Splash and Dix were still playing.

"We mustn't catch cold," said Sue. "We'd better wrap a blanket around us, Bunny, if we stand by the window, though it isn't cold at all."

"Yep," grunted Bunny, who was so interested in watching his father cross the grass plot that he did not feel like talking much.

Sue brought a light blanket from her bed and one from Bunny's, and in these the children wrapped themselves, and stood by the window.

"There he is!" cried Bunny, as he saw the tall figure of his father, accompanied by a bigger shadow in the moonlight, appear on the lawn.

"Hush!" cautioned Sue. "Don't talk so loud or mother will come up and make us go to bed."

Bunny "hushed," and then the two children watched. They saw their father go up the side steps of the Ward house and very soon come out again.

"It didn't take him long to find out," said Bunny in a low voice.

"I hope Fred has come back," whispered Sue.

But it was not, as they learned a little later when their mother came upstairs to tell them. The children had quickly scampered back to their beds when they heard their mother coming up, and she found two anxious faces peering at her over the blankets.

"Was it Fred?" they asked excitedly.

"No, I am sorry to say it was not," answered Mrs. Brown. "It was one of the boys Fred used to play with, and he went around the back way because he did not want any one to see him going in the front door."

"Does he know where Fred is?" asked Bunny.

"No. But he went to tell Mr. Ward about him. He had seen some of the police circulars, or printed papers which were scattered about, showing Fred's picture and telling how he looked and how much his father wanted him to come home again."

"And is he coming?" asked Sue.

"We don't know, dear. Mr. Ward told us this boy, whose name is George Simpson, knew that Fred was going to run away, for Fred had told him."

"Why didn't George come and tell Fred's father so he could stop him?" asked Bunny.

"Because Fred made George promise not to tell. But after George had seen the police circulars he made up his mind he must say something, so he came to-night. He said Fred had told him he was going to run away to Portland and try to get work in a theater playing a banjo."

"Portland!" cried Bunny. "Why that's where we're going!"

"And maybe we'll see Fred!" added Sue.

"It may be," said their mother. "But now you two must go to sleep. The big auto will be here in the morning, and you will wish to see the new things daddy has put in."

"May I ask just one more question?" begged Bunny.

"Yes, and only one."

"How did Fred come to go to Portland? Did he know we were going there?"

"No, dear. But he knew a man in a theater there who had promised to give him a trial at banjo playing if ever he wanted it. So, when Fred ran away, he decided to go there. At least so he told George."

"Oh, Mother, when we get to Portland may we --  -- " began Sue, but Mrs. Brown laughed and cried:

"No more questions until morning!"

Bunny and Sue talked in whispers for a little while, and then fell asleep. They were awakened by the honking of an automobile horn, and Bunny, hopping out of bed and running to the window, cried to his sister:

"Oh, Sue, it's the big car we're going touring in, and Bunker Blue has brought it up the hill. Come on down to see it."

"Oh what fun!" cried Sue.

She and Bunny dressed quickly, and without waiting for breakfast they ran out to look at the automobile.

Bunker Blue, the boy who worked at the dock for Mr. Brown and who had gone on the first trip in the Brown's big car, smiled at Bunny and Sue.

"Well, you've got a fine car now!" he cried.

"Is it different?" asked Sue.

"A lot different. Come inside."

"Breakfast, children!" called their mother.

"Oh, Mother, just a second -- until we see how the auto is fixed different?" begged Bunny.

Mrs. Brown nodded, and Bunker Blue helped the little boy and his sister inside.

There were many things changed. The electric lights were bigger and brighter, so they could see to read or play games better at night; a new cookstove had been put in; an extra bunk had been made, so five persons could sleep in the auto-van; a new tent had been bought; and in one corner of the tiny kitchen was a little sink, with running water which came from a tank on the roof. This tank was filled by a hose and pump worked by the motor. Whenever the water ran low the automobile could be stopped near a brook or lake, one end of the hose dipped in the water and the other stuck in the tank. Then the pump could fill the tank, and the tank, in turn, could let the water down into the sink whenever needed.

"Your mother'll like that," said Bunker Blue.

"Indeed she will!" cried Sue.

"Is there anything else new?" asked Bunny.

"Indeed there is!" cried Bunker Blue. "The auto-van's got a self-starter on. That's the best of all, I think. You don't have to get out to crank up now. It's great. See, I'll show you."

While the children stood on the ground near the automobile, Bunker Blue climbed to the seat near the steering wheel and pulled a lever. All at once there was a grinding noise and the van started slowly off.

"That's the self-starter," explained Bunker. "I didn't throw in the gears. The self-starter is strong enough to run the auto a little while all by itself, if it isn't too heavily loaded. That's a big improvement."

"That's what!" cried Bunny. His sister did not know much about electric starters and such things, but Bunny, through having asked Bunker Blue many questions, had come to learn considerable about the machinery.

"Hurry, children! You must come to breakfast!" called Mrs. Brown. "You may look at the auto another time. After breakfast we'll have to pack it and get ready for the trip."

"We're coming!" cried Bunny and Sue, and with last looks at the big car, which was to be their home for some time to come, the children ran in to breakfast.

"Now, Bunny and Sue," said Mr. Brown, as he made ready to go to his office, "one thing I want you to do is to pick out what toys you want to take with you. They can not be very many, so pick out those you like best."

"Oh, Bunny!" cried Sue. "You take your 'lectricity train that you got back from the hermit, and I'll take my Teddy bear, Sallie Malinda with her 'lectric-light eyes."

"No," said Bunny, shaking his head. "My electric train takes up too much room. I'm going to take my popgun that shoots corks, and maybe I can scare away any cows that get in front of our auto."

"All right. But I'm going to take Sallie Malinda," declared Sue.

While she was getting it out from among her playthings, Bunny went out to look at the big automobile again. He climbed up to the seat. Bunker Blue, after bringing it up to the Brown house so Mrs. Brown could pack in it the things she wanted, had gone back to the dock.

"I wish I could steer this machine," murmured Bunny as he took his seat at the wheel. "I could, too, if they'd only let me. I wish they would."

He twisted the steering wheel to and fro, playing that he was guiding the big car. Suddenly he heard a grinding sound, as when Bunker Blue had been on the seat, and, to Bunny's astonishment, the big van, the wheel of which he held, began to move slowly around the drive which circled the Brown home.



Chapter V

Where Is Splash?


"Oh! Oh! Oh!" cried Bunny Brown, as he felt himself being carried along in the automobile. "What has happened?"

The automobile kept on moving, and Bunny held his hands on the steering wheel. He knew this must be done whenever any machine, like an automobile, was moving.

"I've either got to stop it, or -- or steer it along the curved path so it won't run into anything," whispered Bunny Brown to himself. "I don't know what makes me go but I'm going, and I'm keeping going, so I've got to steer."

And steer Bunny did. Fortunately though the car was large, it was easily steered, for Mr. Brown had it made that way so his wife could take the wheel when she cared to.

Mrs. Brown could drive an ordinary automobile and she could steer well. So while Mr. Brown was having the big auto-van made over he had the steering part changed so that the steering wheel turned from side to side very easily. And as Bunny was a sturdy chap he had no trouble about this part.

The auto-van kept on moving and Bunny noticed that it was going up a little hill in the driveway that went all the way around the house.

"I don't see what makes it go uphill all by itself," said Bunny to himself, giving the steering wheel a little turn, as there was a curve in the pathway just ahead of him. "If I were running downhill I'd know what made it go -- the same thing that makes my sled slide downhill in Winter. But if this auto stood on the level I don't see what started it, nor why it keeps on going uphill. Bunker Blue must have left the brakes off."

Bunny looked at the handle brake and at the one worked by the foot pedal. Both were off, for Bunker had released them when he left the car, since it stood on a level bit of the driveway.

"But what makes it go?" asked Bunny again. Then, as he heard the low grinding noise, he remembered the self-starter, which Bunker had spoken of.

"I must have kicked the handle or touched it," thought Bunny, "and that started the machine. I don't know how to stop it. I guess I'd better -- Oh, whee! There's a tree I'm going to smash into!" cried Bunny Brown.

The thought of getting out of the way of the tree drove from Bunny's mind, for the time being, every other thought. He must not hit the tree which grew a little over the side of the driveway.

"I've got to steer out of the way, that's what I've got to do!" thought Bunny in a flash. "I've got to steer out of the way!"

Once he had made up his mind to that, he did not think so much about the motion of the automobile. That could be taken care of later.

"Let's see, which way do I turn the wheel to get out of the way of the tree," thought Bunny. He had often been in boats with his father and Bunker Blue, and sometimes, when the way was clear, he had been allowed to steer. Once or twice, while out with his mother in her car, she had let him steer along a quiet road.

He was closer to the tree now. The automobile was not moving very fast, and perhaps if it had hit the tree it would not have done much damage. But Bunny did not know that, and then, too, he might be hurt in case the big car hit the tree. So he was going to do his best to avoid it.

Like a flash it came to Bunny.

"I must turn the steering wheel the way I want the auto to go!"

No sooner said than done. Bunny gave the wheel a twist. Then he saw the auto slowly move that way, and away from the tree. It went past with a few inches to spare, but Bunny had not acted any too soon.

Now he was on the straight part of the driveway again, at the back of the house, and all he had to do was to hold the steering wheel steady, and the automobile would move itself along.

"But there's another curve by the kitchen door," thought Bunny. "I wonder if I'll get around that all right."

On went the automobile. As it rolled slowly past the kitchen, Mary, the cook, looked out and saw the small boy at the steering wheel, which seemed almost as large as he was.

"Oh, Bunny! Bunny! Sure an' what in the world are ye doin'?" she cried.

"Please don't make me look at you," begged Bunny. "I've got to steer straight until I get to the curve and then I've got to twist around, an' that's very, very hard to do, Mary. So please don't interrupt me."

But Mary had seen enough to cause alarm. She rushed to the sitting room where Mrs. Brown was looking at a pile of toys Sue had brought down to take on the trip.

"Oh, Mrs. Brown! Mrs. Brown! Sure, an' the likes of a little boy like him runnin' the big car! Sure, it's kilt he'll be intirely!"

"What do you mean, Mary?"

"What do I mean? Sure, an' I mean that Bunny, the darlin' boy, has gone off in the big movin' van auto!"

"Bunny in that auto? Impossible!"

"Look for yourself!" exclaimed Mary, pointing to the window.

At that moment the auto went rolling past, with Bunny at the wheel, as brave as life.

"Bunny Brown!" exclaimed his mother, dashing for the door.

"I -- I got around the curve all right, Momsie!" he shouted in glee, and he raised one hand from the wheel to wave it to her.

But at that instant the auto gave a wobble, and Bunny had to bring his waving hand back on the wheel to keep the car straight.

"Bunny! Bunny!" cried his mother, running down the drive after the machine. "Where are you going?"

"I -- I don't know," he called back to her. "The auto got started and I can't stop it!"

"Oh, what shall I do?" cried Mrs. Brown. For the seat of the car was very high, and though Bunny had managed to reach it, for he was a good tree-climber, it would hardly have been possible for Mrs. Brown to try to get up with her skirts on and when the auto was moving. It had been still when Bunny climbed to the seat.

"Oh, Bunny!" wailed his mother. "Mary! Telephone for Mr. Brown to come home -- quick!"

"I won't be hurt!" called Bunny. "All I've got to do is to keep going on around and around and around the driveway until the storage battery gives out. That's what's running the car now."

"Oh, but you must be stopped," cried Mrs. Brown, who managed to keep alongside the slowly moving auto. "You might hit something!"

"I steered out of the way of a tree, all the same," said Bunny proudly. "I was 'most going to run into it, but I didn't. I 'membered which way to steer."

"Oh, I'm so frightened," moaned Mrs. Brown. Then seeing Bunker Blue coming up the path with a message on which he had been sent by Mr. Brown, Bunny's mother called to him:

"Oh, Bunker, stop the auto! Bunny started it somehow. He's ridden nearly all around the drive, but he can't stop!"

"It's running on the battery," said Bunker, after listening a moment to the electric hum. Then he swung himself up on the seat of the moving car beside Bunny, shut off the electric starter and put on the brakes.

"There you are, Bunny!" cried Bunker. "Right as can be!"

"I steered her nearly all the way around the house," said the small boy with pride.

"But you must never do it again," commanded his mother. "Never! Oh, how you frightened me, Bunny!"

"I'm sorry! I won't do it again," said the little fellow; and he really meant it.

"How did you come to do it?" asked Bunker.

"It just did itself," said the small boy. "I climbed up on the seat, and made believe I was steering, just like you or daddy, when, all of a sudden, off she went. I 'most busted down a tree, but I didn't really. And I went all around the house. I guess now daddy will let me steer the car out on the road."

"Not for a few days yet," said Bunker Blue with a laugh.

"Mr. Brown told me to tell you," he went on to Mrs. Brown, "that he would go a day earlier than he counted on, if you could get ready."

"It won't take me long to pack," said Mrs. Brown. "But why didn't he telephone?"

"Our machine is out of order. The men are fixing it, and anyhow I had to come up this way."

"Well, I'm glad you came in time," said Mrs. Brown, as she led Bunny back to the house. "You are very good, Bunker."

"Yes, and I want you to show me how to stop that electric starter when it starts to start," said Bunny.

"Some day -- maybe," promised Bunker, smiling.

"Well, if we're going sooner, I'll have to hurry up and get my things packed," said Bunny. "Have you got yours, Sue?"

"Most of 'em. You ought to see how bright my Teddy bear's eyes shine since daddy put new batteries inside Sallie Malinda," rattled on Sue. "I can 'most see to read my Mother Goose by them in the dark."

"Well, I'm going to get my things ready," said Bunny.

The next few days were busy ones in the Brown home. The big automobile was packed with bed clothes and with things for the children, their father and mother and Uncle Tad to wear, and also with things to eat.

At last, one morning, all was ready for the start.

"Good-bye," waved Mary, the cook, who was to have a vacation, while the Browns were away.

"Good-bye!" called Bunny and Sue, and then Mr. Brown, who was at the steering wheel, while Uncle Tad, Bunny, Sue and their mother rode inside, started the car, and Bunny Brown and his Sister Sue were off on an auto tour.

Merrily they rode along, Bunny and Sue talking happily, when, all at once Bunny cried:

"Wait! Hold on! Where is Splash?"



Chapter VI

Two Dogs


Mr. Brown as soon as he heard Bunny's cry of "Wait!" at once shut off the power from the big automobile, and brought it to a stop. He turned to look through the little window at the back of the front seat against which he leaned, and asked:

"What's the matter?"

"Oh, Daddy, we've forgotten Splash!" wailed Bunny.

"We've left him behind," chattered Sue. "I saw him and Dix -- that's Fred Ward's dog -- playing together, and I thought of course Splash would come with us. I forgot, and left one of the funny clown dresses for Sallie Malinda up in my room, so I went to get it, and then Splash and Dix were away down at the end of the yard and I didn't think any more about our dog."

"I didn't either," said Bunny. "But he always has come with us and I thought he would this time."

"Are you sure he isn't somewhere in the auto, under one of the cots asleep?" asked Mr. Brown.

"I'll look," said Uncle Tad, and he did, but without finding Splash.

"I forgot all about him," admitted Mrs. Brown, and her husband said the same thing.

"Well, what are we going to do?" asked Mr. Brown, as soon as every one was satisfied that the dog was not in the big auto-van.

"Do? Why, we've got to go back after him, of course!" cried Bunny.

"We couldn't go without Splash," announced Sue. "He'd be so lonesome for us that he'd cry, and then he'd start out to find us and maybe get lost and we'd never find him again. Go back after him, Daddy! It isn't very far."

"All right," said good-natured Mr. Brown. "I'm glad we're not in a hurry. Still I'd like to keep going, now that we've started. But please, all of you, make sure nothing else is forgotten. For we don't want to go back another time. All ready to turn around and march backward," and he backed the big automobile at a wide place in the road, for it needed plenty of room in which to turn.

Slowly the big car made its way back to the Brown home. Mary, the cook, was the first to see it, and, running to the door, she cried:

"Oh, whatever you do, come in and sit down if only for a minute, some of you! Oh, do come in and sit down!"

"What for, Mary?" asked Mrs. Brown. "Has anything happened?"

"No, but 'tis easy to see you've forgotten somethin'; and when that happens if you don't sit down, or turn your dress wrong side out, bad luck is sure to foller you when you start off again. So come in and sit down, as that's easier than turning a dress."

"Oh, let me turn my knickerbockers outside in!" cried Bunny. "That will be as good as you or Sue, Momsie, turning your dresses. It's easy for me. Then I can make-believe I'm a tramp, and I'll run on ahead and beg for some bread and butter for my starving family," and he imitated, in such a funny way, the whine of some of the tramps who called at the Brown kitchen door, that his mother laughed and Sue said:

"Oh, Momsie, let me turn my dress wrong-side out, too, and I can play tramp with Bunny. That will be fun!"

"No, you mustn't do that," said Mrs. Brown. "While we're hunting for Splash -- who isn't in sight. Where can he be? -- we'll go in and sit down a moment to please Mary."

"Would we have bad luck if we didn't?" asked Bunny.

"Not at all. But some persons, like Mary, believe in them; and Mary is very fond of us. Even if we do not believe in some of the things those we like believe in, as long as it does no harm to our beliefs, we can do them to please a friend."

Even Mr. Brown, because he liked Mary, went in and sat down for a minute with the others.

"Now you've done away with the bad luck," said the cook with a smile. "What was it you came back for?"

"Splash," answered Bunny.

"He didn't come with us," added Sue.

"Well, it's no wonder, the funny way he's cuttin' up with that dog next door," said Mary.

"What did he do?" asked Bunny. "Was it funny? Please tell us, Mary."

"Well, it might have been funny for him, but it wasn't for me," said the cook, though she could not help smiling. "The two dogs was playin' tag on the lawn. I had some napkins spread out on the grass to bleach, and what did that dog Dix do but run down in the brook, and then come back with his feet all mud and run over my napkins. Sure, I had to wash 'em all again. That's what them two dogs did. The bad luck was just startin' in when you come back, an' it's good you did, to sit down a bit an' take it off."

"But we must get on again," said Mr. Brown. "So hurry, Bunny and Sue. Find Splash. If he's muddy make him swim through the brook and clean himself off. A run along the sunny road will soon dry him."

"But don't let him splash your clean clothes, children," called their mother after them, as the two ran off together to find the missing dog.

"I hear them barking!" called Bunny, as he and his sister hurried toward the end of the yard.

"So do I." Then, a moment later, the little girl added: "There they are!" and she pointed to the two dogs playing on the green lawn not far from a little brook that ran through Mr. Brown's grounds.

"Here, Splash! Splash!" called Bunny.

The dogs stopped their playing, and looked toward the children. As soon as Splash saw his little master and mistress he came rushing toward them as fast as he could.

"Don't let him jump on me and get my dress muddy!" cried Sue. "He's been in the mud just awful!"

"So he has," said Bunny Brown. "Down, Splash! Down!" he called, as the dog neared Sue. Splash made all the signs he knew to show how glad he was to see Bunny and Sue, but he did not get up on his hind legs and put his paws on Sue's shoulders, as he sometimes did.

"Oh, Splash, you're awful dirty!" cried Sue. "You must run in the brook, where the water is clean, and where there are white pebbly stones instead of mud on the bottom, to wash yourself. You've got to go in too, Dix."

Dix barked "bow-wow," to show he did not mind, I suppose.

"Go on in, Splash!" cried Bunny, snapping his fingers and pointing at the brook. "Go in and wash!"

But though the Browns' dog was usually ready for a frolic in the water he did not seem to be so just now. He ran back and forth, down to the edge of the stream and back again, getting his paws wet, but nothing else.

"Oh, you must go in and have your bath if you are to come with us!" cried Sue. "Go on in, Splash!"

But not even for Sue would Splash go in, until finally Bunny cried:

"Oh, I know a way to make him!"

"How?" asked Sue.

"Just throw a stick into the water, and he'll go after it and bring it back. We'll throw it far out."

"Oh, that's right!" cried Sue. "We'll do that."

No sooner had the children picked up sticks than the two dogs, who had started to play "tag" themselves, knew what was up. They both loved to go into the water after sticks.

"Throw 'em far out now!" cried Bunny. He tossed his to the middle of the brook, and Sue flung hers nearly as far, for she was a good thrower -- almost as good as Bunny.

Dix swam after Sue's stick, and Splash went for Bunny's. In a minute they had brought them ashore and dropped them at the children's feet, looking up into their faces as much as to say:

"Do it again! We love to chase sticks!"

And then, just as dogs always do when they come from the water, they gave themselves big shakes.

"Look out, Sue!" called Bunny.

But he was too late. A shower of drops from Splash went all over Sue's dress, and some of the drops were not clean water, either.

"Oh dear!" she cried. "Now I'll have to change my dress!"

"Never mind," said Bunny. "You run up to the house and get that done, and I'll throw the two sticks into the water. Then Splash and Dix will go in again, and when they come out they'll be cleaner. I won't come back to the house with them until they are good and clean."

Once more Bunny tossed the sticks, as Sue went up to change her dress. When her mother saw her she cried:

"Oh dear, Sue! How did that happen?"

Sue told her.

"Well, I hope Bunny gets the dogs clean this time," said Mrs. Brown as she took Sue upstairs to put another dress on her. This did not take long, and a little while afterward Bunny came running up from the brook with the two dogs, dripping wet from their baths.

"Quick, Momsie and Sue!" he called to his mother and sister. "Get in the auto before the dogs shower you again with water. I've got 'em good and clean now. I made 'em go in four times after the sticks."

"Did they shake any water on you?" asked Mr. Brown.

"Not much," said Bunny. "Besides, my clothes are dark and the mud on them won't show. Now don't go away again, Splash, 'cause we're going on a long auto tour, and you want to come with us."

All were soon in the auto again, and as they started off, with more "good-byes" and "good lucks," Bunny and Sue made sure that this time Splash followed.

"Now he's started he won't turn back," said Mr. Brown. "He just missed us before, thinking, I suppose, if he saw us go, that we would come back."

The big automobile traveled on for about an hour, and they were several miles from the Brown home when Bunny, looking out of the rear door of the auto-van cried:

"Why there's Dix, Fred Ward's dog, following us along with Splash! Look!"

"So he is," said Mrs. Brown. "Oh, dear! These dogs! What are we going to do?"



Chapter VII

Dix In Trouble


"Is Dix really following us?" asked Mr. Brown, as, once more, he stopped the big automobile.

"He seems to be," answered Mrs. Brown. "He and Splash are trotting along together as happy as two clams."

"Clams can't trot," said Bunny quickly.

"No, but they can be happy," said his mother. "And Splash and Dix seem to be happy, now, trotting along together after us."

"They're altogether too happy," said Mr. Brown. "I wonder how we're going to get Dix back home? Mr. and Mrs. Ward think as much of him as we do of Splash, and they'll be sorry to have him run away."

"We must try to send him home some way," said Mrs. Brown. "Bunny, you have a pretty good way with dogs, suppose you get out and try to drive Dix back home. Tell him we love him, think he's a nice dog and all that, but we believe it isn't best for him to come with us now."

"All right, I will," said Bunny, and he hopped down from the automobile, which had a little set of steps at the back to make getting in and out easy. Though Bunny, it is true, generally jumped out, not using the steps at all.

While the big automobile had been traveling on, Splash, knowing he was a member of this party, had gone along as a matter of course. And, perhaps, in some kind of dog language (which I am sure there must be) he had said to his friend Dix something like this:

"Come along, old chap. The folks are going for a little excursion into the country. I know they are, for once before we traveled like this, and it was jolly fun. There'll be good things to eat, and no end of cats to chase, too, if you like that."

"Well, I used to like it," Dix said -- perhaps.

"Then come along," urged Splash. "I'm sure the folks will be glad to have you."

"All right, I will," Dix may have answered.

And so it was he had run along, playing beside the road with Splash. And it was not until the automobile had gone several miles that the family noticed that another dog besides their own was following them.

"Drive him back home as your mother told you, Bunny," said the little boy's father.

Bunny ran back to where Dix and Splash were rolling over and over on the grass. They seemed to be enjoying themselves.

"Go on home! Go on home!" cried Bunny.

At once Splash and Dix stopped playing and ran to the little boy. As his mother had said, Bunny knew how to talk to dogs in a way they could understand.

"Go on home!" said the little boy again, very earnestly.

Splash looked up in surprise. He was not used to being sent home.

"Oh, I don't mean you," said Bunny. "I mean you, Dix! Mother says we like you very much, and would like to have you with us, but your folks want you home with them. So go on back. Go home, I say!"

Bunny stamped his foot, spoke as sternly as he could without being too cross, and pointed back toward Bellemere.

Dix looked into Bunny's face a minute, and then slowly the dog's tail drooped between his legs and he slunk off, with what was really a sad face looking at Bunny and Splash. It was as if he said:

"Say, look here, Splash! I thought you invited me on this excursion, and now that boy of yours goes and drives me home."

"Well, I can't help it," Splash seemed to say. "There is something wrong somewhere."

Bunny felt sad at having to drive Dix back home.

"I'm sorry, old fellow," he said, and his voice was so kind that Dix turned and came running back.

"No! No! You mustn't do that!" cried Bunny, seeing what his kind words had done. "Go on back home, Dix!"

Once again Dix's tail drooped between his legs, and he turned back. He went on for some distance, never turning to look back.

"There, I guess he'll not follow us any more," said Bunny. "Come on, Splash. You get up in the automobile and ride with us. Then Dix won't see you, and want to come along."

Bunny led his own dog back to the big car, Splash going willingly enough, though once or twice he looked back at Dix, who was walking slowly the homeward road.

Again the auto started off.

"This is two delays we've had," said Mr. Brown. "If we have another I'll begin to think there is something in Mary's idea of bad luck, after all."

It was Sue who discovered Dix the next time. As the automobile was about to go around a curve the little girl gazed out of the back window and saw the Ward dog trotting happily along toward the moving automobile.

"Oh, Daddy, look there!" cried Sue. "Dix is coming after us again! What are we going to do?"

"Is that dog following us once more?" asked Mr. Brown, as he stopped the automobile.

"Yes, he is; and he seems happy."

"Oh dear!" said Mrs. Brown. "What trouble these dogs are giving us to-day!"

"Well, this is the third trouble, and let us hope it will be the last," said Mr. Brown.

"Are you going to send Dix back again?" asked Bunny.

"No, I don't think it would do any good. Besides, we are now about ten miles from home. He might not find his way."

"That would be too bad," said Mrs. Brown. "The Wards would not want to lose their dog."

"I presume the only thing for us to do is to turn around and carry him back again," said Mr. Brown slowly.

Just then Splash, who had been lying inside under one of the sleeping cots, awoke, and, looking out of the rear door of the auto, saw his friend Dix trotting merrily along.

"Bow-wow!" barked Splash.

"Wow-wuff-wow!" answered Dix.

That meant in dog language I suppose:

"Well, I'm glad to see you again, old fellow."

"And I'm glad to see you," said Dix. "I hope they don't drive me back again. But I went only to the first turn in the road. There I waited awhile and then came on. I could easily tell which way you came by the big wheel-marks."

"Well, I guess there's no hope for it," said Mr. Brown, as the two dogs stopped barking. "It's turn around again and take Dix back with us to his home. It's a good thing we're not in a hurry."

He was about to turn the big car, and Dix had come to a stop a short distance away from it when Bunny suddenly cried:

"Oh, I've thought of a way to do it!"

"A way to do what?" his father asked.

"Take care of Dix."

"Do you mean to ask somebody going past in another automobile to take Dix to Bellemere?" asked Mrs. Brown.

"No. But in that house," and Bunny pointed to one not far away, "is a telephone. I can see the wires, and they're just like our telephone wires. Why can't we call up Mr. Ward and ask him if we can take his dog along with us?"

"Take Dix with us!" cried Mrs. Brown. "What would we do with two dogs?"

"Well, they'll be company for each other," said Sue, who had taken a great liking to Dix.

"And Dix wants to come," added Bunny. "You see how hard it is to drive him back."

"But we don't need him, and two dogs are harder to look after than one," said Mr. Brown. "Dix has made trouble enough to-day, though part of it was Splash's fault."

It was then Bunny had his fine idea.

"Oh, I know the best reason in the world for taking Dix with us!" he cried. "Wait and I'll 'splain it all to you. Just let Dix and Splash play together until I get through talking."

"Well, let's hear your idea, Bunny," said Mr. Brown with a smile, as he leaned back in his seat and rested his back. Splash, seeing his dog friend, leaped from the car and the two were soon playing together in the road as merrily as ever.



Chapter VIII

Dix And The Cow


"Now," said Bunny, as he sat down on a little stool in the auto to talk to his father and mother -- and Sue, of course, and Uncle Tad, who were all listening. "Now it wouldn't hurt an awful lot to take Dix with us, would it?"

"What do you mean?" asked his mother.

"I mean Dix wouldn't eat much more than Splash, would he?"

"Oh, I guess if it comes to feeding dogs, two come about as cheaply as one," said Mr. Brown with a laugh. "But what's the idea, Bunny?"

"Well, I'd like to have Dix come along with us then. It will save time now in taking him back."

"Yes, it will do that," said Mr. Brown. "And it's quite a way back home this time."

"And Splash will have company to play with all the while," went on Bunny. "Two dogs are happier than one, aren't they?" he asked. "If two dogs eat more than one then two must be happier than one."

"It's a new way of looking at it, but I guess it may be true," laughed Mrs. Brown. "But are you doing all this talking, Bunny, just to have company for Splash?"

"No indeedy I'm not!" exclaimed Bunny. "I haven't 'splained it all."

"What else is there?" asked Mr. Brown, laughing.

"Well, if Mr. Ward will let us take Dix along -- and you can find out about that over the telephone -- then maybe we can find Fred."

For a moment no one spoke after Bunny had announced his plan. His father and mother looked sharply at him, and so did Sue and Uncle Tad.

"How can Dix find Fred?" asked Sue.

"'Cause didn't the bloodhounds find the runaway slaves in Uncle Tom's Cabin?" demanded Bunny.

"Yes," answered Sue. "I 'member that."

"Well then, won't Dix find Fred the same way?" went on Bunny. "He can smell his tracks along the road and we'll find that runaway boy a lot quicker than if we didn't have his dog along. Fred and Dix were always together, and I guess Fred couldn't have run away if Dix had seen him. So if we take Dix along, and have to look for Fred in big crowds, Dix'll come in 'specially handy."

"Oh, won't that be fun!" cried Sue, clapping her hands. "Do let's take Dix along!"

"I believe Bunny's plan is a good one," said Mr. Brown, after thinking about it a while. "We don't know Fred very well, and he may look different, now that he has gone away from home, from what he did before. His dog would know him, however, no matter how Fred dressed."

"He'd know him even if he had on a Hallowe'en false face, wouldn't he?" asked Sue.

"I guess so," answered Daddy Brown. "Well, I'll go and telephone to Mr. Ward and see what he says."

The people in the house into which the telephone wires ran were very willing Mr. Brown should use the instrument, and he was soon talking to Mr. Ward back in Bellemere.

"Surely you may take Dix with you," said Mr. Ward over the telephone wire. "I only hope he will not be a trouble to you. I know he will make a fuss just as soon as he comes anywhere near Fred. So, in that way, you may be able to trace my boy. I hope you will. His mother hopes so too. She is beside me here as I am talking, and she sends you her thanks. Take Dix with you if you wish."

"Oh, I'm so glad!" cried Sue, when she heard the news. "Aren't you, Bunny? Now we have two dogs!"

"Yes, one will be yours and one mine, until we get back home with Dix. Then we'll each own half of Splash, as we've always done."

This suited Sue, and, now that the dog question was settled, the automobile started on again.

For a little while everything was peaceful and quiet in the big automobile. Bunny went outside on the front seat with his father, and looked down the road along which they were running. It was a pleasant road, with trees arching across overhead from one side to the other.

Inside the big car Mrs. Brown and Uncle Tad "got things to rights," as the children's mother called it, while Sue took out some of her toys, including the big Teddy bear with the electric eyes, whose adventures have been told in the book just before this one.

Bunny and his father talked together on the seat in front. Bunny was interested in whether or not they would find Fred.

"Well, we may and we may not," said Mr. Brown. "It is true Fred said he was going to run away to Portland, the city where we are going. But we will not be there for some time, and before then Fred may think he does not like it there and go somewhere else."

"Well, I think Dix will help find him, don't you?" asked Bunny.

"Yes, I hope so, Son."

Just then came a call from inside the automobile.

"Who's ready for dinner?"

THE TWO DOGS CAME WITH A RUSH. Bunny Brown and His Sister Sue on an Auto Tour. Page 79.

"I am!" cried Bunny, the first one.

"So am I," added Sue.

"Then come on! Rations are served," said Uncle Tad who had been in the army.

He and Mrs. Brown had cooked their first meal on the gasolene stove in the little kitchen and dining room combined, and it was now ready to serve.

Bunny clambered in by way of the front seat and took his place at the little table.

"I think we had better stop beside the road while we eat," said Mr. Brown. "This automobile is all right for traveling, but the roads are so rough here that I may spill my tea. So we'll anchor and eat."

"Daddy thinks we're in a boat I guess, when he talks about anchoring," said Sue, who, more than once, had been out in the big fishing boat with her father.

Then the meal began. There was some cooked meat, for they could carry meat in the ice box, baked potatoes, and, best of all, some pie.

It was while he was eating his pie and drinking his milk that Bunny suddenly cried:

"The dogs!"

"What about them?" asked Mrs. Brown quickly. "Are they fighting? Where are they, Bunny?"

"Just over in that field playing. But we didn't call Splash and Dix to dinner."

"Oh, is that all? I think they can wait a bit," said Mrs. Brown with a laugh. "By the way you spoke I thought something had happened."

"Well, this pie tasted good, that's part of what happened," said Bunny, with a laugh. "And then I got to wishing Dix and Splash could have some."

"I'll feed them when the rest of you have finished," promised Mrs. Brown.

When the meal was over Mrs. Brown gathered up a big plateful of scraps from the table, and gave it to Bunny to feed Dix and Splash.

"Here Dix!" called Bunny, inviting the "company" dog first, which was proper, I suppose. "Here, Dix and Splash!"

The two dogs heard and must have known that they were being called to dinner, for they came with a rush, each one trying to see which would be the first to reach Bunny with the plateful of good food.

"You'd better put the dish on the ground and get away," said Mr. Brown with a laugh. "Otherwise they'll be so glad to see you, Bunny, that they'll knock you down and roll over you."

"I guess they will," said the little boy. So he put the plate of meat, bread and potato scraps on the ground near the big automobile and then stepped back out of the way.

Dix and Splash did not take long to finish the food on the plate, and then they looked up at Bunny and wagged their tails, as if asking for more.

"No more!" called Mrs. Brown to them, for she understood the feeding of dogs. "That will do you until supper."

Seeing they were going to get no more, Dix and Splash ran off together again to have more fun rolling about in the grass.

"Where do you think we shall stop for the night?" asked Mrs. Brown of her husband as they set off once more.

"Just outside the town of Freeburg," he answered. "We'll sleep in the auto, of course, for if we are making a tour this way it's the proper thing to do. But we'll be near enough a town for supplies or anything we may need."

"Goodness! We don't need anything this soon, nor have we a place to put another thing away," protested Mrs. Brown.

Her husband laughed. "However, it's well to be near a town overnight," he said.

So the big automobile chugged on. Mrs. Brown and Uncle Tad washed the dishes and put them away, and then they sat looking out at the side windows and enjoying the trip. Now and then Mr. Brown would talk in through the open window against which the steering wheel seat was built. Bunny and his sister sometimes rode inside, and again outside with Daddy Brown.

"This is lots of fun, I think," said Bunny, as he sat beside his father, and the auto went rather fast down a hill.

"It's just great! My Sallie Malinda Teddy bear likes it, too," put in Sue, who was also on the front seat. Both of them together took up no more room than one grown person, and the front seat was built large enough for two.

Dix and Splash raced on together, sometimes playing a game like wrestling, trying to see which could throw the other, and again rushing along as fast as they could go, sometimes behind, and sometimes in front of the automobile.

At the foot of the hill, down which the automobile had gone rather fast, a man stepped out from a fence beside the road and held up his hand.

"What does that mean?" asked Sue.

"It means to stop," said her father, as he slowed up the machine.

"What for?" Bunny inquired.

"Well, he may be a constable -- that is a kind of a policeman," said Mr. Brown. "He wants us to stop, thinking, maybe, that we were running too fast. But I know we weren't."

"Will he 'rest us?" asked Sue. "If he does I'm going to hide Sallie Malinda. I'm not going to have her locked up!"

"Nothing will happen," said Mr. Brown with a laugh. "I have run an automobile long enough to know what to do."

Mr. Brown brought the big machine to a stop near the spot where the man was standing with upraised hand.

"What's the matter?" asked Mr. Brown good-naturedly. "Were we going too fast?"

"Oh, nopey!" exclaimed the man with a laugh. "I jest stopped you to see what kind of a show you was givin'."

"What kind of show we are giving?" repeated Mr. Brown in surprise.

"Yep! I thought maybe you was one o' them patent medicine shows that goes 'round in big wagons and stops here and there, and a feller sings, or plays, or somethin', then the head man or woman sells medicine what'll cure everything you ever had in the way of pain or ever expect to have. I thought I'd see what kind of a show you've got."

"We haven't any," laughed Mr. Brown. "You may look in the auto if you like, and see how we live in it. We are traveling for pleasure."

"I see you be, now," said the man after a look. "Wa'al, I'm right sorry I stopped you."

"That's all right," said Mr. Brown pleasantly. "This is a heavy machine, and I don't like to get it to going too fast downhill. It's too hard to stop. So it's just as well we slowed up."

"You see I'm the inspector of all them travelin' shows," went on the man. "Ribbans is my name, Hank Ribbans. Every medicine show or other show that comes to town has to git a permit from me, else they can't show. But you're all right, pass on."

An idea came into Mrs. Brown's head.

"Do you have many shows passing through here, with musicians who play to draw a crowd?" she asked.

"Oh, sartin, surely. 'Bout one once a week as a rule. There was one that showed here two or three nights ago -- no, come to think of it now, it was last night. There was a young feller -- nothin' but a boy -- dressed up in the reddest and bluest suit you ever see. And say, how he could play that old banjo!"

"Oh, a banjo! Maybe it was Fred!" cried Bunny.

The same thought came to his father and mother.

"Tell us about this boy," requested Mr. Brown. "We are looking for one who plays the banjo," and he described Fred Ward.

"Well, this can't be the one you're lookin' for," said Mr. Ribbans. "'Cause this feller was a negro."

"Maybe he was blacked up like a minstrel," said Bunny.

"I couldn't say as to that," returned the inspector. "Anyhow they paid for their license all right, and they sold a powerful lot o' Dr. Slack's Pain Killer. Then they went on out of town. That's all I know. Well, you don't need a license from me; so go ahead, folks!"

He waved good-bye to them as they went off again.

Bunny and Sue were eager to ask questions about the colored boy who played the banjo for the medical show.

"Do you think he could have been Fred?" asked Bunny.

"It is possible," answered his father.

"Maybe we can find him," added Sue.

"We'll make inquiries about this show in the next town we come to," said Mr. Brown.

But as the next town was the one outside of which they were to spend the night, they decided to put off until the next day asking questions about the colored banjo player.

Uncle Tad and Mr. Brown helped Mrs. Brown get the supper. When it was over there was a large platter full of good things left for the two dogs. They were hungry, for they had run far that day, and they ate up every scrap.

Then they stretched out for a while near a campfire Mr. Brown made under some trees, for it was a little cool in the evenings. As the children had been up early that morning, Mrs. Brown told them they must be early in bed, and after watching the fire until their eyes began to shut of themselves, Bunny and Sue started for their little bunks.

Just as they were getting undressed, though it was scarcely dark, the barking of dogs was heard down the road.

"That's Dix and Splash!" exclaimed Bunny. "And something must have happened. Splash wouldn't bark that way if there was nothing the matter."

"Here comes Dix now," said Sue, looking out of the automobile window. "And oh, Bunny! Look what he's brought home with him!"

"What is it?" asked Bunny, whose bunk was on the other side of the big car.

"It's a cow. Dix is leading home a cow on the end of a rope!" exclaimed Sue.



Chapter IX

Two Disappearances


For a moment the two children looked out of the automobile windows at the strange sight. Then, unable longer to think of going to bed when there was likely to be some excitement, they both came out from behind the curtains that screened off their cots, and cried together:

"Dix has got a cow!"

"Dix has got a what?" asked Mrs. Brown, thinking she had not understood.

"Dix has got a cow!" went on Bunny. "He's leading her by a rope. I guess he thinks it's our cow."

"Well, what will those dogs do next?" asked Mr. Brown, who was reading a newspaper he had purchased from a passing boy, who rode his route on a bicycle.

"It's true enough -- about the cow," said Uncle Tad, who was outside the automobile putting out the last embers of the campfire, that there might be no danger during the night. "One of the dogs is leading home a 'cow critter,' as some farmers call them.

"It's Dix," he went on a moment later as the two dogs, both barking excitedly, came close to the big moving van, Dix having hold of the rope that was tied fast to the cow's neck. He was leading her along, and the cow did not appear to mind. "Dix must have found the cow wandering along the road," went on Uncle Tad, "and, thinking we might need one, he just brought her home."

"Very thoughtful of Dix, I'm sure," said Mr. Brown, who had come outside as had his wife, while Bunny and Sue remained in their pajamas in the doorway. "He probably meant it kindly, but what will the man think whose cow she is? Well, what's the matter with you, Splash?" asked Mr. Brown, for that dog, too, was barking very loudly. "Did you see the cow first, and wouldn't Dix let you have a share in bringing her here? I guess that was it. Never mind, you shall lead the cow home, if we can find out where she belongs."

He patted Splash's head as he spoke, and talked to the dog almost as he would have talked to a small boy. And I think Splash understood, for he wagged his tail, and seemed pleased.

Dix led the cow up to Mr. Brown, and there, dropping the end of the rope, wagged his tail, barked once or twice and looked up as though he were saying:

"Well, didn't I do pretty well for the first day? I found a cow for you. That will more than pay my board. I'll try and find something else to-morrow."

Then, as if satisfied that he had done his duty, Dix went off to hunt for a bone he had buried after his supper, and Splash went with him.

"Well, what in the world are we going to do with it?" asked Mrs. Brown. "We can't keep this cow; that's sure!"

"We might tie her to one of the auto wheels," said Mr. Brown.

"No, thank you!" exclaimed his wife. "She'd moo all night, and keep us awake."

"But we can't turn her loose," said Mr. Brown. "She might wander off and be stolen, and then the owner would blame us, though it might not be our fault. Since Dix has brought the cow to us, no matter whether we wanted her or not, we've got to look after her somehow."

"Couldn't Dix take her back?" asked Bunny, from where he stood in the doorway with Sue.

"That's perhaps a good idea," replied Mr. Brown. "Though I don't know that Dix could exactly take her back. I think I'd better do it myself. It's early yet, and probably the farmer who owns the cow is out looking for her. I'll let Splash lead the cow back along the road, and I'll go with him. We may meet the farmer."

"Well, don't be gone too long," begged Mrs. Brown. "The first day is always hard and we want to get to bed early."

"I'll do my best," promised Mr. Brown. "Come on, Splash! It's your turn now to lead the cow!"

Splash barked joyfully, and seemed glad that he was to have something to do with the big horned animal, who was contentedly chewing her cud, lying down beside the automobile. She appeared quite contented wherever she was.

"Oh, let us come!" begged Bunny and Sue, as they saw their father go off down the road with Splash leading the cow by the rope.

"No, indeed! You youngsters get to bed!" said Mrs. Brown. "You ought to be glad of the chance. You must be tired."

"We're not -- a single bit!" declared Bunny, but though he and Sue begged hard, and teased to go to see the cow taken home, their mother would not let them.

It was quite dark when Mr. Brown came back. The children were asleep, but Mrs. Brown and Uncle Tad were sitting up reading.

"Well?" asked Mrs. Brown, as she noticed how tired her husband looked. "Did you have far to go?"

"About two miles, and mostly uphill. But I found the cow's owner."

"Did you? That's good! How did you manage?" asked Uncle Tad.

"Well, I was going along, Splash leading the cow as proud as a peacock, when, all of a sudden, I saw a man hurrying toward me. He seemed very much excited, and asked me if that was my cow the dog was leading.

"I told him it was not; that one of the dogs that was with us on our auto trip had brought her in; and that I was bringing her back, looking for the owner."

"'I'm him,' he said. 'And I can soon prove the critter's mine.'"

"I told him I hoped she was, for I was tired of walking with her. So he stopped at two or three farmers' houses, and they all said the cow belonged to Mr. Adrian Richmond, who was the man that met me. So I left the cow with him and came on home, for this does look like home," he added, as he gazed around the small but cozy room in the auto-van.

"Did the farmer tell you how Dix came to lead off his cow?" asked Uncle Tad.

"No, he only guessed that the animal must have pulled loose from her stake and wandered off down the road. She was used to being led home every night by the farmer's dog, so she didn't make any objections."

"Then Dix must be a sort of a cow dog," remarked Mrs. Brown, and later it was learned that Dix had once been on a western ranch and had helped the cowboys with their work.

So with the cow disposed of, and the two dogs asleep on some old blankets under the automobile, the little party of travelers settled down for the night. They all slept soundly, and in the morning the first thing Bunny Brown and his Sister Sue wanted to know about was the cow. Their father told them all that had happened.

"That Dix is a great dog!" cried Bunny. "I'm glad we brought him with us."

"So'm I!" echoed Sue. "And maybe to-day he'll find Fred."

"How can he?" asked Bunny.

"Because you know the funny old man who stopped us, to see if we were a traveling show, said that boy banjo player was to come to this town. And even if the one he saw was colored it might be Fred blacked up."

"That's so," agreed Bunny. "We'll get daddy to ask."

A breakfast was cooked in the auto and eaten out-of-doors, because it was such a lovely morning. More than once as they ate in the shadow of the big car other autoists, passing, waved a merry greeting to the happy little party, and as horse-drawn carts and wagons passed along the road on their way into town, many curious glances were cast at the travelers.

It was rather a strange way of making a journey, but it suited the Browns, and they preferred their big automobile to any railroad train they could have had.

After breakfast they set off again, passing through the city.

Mr. Brown asked several persons there about the traveling medicine show with the colored banjo player. Many had seen it, but some were sure the banjo-playing boy was a real negro, while others said he was only blackened up. At any rate the show had traveled on, and no one knew where it would be next met with.

"Well, it may have been Fred, and it may not," said Mr. Brown. "I must write and ask Mr. Ward if his son could imitate a negro, singing and playing the banjo, and whether he ever dressed up and did that sort of thing."

The progress of the big automobile through the town attracted many persons, not a few of whom believed it to be a traveling show, and they were disappointed when some sort of performance was not given.

The Browns were soon out in the sunny country again, traveling along a shady level road. Bunny and Sue played with their toys, and at noon, when they stopped for lunch, they had a romping game of tag in the woods and fields near-by.

After the noon rest they went on again, the two dogs running along, sometimes ahead of the automobile and sometimes behind it.

"I'm going to put darling Sallie Malinda to sleep," said Sue after a while. "And I'm going to let her sleep near the back door of the car."

"Why?" asked Bunny, who was very fond of asking questions.

"She isn't feeling very well, and the air will do her good," answered Sue, who made her "make-believe" very real to herself.

So, having made a nice bed of rags for her Teddy bear, Sue put Sallie Malinda to sleep near the rear door of the auto and got out one of her books to look at the pictures. Bunny was building some sort of house with some new blocks his father had bought for him, but he was not having very good luck, for the motion of the auto made the house topple over almost as soon as Bunny had it built.

After a while Sue thought her Teddy bear had had enough sleep near the auto door, so she went to take her in. But when she reached the rag bed Sallie Malinda was not there.

"Oh, my Teddy bear is gone!" cried Sue. "Oh, Bunny, do you think she falled out? Daddy! Daddy! Stop the auto! My Teddy bear is lost!"

Mr. Brown stopped the car at once, though he did not understand all of what Sue said. The little girl told him what had happened.

"Sallie Malinda gone!" cried Mother Brown. "That's too bad! She must have been jostled off when the auto went over a bump. I think we'll have to go back and look for her," she said to her husband.

Then Bunny gave some more news.

"Dix is gone too!" he cried. "I've been watching a long while and I haven't seen him. And Splash is acting awful funny -- just as if Dix had run away."

"Hum! This is rather strange!" exclaimed Mr. Brown. "Two disappearances at once."

"What's disappearcesses?" asked Sue.

"It means going away -- the word your father used does," explained Mrs. Brown with a smile. "But it certainly is strange that Dix and the Teddy bear should go away together."



Chapter X

Dix Comes Back


For a moment Sue stood looking at her mother, seeming to be thinking very hard about something. Then she asked:

"Momsie, do you think Dix took Sallie Malinda away?"

"Well, it seems so," said Mrs. Brown. "That is, if Dix has really gone away. We had better make sure of that, first. There is no question about your Teddy bear's being gone, for I saw her in the rag bed by the back door of the auto not half an hour ago."

"Well, I suppose she either fell out, or Dix, thinking to have a game of tag with her, took her out, though the Teddy bear, with the batteries inside to make her eyes light up, isn't easy for even Dix to carry very far," said Mr. Brown.

"But how are we going to get my darling Sallie Malinda back?" asked Sue, and there were tears in her eyes.

"Daddy will find some way. Won't you, Daddy?" asked Bunny, for he did not like to see his little sister sad.

"Well, the only thing I can see to do is to turn the automobile around and go back to look for Sue's Teddy bear," said Mr. Brown. "He may be lying beside the road where he fell from the auto."

"My Teddy bear isn't a he, Daddy!" cried Sue. "She's a she! Aren't there lady Teddy bears as well as gentlemen?"

"Yes, I suppose so," laughed Mr. Brown. "I forgot for the moment that your Teddy's name was Sallie. But whether it's a he or a she I suppose you'd like to have me go back for it, wouldn't you?"

"Indeed I would, Daddy! I don't know what I'd do without Sallie Malinda."

"All right, then we'll turn the auto around."

"We've done about as much going backward as we have going forward on this trip," laughed Uncle Tad. "But still we must get Sue's pet. It wouldn't do to go off and leave her."

"I can't understand about Dix, though," said Mrs. Brown. "Surely he wouldn't run away and leave us after he had come this far with us."

"Maybe he is just playing hide-and-go-seek with Splash," said Bunny. "Maybe it's Dix's turn to hide."

"Suppose you call him," suggested Mrs. Brown.

Bunny called and whistled, in a way he had been doing to get Dix to come to him ever since the Ward dog had joined the traveling automobile party. But there came no answering bark, and even Splash seemed surprised when he could not find his playfellow.

"Hi, Splash!" called Bunny. "Where is Dix? Go find him!"

Splash ran around and barked, which was his only way of talking, but he came back frequently to the children, who, with their parents and Uncle Tad, were standing beside the auto, and he did not bring Dix back with him.

It was as though Splash said:

"I know you want to find Dix, but I don't know where he is. There is no use in my running my legs off to find him, for he is a long way from here."

"Dix possibly has been missing a longer while than we know," said Mr. Brown. "I noticed once, as we were going over a bridge, that Splash went in and had a little swim. But I did not see Dix with him, though I didn't think anything about it at the time. We had that trouble with the engine farther back than that. When I got that fixed Dix was about. But from then on I haven't seen him, and that was some miles back."

"Maybe that's the time my dear Sallie Malinda fell out," said Sue. "Or else Dix took her."

"I don't believe he'd do that," said her father. "He was too well trained. He isn't a puppy any longer, to hide boots, shoes and toys. I don't believe Dix took your Teddy."

"Well, anyhow let's go to find him," said Bunny. "I mean her," he added quickly, as he noticed Sue looking sharply at him. "Maybe we'll find Dix and the Teddy bear at the same time."

"If Dix hasn't gone off to find a cow or an elephant or a camel or something like that to make us a present of," said Mrs. Brown with a laugh.

"Oh, Momsie! Do you think Dix would really bring back an elephant?" asked Bunny eagerly.

"No, my dear, I was only fooling. But let's start back, Daddy, for I know Sue will be very anxious to-night about her Teddy bear."

Back they started in the automobile over the road they had just traveled. Now and then they stopped and called Dix, but the dog did not come to them.

Splash added his barks and whines to the general calling but no Dix answered.

"He must be mighty far away," said Bunny.

"Yes, I'm afraid we'll never find him, or my dearest Sallie Malinda either," said Sue, and once more tears came into her eyes.

As the auto went along, in addition to calling for Dix, every one in the party, including the children, had looked along the road for a sight of the Teddy bear that might have fallen from the automobile. But Sallie Malinda was not to be seen, and Sue did not know what to do.

"Well, we'll go back to where I last noticed that Dix was with us," said Mr. Brown. "Then if we don't find your Teddy, Sue, I'll have to get you another."

"But I'd rather have Sallie Malinda!"

"I know, dear, but you can name the new one that."

"Sue's Teddy's had lots of adventures," said Bunny. "The hermit took her, and now she's lost."

"Well, I'm not going to give up yet," said his sister, as she looked carefully along the road.

"But what can have become of Dix?" asked Mrs. Brown. "I can't understand him."

"Oh, he may have gone off chasing a rabbit or a squirrel," said Mr. Brown. "Anyhow we're almost at the bridge, and the spot where we had the engine trouble is not far beyond."

Silently those in the auto looked along the road for a sight of Sue's Teddy. Then suddenly Bunny said,

"No, he didn't!"

"Who didn't what?" asked his father, for Bunny would often make these sudden exclamations.

"Dix didn't go off chasing a rabbit or a squirrel," said Bunny. "There he comes now -- with an elephant, I guess," and the little boy pointed down the road.

There was Dix coming back, and he was half dragging and half carrying something that looked like an animal.

On and on came the dog. He seemed very tired. When he saw the automobile he stopped, dropped what he had in his mouth, and lay down beside it. Then he began to bark joyfully.

"Oh, it's my Sallie Malinda! It's my Teddy bear!" cried Sue. "You dear old Dix! You found Sallie Malinda for me!"

And that is just what had happened, they decided after they had talked it over among themselves. Dix must have been running along behind the auto when he saw Sue's pet jostled out. Knowing how the little girl loved her Teddy bear he picked it up and began to half drag and half carry it, for, as Mr. Brown had said, the electrical batteries that made the Teddy's eyes shine, were heavy. Poor Dix had all he could do to drag the Teddy bear, but he would not let go, and the noise made by the auto made it impossible for those in the car to hear his barks, which he must have given.

And so they rode on, paying no attention, but leaving Dix far behind, until Sue discovered the loss of her Teddy bear.

"Oh, you are a dear good dog, and I love you!" cried Sue, hugging the Teddy bear with one arm and Dix with the other. And the dog was plainly overjoyed at being with his friends again.

I suppose the Teddy bear was glad too, but of course she could not even wag her little stub of a tail to show it. However, Sue could make the pet's eyes gleam, which she did again and again.

Nor was the Teddy bear much damaged by being dragged in the dirt, for the roads were not muddy, and Dix had held her up out of the dust as much as he could.

"Oh, but I'm glad to get my darling Sallie Malinda back!" cried Sue.

"Dix is a good dog," put in Bunny. "He can ride in the auto now, can't he, Daddy? He must be tired."

"Yes, get him and Splash both in," said Mr. Brown. "I think it is going to rain, and I want to get to the next town where we will stay overnight."

"In a hotel?" asked Bunny.

"No; in our auto, of course."

The dogs were called in, and Dix seemed glad to rest. Then Daddy Brown turned the big car around and once more they were on their way. It began to rain before they reached the town of Welldon, on the edge of which they were to stop for the night.

But the rain did not matter to those in the big moving van, which was like a little house. They had their supper inside, sat reading or playing games by the electric light, and listened to the rain on the roof, for it came down more and more heavily.

"Isn't it a nice place?" said Bunny to Sue, as they went to bed.

"The bestest ever!" she cried.

It was about the middle of the night that Bunny was awakened by feeling a queer bumping, sliding motion.

"Why," he cried, sitting up in his bunk, "we must be traveling on in the dark! Daddy! Momsie!" he cried. "What are we moving for, when it's dark?"

"What's that?" cried Mr. Brown suddenly awakening.

"The automobile is running away!" cried Bunny, and outside they could hear a strange roaring sound amid the patter of the rain.



Chapter XI

In The Flood


For a moment all was confusion inside the big automobile. Mr. and Mrs. Brown got up and dressed hastily. Bunny and Sue thought little of doing that until Sue, feeling cold around her bare legs, called to her brother:

"Wrap yourself up in a blanket, Bunny, like an Indian."

"What's going on?" yelled Uncle Tad, from his bunk.

"That's what we're trying to find out," said Mr. Brown.

"Seems to me we're afloat," added Uncle Tad. "We certainly are at sea."

"It does feel so," agreed Daddy Brown, for the automobile was bumping along the roadway, and the motor was not running, either. Something was either pushing or pulling it.

Just then came the howls and whines of the two dogs, Dix and Splash. They had been left out on the front seat of the car, with big curtains hung in front of them so no rain could splatter on them.

"Oh, something's the matter with them!" cried Bunny Brown, and in a few minutes he had opened the window back of the seat and let the frantic dogs leap into the auto. They barked joyfully now, and frisked about Bunny and Sue.

With the opening of the window, however, came in a gust of wind and rain that made Mrs. Brown call:

"Children you'll catch dreadful colds! Get right to bed this instant."

"Oh, Mother, we want to stay up and see what's going to happen," said Bunny. "Maybe the automobile might tip over."

"And if we were in bed we'd be all upside down and tangled in the clothes," added Sue. "Please let us stay up! We'll wrap in blankets like Indians."

"Better let them get dressed," said Mr. Brown in a low voice to his wife. "There's no telling what has happened."

"What do you think?" and her voice was anxious.

"Well, it feels as if we were in a stream of some sort, partly afloat. Let the children get dressed," answered her husband.

Bunny Brown and his sister heard and hastened to their curtained-off bunks. Meanwhile Uncle Tad had closed the window near the front seat and that kept out the wind and rain. And it was raining and blowing hard. Those in the cosy car could hear the drops dash against the panes, while the wind howled around the corners of the machine.

The automobile itself was bumping along as if, indeed, it was floating down some stream, or had gone to sea like one of Mr. Brown's boats. The dogs had ceased their whining now.

"I guess they were scared, out there all alone," said Bunny, when he was nearly dressed. "I'm glad they're in here with us now."

"So am I," said Sue, as she came out into the sitting room, where Mother Brown had turned on the electric lights. It was a bit cool in the auto, for the storm had taken all the heat from the air, but there was danger in lighting one of the stoves. Though he did not let the children know, Mr. Brown thought there might be a risk of fire if the gasolene stove were lighted, because the big car might overturn.

"Now to see what it's all about," said Mr. Brown, when he and Uncle Tad were fully dressed. "We'll find out if we are adrift on the Atlantic or Pacific ocean, and how to get to shore."

He was putting on his rubber boots and raincoat, and Uncle Tad was doing the same thing. Then Mr. Brown got a lantern and lighted it, for he was going to open the back door of the car to look outside, to see where the flood was taking them. For he was sure now, by the motion of the automobile, that the heavy rain had turned a small stream, near which they had stopped for the night, into a small-sized river, and that had risen high enough, or had come down with force enough, to sweep the big auto-van ahead with it.

But no sooner had Mr. Brown and Uncle Tad opened the back door of the automobile, that a gust of wind blew out the lantern, for there was a hole in the glass enclosing the flame and the wind puffed right through the lantern.

"Well, I can't very well see in the dark," said Mr. Brown, as he came in to light the lantern once more. "It's a very strong wind."

Again he opened the door, but in a second the lantern was blown out once more. Only the electric lights, kept aglow in the car by the storage battery, remained gleaming.

"I ought to have one of those pocket flash lights," said Mr. Brown. "I meant to get a strong one, but I forgot it."

"I have one, Daddy," said Bunny.

"Where? Give it to me!" called his father quickly. "We must do something at once."

"I don't know where it is," Bunny had to confess. "I was playing with it the other day, but I must have left it somewhere --  -- "

"Never mind, I'll try the lantern again," said Mr. Brown.

"It's sure to blow out," said Uncle Tad.

"Perhaps we can paste something over the hole," suggested Mrs. Brown.

"Oh, Daddy," cried Sue, "take my Teddy bear! Her eyes will give you almost as much light as Bunny's flashlight. Maybe more, 'cause she has two eyes. She won't mind the rain, for I can put on her water-proof cloak."

"Hum! That isn't such a bad idea," said Mr. Brown. "We'll try it. Bring out your Sallie Malinda Teddy bear, Sue. Her eyes will certainly need to shine brightly to-night, for it's very dark. It's a good thing you have her along."

"I'll find my flashlight to-morrow," promised Bunny.

"I'll get one myself then," said his father. "No telling when we might need it."

All this while the big automobile was slowly bumping and moving along. Uncle Tad and Mr. Brown took Sue's Teddy bear. By pressing on a button in the toy's back the eyes shone brightly, two electric lights being behind them.

"Does Sallie Malinda give a good light, Daddy?" asked Sue, as her father got ready to open the door again.

"Yes, little girl. It will be all right, and the wind can't blow out Sallie's eyes, no matter how hard it puffs."

With the Teddy bear as a lantern Mr. Brown again went out. This time the wind did not matter, though it seemed to be blowing harder than ever. Uncle Tad followed Mr. Brown out on the rear steps of the car. They shut the door behind them to keep out the rain.

"Why, it's a regular flood!" cried Uncle Tad, as the Teddy bear's eyes flashed on swirling and muddy water.

"That's what it is," said Daddy Brown. "Say, we've got to do something!" he cried to his uncle. "And we've got to do it soon. We'll have to anchor -- tie the auto to a tree or something. This flood may carry us down to the big river just below!"



Chapter XII

At The Fire


Holding the Teddy bear so the light from its eyes shone all about, the two men stood on the back steps of the automobile and looked around them.

All about was swiftly running water. The evening before, in coming to a stop for the night, Mr. Brown had noticed, not far away from their camping place, a small stream. Behind it were some high hills or small mountains, but, though the storm was a hard one, no one thought the little brook would turn into such a river.

"But that's what it's done," said Uncle Tad. "It's risen so high that it's covered the side of the road near where we were, and it's floated us off."

"Yes. I fear we'll soon be flooded inside."

Bunny, listening at the outer door of the big car, heard above the noise of the flood and the rain, his father say this. For a moment he was frightened, then he happened to think:

"Well, I've got rubber boots, and if the water comes in here I can wade around and get things. But I guess I won't tell Sue and Momsie about it. They might be scared."

Bunny Brown was a brave little chap when it came to something like this. In fact he had shown his bravery more than once, as those of you who have read the other books about him and his sister well know.

Out on the steps of the automobile, with the glaring eyes of Sue's Teddy bear to let them see what was going on, Mr. Brown and Uncle Tad again looked about.

They could see the rain coming down hard, and on both sides of them was what seemed to be a big river of water. Many little brooks in the mountains, joining together, had made such a big stream that it had shoved along the heavy auto.

"It can't shove us very far, I think," said Mr. Brown. "We are too heavy for that. But it might tip us over, this water might, or send us into a ditch out of which we would have a hard time to climb. I'd like to anchor fast, if I could."

"Why don't you tie fast to a tree?" asked Uncle Tad. "We have the heavy towing rope with us."

"I guess that's a good idea," said Mr. Brown. "We are being swept along the road and there are plenty of trees on either side."

Bunny Brown was not listening at the door any longer. His mother had called him and Sue to the dining-room table and given them some bread and milk to eat. She thought this would take their attention off the trouble they were in. For that there was trouble Mrs. Brown was sure. Otherwise her husband and Uncle Tad would not have stayed so long outside looking about in the wind and the rain.

"Yes," said Mr. Brown, after once more looking about with the aid of the lights from the eyes of Sue's Teddy bear. "We had best try to fasten the auto to some tree. Then we'll be held fast, for I do not believe the flood will reach much higher. I have heard of high water in this part of the country, but it never gets much higher than this, if I remember rightly."

"I'll go in for the rope," said Uncle Tad, "and we'll try to make fast to some tree. We'll be lucky if we can do it before we run into something," and he opened the door.

"Oh, what is the matter?"

"What has happened?"

"Tell us all about it!"

This is what Mrs. Brown, Bunny and Sue said as Uncle Tad, dripping wet, came back into the auto. Dix and Splash thumped their tails on the floor, as though also asking what the matter was.

"Oh, it isn't much," said Uncle Tad. "The brook rose into a river in the night, and tried to carry us away. But we are going to anchor to a tree until morning."

Bunny and Sue could easily understand what this meant, and they were not frightened, even though the automobile swayed about from side to side and bumped as a boat does when it goes over the bottom in shallow water.

Uncle Tad got the towrope out from a box, or locker, as Mr. Brown called it. The rope was a strong one, as it was intended to be used in case the big automobile went into a ditch, in which event it could be pulled out.

With the rope Uncle Tad went out on the back steps again.

"We're still moving," said Mr. Brown.

"Are we any nearer the trees, so it will be easier to catch hold of one of them with a loop of the rope?" asked Uncle Tad.

"No, we're farther off from the trees," said Bunny's father and, if the little boy had been listening, he would have felt worried about this. But Mr. Brown was a good sailor, and if he knew how to anchor, or make fast, a boat in a big ocean, he might be supposed to know how to anchor, or stop, an automobile in a flood on the road.

Mr. Brown took the rope, while Uncle Tad held the Teddy bear and flashed her eyes about on the flood that was moving the car along. Bunny's father was trying to catch sight of a tree around a limb of which he could cast the rope and so bring the drifting automobile to a stop. It was not moving quite so fast now, as the stream was not quite so swift. In fact if the flooded stream had not been so swift it never could have carried the heavy auto along at all.

"I suppose," said Mr. Brown, "I could start the motor and make the car go itself. But I would not know where to steer her."

"No, it is better to make her fast, I think," said Uncle Tad.

Just then they passed under a tree. Mr. Brown tried to catch the rope to it, but the auto rolled past too quickly.

"Better luck next time," he said.

Presently they were swept under another tree, and this time, as Mr. Brown cast the rope, it whirled about a big limb and was held fast. The other end had been tied to the automobile near the back door and now the big car came to a slow stop.

"If she only holds we'll be all right," said Mr. Brown, his hand still on the rope.

The automobile moved a little bit farther, as the rope stretched, and then it stopped altogether, and Mr. Brown tied tighter the end of the rope that was about the tree.

"Anchored at last!" cried Uncle Tad, as he got ready to go inside the car. "Now let it rain and flood as much as it likes."

"Are we all right?" asked Bunny as his father and his Uncle Tad came in.

"We won't go out to sea, will we?" Sue questioned.

"No indeed, to your question, Sue," answered her father. "And as to yours, Bunny, we are anchored safe and sound I hope. Now we can go back to bed and sleep."

But first Bunny and Sue had to ask many questions, and Sue had to take off her Teddy bear's water-proof cloak, in spite of which the toy was wet.

"But it won't hurt her batteries inside or her eyes," said the little girl.

"And as for her fur, that will soon dry," added Mother Brown.

"She gave us good light," said Father Brown. "Now, off to bed with you."

No one slept very much the rest of the night except the children and the dogs. Dix and Splash did not think of worrying, and as for Bunny Brown and his Sister Sue, they thought that whatever Daddy Brown and Uncle Tad did was just right anyhow. So they had no fear.

Mrs. Brown, her husband, and Uncle Tad did not sleep very soundly, however. The rain still came down in torrents and the wind blew hard. The rush of the flood beneath the auto could still be heard. But it came no higher.

The rope held to the tree, the big car did not drag, and when morning came the travelers found themselves some distance from the place where they had been the evening before. They were about a mile down the road, and all about them, over the road and the adjacent fields, was a lake of water.

But it was not raining so hard now. The storm seemed to be about over. The water was going down, Mr. Brown said, and when Bunny, at the breakfast table, asked how his father knew, Mr. Brown pointed to a fence not far from the tree to which they were tied.

"Do you see the muddy marks and the bits of leaves and grass caught on the fence?" asked Mr. Brown.

"I see," said Bunny.

"Well, that shows how high the water got," explained his father. "You see the top of the water is below that now, which shows that the flood is going down. And I am glad enough of it."

"So am I," said Mrs. Brown. "We've had water enough for once."

The storm had been such a heavy one that it could not last long, and by noon the sun was out. But it would take some time for the flood to go down and the roads to dry up.

"We'll probably stay here three days," said Mr. Brown. "It looks like a nice place, and we have plenty to eat. We'll stay and let things dry out. Traveling on a muddy, slippery road, with a heavy automobile like this, is not safe. We'll wait a while."

Anything suited Bunny and Sue as long as they were seeing or having something new. And when the rain stopped their mother let them put on their rubber boots and wade where the water was not too deep.

After wading about awhile, Bunny thought of something to do.

"Let's make a raft!" he said to Sue.

"Oh, that will be fun!" she cried.

Sue knew what a raft was from living near the seashore. Many times she and her brother had made them, and they had often heard stories of sailors coming ashore from wrecks on rafts. Rafts are flat boards, or planks, nailed or tied together, and they will float on top of the water and carry a number of people, though they are so low that the water washes over them and wets one's feet.

This last part Bunny and Sue did not mind, for they had on rubber boots. They quickly made a raft by collecting some boards and logs that had come down with the flood, and had caught in the fence corner near which their auto was anchored.

Uncle Tad helped them nail the boards together, and then Bunny and Sue floated the raft over into a little rain-water lake in the middle of a field and began shoving it about with long poles. They had ridden up and down one side of the little lake, stopping at places on the "shore," to which they gave the names of sea-coast towns near their home.

"Now we'll go across to the other side," said Sue.

But when she and Bunny had the raft about in the middle of the "lake," it stuck fast, because the water was not deep enough just there.

"Push!" cried Bunny. "Push hard, Sue!"

Sue pushed so hard that, all of a sudden, her pole broke, and she fell off the raft into the water.

"Oh dear!" she cried. "Oh dear!"

For a moment Bunny did not know what to do. Then he saw that the water was not more than up to Sue's knees and he knew she would not drown. But, as she had fallen in backwards, she was wet from top to toe. Sue began to cry as she got up, choking and gasping, for she had swallowed a little water.

"Don't cry!" begged Bunny. "Let's pretend you're a swimmer on the beach and went out too far."

"Wha-what good would that do, me pre-pre-tendin' that?" half-sobbed Sue.

"Well, then I'll pretend I'm a life-guard, and I'll swim out and pull you to shore," said Bunny.

By this time Sue had managed to stand up firmly on her feet, though she was very wet.

"There's no use in you're pretending you're a life-guard and getting all wet like me, when I can just as well get on the raft myself," said Sue practically.

"Oh, I want to be a life-guard," said Bunny. "Here I come!" and with that he jumped off the raft feet first, landing near Sue with a splash.

"Oh, now you've got yourself all wet, for it went over your boots," said the little girl. "Mother will scold."

"Well, now I can take half the scolding, for I'm half as wet as you," said Bunny. "Anyhow she won't scold much. For you couldn't help falling in, Sue, and she'll be glad I pretended to be a life-guard to help you out." With that he put Sue on the raft again.

By this time the raft had floated free of the little hill of mud in the meadow lake where it had gone aground, and Bunny and Sue poled it toward the road. When their mother saw how wet they were she did not scold them. That is, not much. For, after all, part of it could not be helped.

Dix and Splash enjoyed the flood, for they both liked to be in the water. They swam about, playing their sort of "tag" and racing after sticks which Bunny and Sue threw for them.

A few days after this, when the flood had all gone down, and having waited for the roads to dry, Mr. Brown once more set off with his family in the big machine. For two or three days they traveled along. Once, when they stopped for their noon-day lunch under a big oak tree, Uncle Tad built a small fire of twigs and Bunny and his sister roasted marshmallows at the blaze.

At a number of places Mr. Brown asked about Fred Ward, the missing boy, but no trace of him could be found, nor was anything more heard of the traveling medicine show with the colored banjo player.

It was one evening at dusk, when the automobile had come to a stop for the night, and the family were all sitting out under the tree near the road, that Uncle Tad, looking down the highway, said:

"Isn't that a fire over there?" He pointed toward a neighboring farmhouse.

"Do you mean a campfire or a bonfire?" asked Bunny.

"Neither one. I mean a real fire," said Uncle Tad.

"It is a fire!" suddenly cried Mr. Brown. "A shed near that barn is blazing. See the men running to put it out!"

"We'd better go to help," said Uncle Tad.

"Let us come, too!" begged Bunny and Sue.



Chapter XIII

Dix And The Cat


Uncle Tad and Mr. Brown did not stop to answer the children's plea to be allowed to go to the fire. On the men rushed, and Bunny and Sue turned to their mother.

"Please mayn't we go?" they begged. "It isn't far, and it's early yet. Besides, we know enough to keep away from fires."

"Well --  -- " said Mrs. Brown slowly. Then she stopped as she saw Uncle Tad running back, while Mr. Brown kept on toward the blaze in a shed near some farmer's barn.

"What's the matter, Uncle Tad?" asked Bunny. "Aren't you going?"

"Yes. But I came back to get the fire extinguishers that we carry on the auto. This blaze hasn't much of a start yet, and we may be able to put it out with our extinguishers."

Uncle Tad darted into the automobile. Sue and Bunny remembered about the extinguishers now. They were red things, like fire crackers, and hung near the seat behind the steering wheel.

Once, to show Bunny and Sue how easily the extinguishers put out a fire, Mr. Brown had started one in the back yard. Then, from the red thing, he had squirted a liquid and the fire sizzled and went out.

"Oh, we want to see daddy put out the fire!" cried Bunny.

"The children are teasing to go," said Mrs. Brown, as Uncle Tad came out again with an extinguisher under each arm. "Do you suppose it would do them any harm?"

"Not at all!" cried Uncle Tad. "But you come with them. I don't believe the fire will be a very big one, but a lot of the country people are running to it. Bring the children along. Daddy Brown won't care."

"Whoop!" cried Bunny. "That's great!"

"I wouldn't whoop," observed Sue, shaking her finger at her brother.

"Why not?" he asked.

"Because this isn't a bonfire. Somebody's shed is burning up; and though it looks nice it isn't any fun for them. We ought to be sorry."

"Well I am," said Bunny. "I'm sorry for them, but I'm glad for myself that I'm going to see the fire. Is that all right, Momsie?"

"I guess so," answered Mrs. Brown, and then she hurried on to the fire with the children, while Uncle Tad raced ahead with the red fire-cracker extinguishers.

Over the fields, from other farmhouses, people came running. Men and women, and boys and girls. They, also, wanted to see the fire. As Bunny and Sue, with their mother, hurried on they saw that the blaze was in a low shed, and from this shed came wild squeals.

"They sound like pigs!" said Bunny.

"I guess it is the pig-pen on fire," replied Mother Brown.

Bunny and his sister, with their mother, were at the fire almost as soon as Daddy Brown and Uncle Tad. Then they saw for sure that what was blazing was a big pig-pen built on the side of a barn. The barn had not yet caught fire.

"Make a bucket brigade!" called one of the farmers who had run to the fire. "We must dip water from the brook, pass it along in pails, and throw it on the fire."

"Wait a minute!" cried Mr. Brown. "I have a better way than that, and surer, I think. First some of you rip out a side of the pen, so the pigs can get loose, and then we'll put out the fire for you."

"That's the idea! He's got fire extinguishers!" cried the farmer whose pen was ablaze. "Rip off some of the boards and let those pigs out. Otherwise they'll be roasted before their time."

"Set to work!" yelled a neighbor.

With rakes, hoes and axes the men soon tore down a side of the pen farthest away from the fire. Out ran the pigs squealing as loudly as they could. Dix, Splash and some other dogs ran among them, thinking it was all a game, I suppose.

Mr. Brown, with one extinguisher, and Uncle Tad, with another, squirted on the blaze the white streams, made of something that puts fire out better even than water. Over the blaze Uncle Tad and Mr. Brown squirted the stuff until finally the fire was out.

"Well, I'm certainly obliged to you, neighbor," said the farmer who owned the pigs. "My name's Blakeson. I don't believe I know you, though. Live around here?"

"No, we are making a tour in a big automobile," and Mr. Brown pointed to it. "We saw your blaze and came to it."

"Well, I'm certainly thankful to you, and for those contraptions there," and he pointed to the fire extinguishers. "That's better than dipping water from the brook."

"Yes, I carry them in case the gasolene on my auto should get on fire," said Mr. Brown. "But they'll put out any small blaze."

The pig-pen had only partly burned, and the barn, to the side of which it was built, was only scorched. Some one must have dropped a match in the straw of the pig-pen to start the blaze, it was said.

"Well, we'll nail a few boards back on the pen, and it will do to keep the pigs in until morning," said Mr. Blakeson, the farmer. "That is if we can get 'em collected again."

"My dogs will help," said Mr. Brown. "Here, Dix! Splash!" he called. "Drive the pigs up here!"

The two dogs, both of which were used to driving cows, soon collected the pigs, even in the dark, and once more they were in their pen, sniffing about for something to eat, now that the fire was out.

The farmer whose barn had been saved by the children's father was much interested in the big auto, and, a little later in the evening, went down to look at it, as did some of his neighbors.

"Well, that's a fine way of traveling about," said Mr. Blakeson, and his friends agreed with him.

The next morning, while Bunny, Sue and the others were at breakfast, talking about the fire of the night before, a number of children came down the road to see the big machine. All the dirt from the flood had been washed off, and as it had been newly painted before this tour started, the "Ark," as the Browns sometimes called their big car, looked very nice indeed.

The country children had seldom, if ever, seen so big an automobile as this, nor one in which a family could live as they traveled. There were many "Ohs!" and "Ahs!" as they walked about it.

"Let's ask 'em in and show 'em our bunks," proposed Bunny, and his mother said he might. The children were even more surprised at the inside of the "Ark" than at the outside.

"Oh, wouldn't I love to live in this!" sighed a little girl with red hair. "It's just like Mother Goose or a fairy story."

"I love fairy stories," said Sue.

Just before the Browns were ready to set off once more in their automobile, a hired hand from the Blakeson farm came down with a basket of fresh eggs, some apples and other fruit which the farmer gave Daddy Brown and Uncle Tad for helping to put out the fire.

"Oh, he needn't have done that," said Mrs. Brown. "But I do love fresh eggs, so I'll keep them. Please thank Mr. Blakeson for me."

The man said he would, and then, as he went back to the farm, the big auto started off on the tour again. There were yet many miles to go, and many more adventures were in store for Bunny Brown and his sister Sue.

"We've got to find that missing Fred Ward," said Bunny. "It's funny where he went, isn't it?"

"Well, this country is a big place, especially if a person wants to hide," said Mr. Brown. "Still we may find some trace of Fred in Portland when we get there. But that will not be for some weeks, as we are traveling slowly."

The Browns and Uncle Tad found the auto tour so pleasant that it was decided to make the trip even longer than at first planned, which would put off the time when they would reach Portland.

For two more days they traveled on, stopping each night near some village or small city. Nothing happened except that once they nearly ran into a hay wagon that did not get out of the way in time.

"But it wouldn't hurt any more to hit a hay wagon than it would be to fall into a feather bed," said Bunny.

It was just about supper time. Bunny and Sue were playing out in front of the automobile, while Mrs. Brown was getting supper. Sue suddenly called:

"Oh, look at Dix! He's chasing a cat!"

Something big and gray flashed over the ground. Dix ran for it, and his teeth seemed to close on one of the hind legs of the animal. Then the gray animal ran up a tree, and Dix raced about at the foot, barking and whining, while Splash left the place where he was rolling on the grass, to come to see what the matter was.



Chapter XIV

The Medicine Show


Bunny Brown and his Sister Sue ran toward the tree up which Dix had chased the gray creature. The dog was greatly excited, and at once Splash joined in, too. Though it is very likely Splash did not in the least know what he was barking at.

Dogs are like that, you know. When one hears another bark it will join in, and then will come a third and maybe a fourth until every dog in the block is barking, and only the first one may know why, and perhaps even he does not.

"Oh, I hope he didn't hurt that pussy," said Sue.

"Maybe it wasn't a pussy," suggested Bunny.

"What makes you say that?" demanded Sue. "Didn't you see something gray run across the grass, and didn't Dix run after it?"

"Yes. And the gray thing ran up a tree. But maybe it wasn't a kittie," said Bunny, shaking his head to show he did not agree with his sister.

"Let's go and see what it is," said she, and together the two hurried faster than ever toward the tree at the bottom of which Dix and Splash were having a great barking time.

"Where are you going?" asked Mrs. Brown.

"Just over to this tree," answered Bunny, pointing to it.

"Well, don't go any farther than that," warned his mother.

"No, we're just going to see what it was Dix chased up into it," went on Sue. "I said it was a cat but Bunny says --  -- "

"I don't say what it is yet!" interrupted her brother. "I want to see it first."

They reached the tree, and the two dogs were so interested in looking up and barking at something in it that they paid little attention to the children. Dix actually stepped on Sue's feet and nearly made her fall down, while Splash tried to jump over Bunny's head. But the dog did not quite do it, and fell on Bunny instead, knocking him down.

"Oh, Bunny, are you hurt?" cried Sue.

"No, I guess not -- much," answered Bunny slowly. "But I'm all -- mussed up!" and he looked at Splash, who was again rushing toward the boy, not so much with the idea of playing with him as of getting nearer to the tree so he could bark at the gray animal.

"Down, Splash! Down!" cried Bunny sharply, and the dogs at once stopped barking. They had learned to mind the little boy.

Both dogs looked up into the tree and whined. It was just the way dogs do who are in the habit of chasing cats, and who make this noise, perhaps to show how sorry they are that they cannot get at the poor pussies to roll them over in the grass.

But Dix and Splash were not what one could call cat-chasing dogs. True, they had done it when they were small dogs, just over being puppies, but, of late years, Splash had given up that fun, and what little the children had seen of Dix they had not noticed him chasing cats.

"That's what makes me think it isn't a cat they've got up that tree now," said Bunny, speaking of cat-chasing to his sister.

"But it looked like a cat," said she.

The dogs were quieter now, though they both kept on peering up into the tree and whining softly, though they did not jump about so hard and try to leap over Bunny and Sue.

"Oh, I see it!" suddenly exclaimed Sue.

"See what?" asked Bunny.

"The cat -- the gray thing -- whatever it was ran up the tree," and Sue pointed her finger to the crotch where one of the lowest big branches joined the trunk.

"There it is!" went on the little girl. "See it, Bunny? And it is gray. But it doesn't really look like a cat."

Bunny came and stood beside Sue. He could see the gray animal now, and as it moved just then, the dogs set up another wild barking.

"Be still!" ordered Bunny. Then, as the dog's cries were less noisy he said: "Why, Sue, I know what that is. It's a --  -- "

And just then the gray animal fell out of the tree, landing on a pile of leaves at the very feet of the children.

With barks and howls the two dogs made a dive for it. I do not really believe they meant to bite it -- they just wanted to see what it was. But Bunny was too quick for them.

With a sudden motion he caught up the gray animal and held it close to him. At the same time he shouted:

"Down, Splash! Down, Dix! Don't dare try to get this poor little squirrel. One of you has hurt its leg anyhow -- that's why it fell out of the tree."

"Oh, Bunny! Is it really and truly a squirrel?" asked Sue, excitedly.

"That's what it is," said her brother. "It's a big gray squirrel. It does look something like a cat, but its tail is bigger than a cat's except when a cat is being chased by a dog."

"I saw the big tail," explained Sue, "and that's why I thought maybe it was a cat. A cat's tail always swells up like a long balloon whenever it sees a dog. But is the squirrel hurt, Bunny?"

"I guess Dix must have bit it a little on one leg," said the boy, as he looked at the gray animal which did not try to get away or bite. "That's why it couldn't go up any higher in the tree or hold fast any longer. Its leg is hurt. I'm going to take it to Uncle Tad. He knows how to fix hurt animals."

Bunny could feel the heart of the frightened squirrel beating very hard, and the little animal seemed to shrink closer to the boy, as though it knew it would be taken care of. Dix and Splash bounded about, now and then leaping up against Bunny as though they wanted to get the squirrel away from him.

But Bunny stood firm, and cried "Down, sir!" in such sharp tones that the dogs knew they must mind. They gave up the hope of getting the squirrel (that is, if they knew it was such an animal) and ran off to have a game of "tag" together.

"Dix knew it wasn't a cat as soon as he saw it," explained Bunny to Sue as they walked back toward the big auto, Bunny carrying the injured squirrel, one of whose legs seemed broken. "Dix knew it was a wild animal," went on the little boy, "and that's why he chased it."

"I'm glad he didn't get it," murmured Sue, softly.

"So am I," replied her brother. "We'll get Uncle Tad to fix the sore leg, and then we'll make a cage and keep the squirrel. Some day we may get up another circus, and we could have it do tricks."

"Don't you think the squirrel would rather be in the woods?" asked Sue, as she looked at the gray creature.

"Well, maybe yes," agreed Bunny. "After we have it in the circus a while we'll let it go. 'Member how we played circus, Sue?"

"I guess I do! We had lots of fun, didn't we?"

"We did!"

From across the fields came a call:

"Come to supper, children!"

"We're coming, Momsie!" shouted Bunny.

"And we're bringing a squirrel to supper too!" added Sue, who always liked to be counted in on everything.

"A squirrel!" exclaimed Uncle Tad when he saw the gray creature that had fallen out of the tree. "Where did you get it?"

The children told what had happened, and Uncle Tad looked at the squirrel's leg.

"Can you fix it, or make him a new wooden leg?" asked Sue.

Uncle Tad looked the squirrel over carefully. The woodland animal did not seem to mind being handled. It seemed to know it was in the hands of friends, and safe from the barking dogs. And though wild squirrels quickly bite one who manages to catch them alive in the woods, this one did not offer to nip the hands of the children or of Uncle Tad.

"Yes," said Uncle Tad after a bit, "I think I can mend this squirrel's leg. It doesn't seem to be broken, only strained and bruised. I guess Dix didn't bite it very hard. I'll make some splints, or little sticks, to put on, so the squirrel can't move his leg, and I'll bandage it. Then it will get well quicker."

A little box, filled with straw and soft rags, was made as a home for the squirrel after Uncle Tad had bound up its leg. Then Bunny and Sue finally went to supper, after having been called several times. And even then they could not leave the little squirrel, but ran back every now and then to look at it, as it curled up on the soft bed. Over the box was put a wire cover so the squirrel could not get out and so Dix or Splash could not get at it.

"What are we going to give the squirrel to eat?" asked Bunny, when he had finished his supper. "He's got to have something to eat."

"And he's got to have a name," added Sue. "We can't call him just 'squirrel' for we may get another."

"Call him Fluffy," suggested Mother Brown. "His tail is so soft and fluffs out so beautifully."

"Fluffy is a good name," decided Bunny, and Sue said the same thing.

"But what about giving him something to eat?" asked Bunny.

"Bread soaked in milk will do for to-night," said Uncle Tad. "Afterward we'll try to find him some nuts, though it's a little early. Still he'll eat seeds and grain."

Bunny and Sue took a last look at Fluffy, the squirrel, before they went to their bunks that night. Dix and Splash were called in and shown the squirrel in his little nest. Then Mr. Brown told both dogs sharply and solemnly that they must not bother the gray, woodland creature. Dix and Splash understood, I think, for they were smart dogs.

Both children were up early the next morning to see their new pet, and they fed Fluffy some dried crackers. At first the squirrel was a bit timid, but it soon poked its sharp nose and mouth out of a little opening on the side of the wire netting over the box and ate from the hands of Bunny and Sue.

"Don't let him bite you," said Mother Brown, as she started to get breakfast.

"Oh, Fluffy won't bite," said Bunny. "He's as tame as our cat used to be."

Once more the automobile traveled on. It rained part of the day but the shower was not a hard one, though Bunny and Sue had to stay in the big car when noon came, and dinner could not be served out-of-doors.

But the skies cleared before night, and when the auto was stopped the children could run about with their rubbers on. They were near a small town, and Mrs. Brown promised to take the children in after the meal to see if they could buy some grain or seeds for Fluffy.

The supper was an early one, and, leaving Uncle Tad at the "Ark" with the two dogs and the squirrel, Mr. and Mrs. Brown, with the two children walked into town. As they reached the middle of the village, near a public square, they heard the sound of music and saw a crowd of people around a wagon lighted by a gasolene torch, such as is used in a circus at night.

"Oh, it's a medicine show!" cried Mrs. Brown, as she saw a big, long-haired man on the back platform of a wagon, holding up a bottle about which he was talking to the people.

"Yes, and there's a banjo player with him," said Bunny. "Look, Mother! It's a colored boy playing a banjo! Maybe it's Fred Ward!"



Chapter XV

Was It Fred?


"What's this? What's this you're talking about?" suddenly asked Mr. Brown, as he heard what Bunny said. Or rather, Bunny's father did not hear exactly, for he had been thinking about something else. But he had caught the name Fred Ward.

"Bunny thinks that colored banjo player with that medicine show may be Fred Ward," said Mrs. Brown. "Do you think it would be of any use to inquire, Daddy?"

"Why, that is a medicine show, isn't it!" exclaimed Mr. Brown, as though he saw it for the first time. "And it's just like the one we heard about that had a boy banjo player with it."

"There's a boy banjo player now," said Bunny. "He's going to play, Daddy, too! Do you think it could be Fred?"

The man who was selling the bottles of medicine, after telling the people how much good it would do them, had stopped to let the boy traveling with him play the banjo.

There are, or there used to be, many such traveling medicine shows. Sometimes there would be a whole troop of Indians, some real and some make-believe, that would be engaged by the seller of the medicine. He would have the Indians do some of their queer dances and then, when a crowd had collected, he would sell some medicine -- maybe some he said the Indians made themselves.

Another medicine seller would go about with a gaily painted wagon, carrying a cornet player, a singer or a banjoist to attract a crowd. And when the men and women were gathered about the end of the wagon, which had a broad platform on the end and a flaring gasolene torch at night, the man would tell about his medicine and sell all he could.

This traveling medicine show which Bunny Brown and his Sister Sue saw was like those. And, just as the Browns reached the place in the village square where the torch on the wagon was burning, the man had finished selling a large number of bottles of medicine. It was about time he amused the crowd again, he thought. So he called in a loud voice:

"Now, ladies and gentlemen, while I am getting out of my storeroom some more bottles of my wonderful medicine that will cure all your pains and aches, I will have my friend here, Professor Rombodno Prosondo entertain you on his magical banjo. Professor Rombodno Prosondo, I might say, is the most wonderful player on the banjo you have ever heard. He has traveled all over the world and played in every country. Professor, you will now oblige!"

Of course what the medicine man said about the banjo player was only a joke, and the people knew that. He was not a professor at all. But he was a good banjo player and a singer, and Bunny and Sue were delighted with the music. The songs, too, were funny.

"He sings like a real colored boy," said Sue.

"Maybe he is," her father observed.

"Yes, and maybe he's only blacked up, like most of them," suggested Mrs. Brown. "Can you tell if he looks anything like Fred Ward, Daddy?"

"No, I can't be sure that he does," said Mr. Brown. "I never saw much of the missing boy, you know; and I certainly would not know him if he were blackened like a negro. This one, if he is not really colored, is well made-up. He would fool almost any one."

"Is there any way we could find out?" asked Mrs. Brown. "We ought to do all we can to find Fred for his parents."

"I'll see what I can do after the exhibition is over," promised Mr. Brown. "I'll ask the proprietor of the medicine wagon if I can get a chance. But I'll have to do it when the banjo player can't hear, for in case he should be Fred -- which I hardly think can be true -- but if it should be he, and he heard me asking, he'd run away again."

"Yes, I suppose he would," said Mrs. Brown with a sigh. "Oh, how foolish boys are sometimes. They don't know what is good for them," and she looked at Bunny, as if wondering if the time would ever come when he would not be a "mother's boy." She hoped not.

"Let's get up as close as we can," said Bunny. "Maybe if it's Fred we can tell, no matter if he is blacked up like a minstrel."

"He doesn't look at all like Fred to me," said Sue. "He looks so funny with his big red lips and his white collar."

"That's the way they all dress," said Bunny. "Come on, here's a place we can squeeze through and see better."

Bunny wiggled his way up among the people. His sister followed him, and Mr. and Mrs. Brown, watching the children, knew where to find them when they wanted to go away.

"Now take a good look," whispered Sue to Bunny, as they got very near the platform on which the boy sat. She had made her whisper rather loud, and it came at just the time when the banjoist stopped playing, so that he and several persons heard the little girl.

"What's the matter?" asked one man, smiling down at Sue. "Didn't you ever see a minstrel before?"

"Yes, I did," said Sue. "But maybe not this one."

"Oh, they're all alike," said the man, but Sue paid no more attention to him, for she was nudging Bunny and trying to get him to look at the colored boy.

Bunny himself was greatly interested. He wanted to make sure whether or not the player were Fred. So he stared with all his might at the banjoist, who just then began another song.

By this time the medicine man had come out on the platform of his wagon with more filled bottles to sell. He would begin as soon as the song was finished, for more people had gathered, attracted by the music.

And then Bunny and Sue both noticed that the colored boy was looking straight at them. But he did not seem to know them. And surely, if it had been Fred Ward he would have known the Brown children, even though he had lived next door to them only a short time. People did not easily forget Bunny Brown and his Sister Sue, once they had met them.

But this banjo player evidently did not know them; or, if he did, he was not going to let it be known. He finished his song with a twang of the banjo strings and then hurried inside the wagon, the sides of which were of wood, like a small moving van.

Then the man began selling his medicine again, talking a great deal about it while he did so.

Mrs. Brown turned to her husband and said:

"I'm sure that was a white boy blacked up to look like a negro, and he does it very well, too. Even his voice is like a colored person's. But as he turned to go back into the wagon his sleeve slipped up and I saw that his arm was white."

"Very likely he was made up as a colored boy then," said Mr. Brown. "His lips were too red for a real colored boy's."

"Well, since we are sure of that let's ask the medicine man about him," went on Mrs. Brown.

"All right, I'm willing," said Mr. Brown good-naturedly. "We'll wait until the show is over though."

The medicine man kept on selling bottles. It was getting later now, and the crowd began to thin out. Seeing this the medicine man announced there would be no more music or sales that night, but that he would stop in this town on his next trip.

The flaring lamp was put out, and the medicine man began to close up his wagon for the night. Mr. Brown stepped up to him. The real or pretended colored boy was not in sight.

"I'd like to ask you a question," said Mr. Brown to the traveling medicine seller.

"About my wonderful pain destroyer?" asked "Dr. Perry," as he called himself.

"No. About that young banjo player you have with you."

"Oh, you mean Professor Rombodno Prosondo?"

"Yes," and Mr. Brown smiled. "I want to know if he is Fred Ward, who has run away from his home next door to us?"

"NOW TAKE A GOOD LOOK," WHISPERED SUE TO BUNNY. Bunny Brown and His Sister Sue on an Auto Tour. Page 153.



Chapter XVI

In The Ditch


For a few seconds the medicine man looked sharply at Mr. Brown. He did not appear to understand what the children's father had asked. Then, finally, Dr. Perry asked:

"Is it a joke you are making?"

"No, indeed. I'm serious," said Mr. Brown. "We are looking for a lost boy, or rather, a runaway boy, named Fred Ward. The Wards live next door to us, and when we started on this trip, which is not yet finished, the boy's parents said they would be glad if we would try to find him and send him --  -- "

"Tell us, please," broke in Bunny, unable to wait any longer for the question he wanted answered. "Tell us if your banjo player is really colored?"

"Oh yes, he's really colored all right," said the medicine man, "but not by Mother Nature."

"What's that mean?" asked Sue.

"That means, little girl," said Dr. Perry as he put away the unsold bottles of his medicine, "that my banjo player blackens his face and hands himself, and reddens his lips, to make him look like a negro."

"Can you tell us who he really is?"

"No, I am sorry to say I can not," said Dr. Perry, and he bowed respectfully to Mrs. Brown, who had asked the question. "But I'll let you ask him yourself. He usually goes in back there," and he nodded toward his wagon, "to wash the black off after the show each night. No doubt he is in there now scrubbing himself, for I must say he is a very clean person, is John Lane."

"John Lane! Is that what he calls himself?" asked Mr. Brown.

"He has since he has been with me, which, however, is only the last few days. I called him professor just for fun, as it sounds better with the public. But I'll let you ask him yourself. He must be through washing by now. It may be he is a runaway boy. It wouldn't be the first time I've had 'em join me. Sometimes they get sorry and run back home again, and sometimes they drift away and I don't see 'em again. But we'll soon find out if this is the boy you want."

He opened a door leading off the back platform. It seemed to give admittance to the middle of the medicine van.

"Here you, John! John Lane!" called Dr. Perry. "There are some folks out here who want to see you. They want to see how you look when you have the black off. You ought to be washed now, for it's almost time to go to the hotel for the night. Come on out."

There was no answer to the medicine man's call. He stepped inside the wagon, called again, and then, lighting a lamp, which stood in a bracket, looked around inside the van.

"John seems to have gone," the medicine man said. "I guess he finished washing off the black, and then slipped out the front way to go to the hotel. He did that once before, without waiting for me to count up my money and come along. You see I travel only by day, putting up the horse, that draws my van, at a hotel stable each night.

"Then John, or whomever I have with me to make the music to draw a crowd, and I, go to the hotel to stay all night. In the morning, after breakfast, we start out again. Sometimes, in a big city I stay a week, selling in different places.

"But that boy, whoever he is, has gone. I can see where he's been washing the black off, and, not wanting to wait when he saw I was talking to you folks, I guess he just slipped away. John is a bashful boy."

"Do you know anything about him?" asked Mr. Brown. "Where did he come from, and where is he going? Did he give any account of himself?"

"Not much, except that he came to me the other day just after my violin player left me. I had to have somebody musical to draw the crowd, and he surely can play the banjo.

"So I hired him. He said his name was Lane and that he had to make his own way in the world. Said he wanted to be a player in a theater.

"I told him my place was a sort of open-air theater and ought to suit him," said Dr. Perry with a smile, "and he said he thought he would like it. So I engaged him and he did very well. You are the first persons that have inquired about him."

"We are not sure he is the runaway Fred we are looking for," said Mr. Brown. "It is hard to tell with all that black he had on. But I should like to meet him."

"Go to the hotel any time between now and morning," suggested the medicine man. "I guess the boy will be glad to talk to you."

"I'll see him in the morning," said Bunny's father. "I'd like to get this boy to go home, if he is really Fred Ward. His mother and father miss him very much."

"I'll do all I can for you," promised the medicine man. "Come to the hotel in the morning and I'll let you talk to him. I won't say anything in the meanwhile, because if he is really Fred, and has run off as you say, he won't want to meet you or go back with you. It's best to take him unawares."

Mr. Brown agreed to this, and then, with his wife and Bunny and Sue, started for the "Ark." On the way they discussed what had happened. They saw the medicine man, as they turned down the curve in the road, driving his horse and van toward the hotel.

"I'm sure it's Fred," said Sue.

"So am I," added Bunny. "Won't it be great if we find him so soon?"

"It may not be the missing boy," said Mr. Brown. "But we'll know in the morning."

Those in the "Ark" passed a quiet night, though they went to bed later than usual because of the excitement of the evening. Uncle Tad was interested in hearing the news about the blackened-up banjo player who might prove to be Fred Ward.

"And how's Fluffy, our squirrel?" asked Sue.

"Fast asleep, just as Dix and Splash are," answered Uncle Tad.

Bunny and Sue were awake early the next morning, but Daddy Brown was ahead of them, and their mother said he had gone on to the hotel to see about the banjo boy.

"May we go there after we have eaten?" asked Bunny. "We want to see Fred."

"It might not be he," said Mrs. Brown. "You had better wait until your father comes back."

At first Bunny and Sue fretted a bit, but finally they became interested in playing games under the big tree where the "Ark" had rested for the night, and before they knew it their father came back.

"But he hasn't brought Fred!" cried Bunny.

"Maybe the minstrel boy wasn't the one after all," suggested Mrs. Brown.

"Well, I'm inclined to think he was," said her husband.

"Did you see him?" eagerly asked Bunny.

"No, he had run away. That's why I think it was Fred."

Then Mr. Brown explained:

"When I got to the hotel," he told Bunny, Sue and the others, "I saw Dr. Perry walking around rather nervously. I asked him about the boy, and he said that when he and his medicine van reached the hotel after closing the show last night, he found that his banjo player had packed his valise, taken his banjo, and gone off."

"Where?" asked Mrs. Brown.

"Nobody knows. He left no word. That's what makes me think it was Fred. He must have seen us in the crowd. And, as soon as he could wash the black off his face, he hurried to the hotel ahead of Dr. Perry, got his bag and ran away. Very likely he did not want to see us and hear us give him the message from his parents. His heart must still be hard against them. It is too bad, if that was Fred, for I had begun to think I had found him. Still it may have been some other young fellow. Dr. Perry said they often came and went without giving any reasons. But we'll still be on the lookout for the missing boy."

Once more the "Ark" started off, and for several days there was just ordinary travel. The children played and had fun, the dogs raced along the road, barking and enjoying themselves, and the weather was fine. Then came another day of hard rain, and the "Ark" was kept under a big oak tree.

The day after the rain, when the wayside brooks were still high, but the roads fairly good, Mr. Brown went on again. They were coming to a small town, and had to cross a ditch over which was a small bridge. Usually there was but little water in the ditch, but now, because of the rain, the banks were full.

"I hope this bridge is strong enough for our car to go over," said Mr. Brown. Slowly he steered the big machine on it. Hardly had it reached the middle when there was a cracking of wood, and the bridge bent down. The automobile sank with it.

"Oh!" cried Bunny, who sat in the back door. "We're going into the ditch, Daddy!"

"We're there now!" said Sue as the "Ark" stopped with a jerk and a bounce.



Chapter XVII

On To Portland


There was no doubt about it, the big automobile was in the ditch. Or rather, the rear wheels, having gone through the small bridge, were now in the water of a little brook. The rains had made the usually dry ditch into a brook that flowed swiftly along.

"Oh dear!" cried Mrs. Brown. "This is too bad!"

"Anybody hurt back there?" asked Mr. Brown, who, at the first feeling that something was wrong, had put on the brakes. The automobile would have stopped anyhow, as the wheels were held fast in the mud and the broken pieces of the bridge.

"No, we're all right," answered Uncle Tad, looking at Bunny and Sue, who, at the first sound of something wrong had crept closer to their mother.

"My nose feels as if I had bumped it," said Bunny, rubbing his "smeller" as he sometimes called it. "Though I don't remember doing it," he went on.

"I guess you did it when you jumped out of your seat," said his mother. "We all jumped, it came so suddenly."

"And I dropped my Teddy bear and Uncle Tad stepped on her," murmured Sue with sorrow in her tones. "Look, Uncle Tad, you've turned on her eyes!"

And, surely enough, the electric eyes of Sallie Malinda were glowing brightly. Uncle Tad must have stepped on the switch button in the toy's back and turned it on.

"But I guess she's all right," went on Sue, as she turned off the switch and then turned it on again to see that it was working as it should. "You didn't hurt her, Uncle Tad," she said.

"I'm glad of that, Sue," said the old soldier. "Now I guess I'd better get around to see if I can help your father get the automobile out of the ditch."

Dix and Splash, who had been racing up and down the road, came back, panting and with their long red tongues hanging out of their mouths, to see what the trouble was. They looked at the ditched automobile with their heads on one side, and then sort of barked at one another. It was as if Dix said:

"Well, what do you think about it, Splash? Do you think we had better stay here and help them?"

"Oh, I don't see anything we can do," answered Splash. At least it seemed as if he spoke that way. "Let's keep on playing tag."

And so the two dogs raced away.

"We do seem to be in a fix," remarked Mr. Brown as he came as near as he could to the back of the automobile without getting into the ditch.

"What can we do?" asked Mrs. Brown, and her voice was anxious.

"We'll soon see," answered her husband. "In the first place you had all better get out of the car. I don't know how long it may stand upright. It may topple over if the water washes away more mud from under one wheel than from under another, and you'll be better out than in."

"But how are we going to get out?" asked Bunny. "The back steps are all under water!"

And so they were. When the bridge broke with the automobile the front wheels were off the wooden planks and on the road beyond, and the rear wheels went down when the bridge broke in the middle. So the "Ark" was standing as though it had come to a sudden stop going up a steep hill, at the bottom of which was a brook. The rear wheels, and all but the top one of the back steps were under water.

"You can crawl out over the front seat," said Mr. Brown. "From there you can easily get down to the ground if Uncle Tad and I help you. Then, Mother, you might try your hand at getting a lunch, for it will soon be noon, while Uncle Tad and I see what we can do about getting the automobile out of the ditch."

"It will be some fun after all," said Bunny as he crawled out over the front seat. "We can picnic alongside the road, Sue, and watch Daddy and Uncle Tad get the car out."

"Yes," said Bunny's sister. "And maybe I'll make a pie for you and Sallie Malinda."

"No, I guess I wouldn't try a pie to-day," said Mrs. Brown with a smile. "We won't be able to use any stove except the small oil one, out on the ground, and that will cook only a few things. We'll wait for the pie until the auto is safe on the road again."

"I hope we can get it out of the ditch without breaking anything," said Mr. Brown, as he helped his wife and children down the high front steps of the big car, and then lifted out the oil stove, and other things that would be needed for the lunch.

"Do you think there is any danger?" asked Mrs. Brown.

"A little," answered her husband. "But at least none of us can be hurt, and the worst that can happen will be a little damage to our car."

"Oh, the dear old 'Ark!'" cried Mrs. Brown. "I hope it won't be damaged much."

"So do I," said her husband. "If I had known that bridge was so weak as to let us fall through I would have gone a different road. But I suppose the rain and high water weakened the supports. However, don't worry. We'll see what can be done."

After a look at the way in which the rear wheels of the big car were lodged in the ditch, Uncle Tad and Mr. Brown went to the nearest town on foot to get help. Mrs. Brown, Bunny and Sue made a little camp beside the road, the children helping a little, and then running about to play. The two dogs joined them in their fun.

"I guess I'll make a little cornstarch pudding," said Mrs. Brown, as she got the other things ready for lunch; and when the pudding was finished she covered it up, so no ants or bugs would get in it, and set it in a hollow stump to keep until it would be needed for the dessert after the lunch.

It was not long before Mr. Brown and Uncle Tad came back riding in a big automobile truck which they had hired at the nearest garage to pull the "Ark" out of the ditch.

"Will you have lunch first?" asked Mrs. Brown.

"Yes, I guess we will," said her husband. "We'll eat while the garage men are getting ropes and chains around our car to pull it out of the ditch."

And so they ate their dinner under the shade of a big tree beside the road. Two men had come in the auto truck to work for Mr. Brown, and they went about it quickly, putting strong ropes and chains on the "Ark."

"And now I have a little surprise for you," said Mrs. Brown as she poured tea for herself, Mr. Brown and Uncle Tad, and set milk before the children.

"Oh, goodie!" cried Sue.

"Fine!" exclaimed Bunny.

Mrs. Brown went to the hollow stump. She looked in and then she cried:

"Oh, dear! No I haven't any either."

"Any what, either?" asked Mr. Brown.

"Surprise for you. I made a nice cocoanut cornstarch pudding, and put it in this hollow stump, covering it up. But something has come along and eaten it."

For a moment there was a silence, and then Bunny cried:

"Maybe it was a hungry bear!"

"Or maybe it was our squirrel Fluffy," said Sue. "He can hop around a little now, 'cause his leg is almost well."

"Hum, the pudding's gone, is it?" said Mr. Brown. "That's too bad. Come here, sir!" he suddenly called to Splash. The dog, who was lying beside Dix near the brook, arose slowly and came to Mr. Brown, tail between his legs and head drooping.

"And you too, Dix! Come here!" ordered Mr. Brown.

Dix walked up exactly as Splash had done, with drooping head and tail. Mr. Brown took hold of the head of first one dog and then the other. He looked closely at their mouths.

"Here we have the pudding thieves!" he cried. "Splash and Dix found the dessert in the hollow stump and ate it. Didn't you, you rascals?"

The dogs whined and said not a "word." It was very plain that they had taken the pudding.

"Oh, please don't whip them, Daddy!" begged Bunny.

"No; I won't," said Mr. Brown.

"I shouldn't have left the pudding where they could get it," said Mrs. Brown. "It was all my fault. I'll make another for supper."

However, there were some cakes in a tin can in the "Ark," and as Uncle Tad climbed in and got them out for the children before the garage men started to pull the stalled automobile out with their machine, Bunny and Sue had a little dessert after all.

"We're all ready to try to get your car out of the ditch now, Mr. Brown," said one of the garage men.

"Oh, let's watch, Sue!" cried Bunny.

"But keep out of the way," ordered their father.

There was a puffing of the other auto truck, a grinding of the wheels, and then the "Ark" was pulled slowly out of the ditch, and on to the road again, the hind wheels running on long planks which the men put under them. Thus out on to the safe and solid road rolled the "Ark."

"Hurrah!" cried Bunny Brown.

"Now we're all right," said his Sister Sue.

And indeed they were, for it was found that nothing was broken on the big machine in which the Brown family were making their tour.

Mr. Brown paid the garage men, who went back to their shop, and the "Ark" was soon on its way again.

"And the next time I come to a small bridge I'm going to find out how much weight it will carry before I cross it," said the children's father.

For a week or more the "Ark" traveled on. Every time he got a chance Mr. Brown asked about Fred, in the different towns through which they passed, but could get no trace of the missing boy.

They saw other medicine showmen who had with them players or singers, but none of them were at all like the runaway Fred.

"It must have been he who was with Dr. Perry," said Mrs. Brown.

"Yes, and I presume he feared we knew him and so he ran on farther," her husband added. "He may be in Portland now."

"How soon shall we be there?" asked Bunny.

"In a few more days now."

Two days later, as they camped outside a little village for the night, they saw beside the road a signboard which read:

Twenty Miles To Portland

"Oh, we'll be there to-morrow!" cried Bunny. "Then we can find Fred, and can send him to his mamma and papa!"



Chapter XVIII

Camping Out


Mr. Brown was awakened in the morning feeling little hands tugging at him as he lay in his bunk, and childish voices crying:

"Come on, Daddy! Get up! Get up!"

"Eh? What's this? Get up!" he exclaimed. "Why, what's the matter, Bunny and Sue?" he went on, as he saw the two standing inside the curtains that hung in front of his bed.

"It's time to get up," said Sue.

"Why, it isn't six o'clock yet," answered her father, looking at his watch, which was under his pillow. "Why are you out of your bunks so early? Go back to sleep."

"But we want to get on to Portland to find Fred Ward," said Bunny. "It's only twenty miles and we can soon be there if we start early."

"There isn't much you children forget, is there?" asked Mr. Brown with a laugh, as he stretched and rubbed his eyes. Then as he opened wide his arms Bunny and Sue piled into the bunk with him, having a good, hearty tussle, until their shouts of laughter awakened Mrs. Brown and Uncle Tad, while Dix and Splash, asleep under the big car, added their barks to the din.

"What's the matter?" asked Mrs. Brown. "Has anything more happened?"

"Oh, these children want to leave before breakfast for Portland, to find that runaway boy," said Mr. Brown. "Well, as long as they're awake I suppose we might as well get up and start early. It's about time I attended to my business affairs."

Breakfast was soon ready, and when it had been eaten the "Ark" was once more chugging along the road. The travelers passed through several small villages and then they came to the edge of a big city which, the children's father told them, was Portland.

"Are we going to stay in the auto while we're here?" asked Bunny, for Mr. Brown had said they would probably remain in Portland for nearly a week, as he had several matters to look after.

"No, I'll give you a chance to stretch your legs," said his father. "We'll store the automobile in a garage and you can live at a hotel while I'm getting my business in shape."

"But what about Dix and Splash?" asked Bunny. "Where can they stay?"

"Oh, we'll find a hotel with a garage attached to it, and leave the dogs there in charge of the 'Ark,'" said Mr. Brown.

"And what about finding Fred?" Sue queried. She, as well as Bunny, was greatly interested in the missing boy.

"Oh, I'll do all I can to find him," promised Mr. Brown.

A hotel, with a garage attached to it, was easily found in Portland, and as the "Ark" went through the streets many persons turned to look at it. But Bunny and Sue did not mind this in the least.

"They'll think we're a new kind of gypsy," said Bunny.

"And they'll all wish they was us, riding around this way," said Sue, as she laughed with Bunny.

"'They was us.' Oh, Sue!" groaned her mother.

Dix and Splash did not like very much being left alone in the garage, and they whined and barked as they were chained near the auto. But the garage keeper promised to be kind to them, to let them run about after a while and to feed and water them.

"And we'll come to see you every once in a while," said Bunny and Sue, as they patted and hugged their two pets.

Fluffy, the squirrel, now well again, had been set free, before entering the city, in the woods that he loved.

So, for a while the Browns gave up their "Ark," and settled down to hotel life. Mr. Brown had much business to look after in connection with his fish and dock affairs at home, for he was part owner of a steamship line that ran from Portland to Bellemere.

After a day or two he found a chance to ask about the missing boy. Mr. Brown first appealed to the police. But they had no record of him, and though inquiries were made of a number of theater owners, Fred Ward was not found. The man whose name he had mentioned as being the one he intended to see in Portland had moved away.

"Well, Fred may have come here," said Mr. Brown, "and, after he found his friend was gone, he may have drifted on to some other town. I'm afraid we can't find him."

"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Bunny. "That's too bad!"

"Let us go to look for him," proposed Sue. "We found Nellie Jones, that girl who lives at the end of our street, when she was lost away over on the next block."

"Yes, but that was different from this," said Mrs. Brown. "Portland is a big city, and if you go wandering about in it you'll be worse lost than you were in the big woods. You children stay with me, and your father will do all he can to find Fred."

So Bunny and Sue had to be content to stay at the hotel, to go sightseeing with their mother, to go to the moving pictures, while Mr. Brown looked after his business. Several times each day Bunny and Sue went to the garage to see the dogs. And how glad Dix and Splash were to see the children!

Finally the day came when Mr. Brown had finished his business. He made several more attempts to find Fred, but could not do so and at last wrote to Mr. Ward, as he had promised, that, as far as could be learned, the missing boy was not in Portland.

"We will keep watch for him on our way back to Bellemere," Mr. Brown said in his letter. "We are returning by a different route from that by which we came. Every chance we get we will look for your boy."

Then the "Ark" was taken from the garage, to the delight of the dogs no less than that of the children, and once more the Browns were on their tour.

As Mr. Brown had said, they were going back a different way from the one they had taken on coming to Portland. This was to give his family a chance to see new towns and villages. And, as the weather still promised to be fine, all looked forward to a jolly auto tour.

Every time he came to a good-sized city, and whenever he met a traveling show, Mr. Brown inquired for Fred, but it seemed that the missing boy was well hidden. Undoubtedly he did not want to be found.

Bunny and Sue had great fun on the homeward trip, which lasted even longer than the outgoing one.

The party had ridden on for several days, each one marked by sunshine, when one evening they came to a little clump of trees beside the road. It was not far from a good-sized village.

"We'll stay here over night," said Mr. Brown, "and in the morning we'll take a little side trip to a waterfall not far away."

"Oh, that will be fun!" cried Bunny. "Maybe I can make a wooden water wheel, and have it splash in the falls and go around."

"No indeed you can't!" cried his father. "The falls are too big for that. They are seventy feet high."

But, as it happened, when morning came and Mr. Brown was about to start the automobile after breakfast, there was a sudden crash, and the big car settled down on one side, like a lame duck.

"Oh, my!" cried Mrs. Brown. "What has happened now?"

"It sounded as if one of the big springs had broken," said her husband, getting down off the seat to look. "Yes," he added, "that's it. This means we'll have to stay here three or four days until I can get a new spring put in."

For a moment Bunny and Sue looked a trifle sad. Then Bunny cried:

"Oh, that will be fun. We can camp out in a tent in the woods."

"Yes, you and Sue can play at camping, if you like," said their father. "But I think you'll want to sleep in the auto at night."

"Oh, no! We won't!" laughed Sue. "Now for some fun camping out!" she added.



Chapter XIX

At The Lake


While Mr. Brown and Uncle Tad looked again at the spring of the auto, to see just how badly it was broken, Bunny and Sue, with Mrs. Brown, went over to the clump of trees, which was not far from the road.

"Oh, this will be a grand place!" cried Sue.

"Yes," agreed her brother. "We can put up the tent here," and he pointed to a little knoll amid a circle of trees, "and then if it rains the water will not come in."

Bunny's father had told him the first thing to do, in pitching a tent, was to see that it would be dry in case of rain.

"Oh, I think you children will come into the 'Ark' when it begins to shower," said Mrs. Brown.

"Oh, no! Why, it's lots of fun in a tent in the rain!" cried Bunny. "Let's get it up right away."

"Better wait until daddy or Uncle Tad can help you," said Mother Brown. "Now we'll sit down and rest in the woods."

"Well, as long as the 'Ark' had to break down, this was the best place for it to happen, I guess," said Mr. Brown, as, with Uncle Tad, he came over to the wood where Mrs. Brown and the children were seated on a fallen tree.

"Is the break a bad one?" asked his wife.

"Yes, I think we'll need an entirely new spring, and it will take nearly a week to get that. However, as the children will have as much fun camping out here, as they would traveling in the car, it will be all right. We are not far from a town, and we can get what we want to eat from there."

"I think our cupboard is pretty well filled now," said Mrs. Brown.

"You might look to see if there is anything you need," suggested her husband. "I am going into town to find a garage man and have him arrange to get a new spring for me. Uncle Tad can be putting up the tent while I'm away."

"I'm going to help," said Sue.

"And so am I!" cried Bunny.

As has been said, there was a tent carried on top of the Ark, and this was now taken down by the old soldier and carried to the wood, there to be set up for Bunny and Sue. The tent was large enough for the children to sleep in if they wanted to. In fact, they had done so once or twice. But their mother was not sure they would do so on this trip.

However, the tent was put up and the little folding cots made ready, while Bunny brought his popgun and cannon with which to play soldier, and Sue, her Teddy bear and set of dishes with which to play keeping-house.

By the time this was done Mr. Brown had come back from the village, bringing some chocolate candy for the children. He said he had seen an automobile dealer and it would take fully a week to get a new spring for the "Ark."

They had their dinner out-of-doors, and after that Bunny and Sue played games in the tent. They said they were surely going to sleep in it at night, so they made up the cots and took their little pajamas with them into the canvas house.

"I'll have my flashlight, too," said Bunny; "and in case we want to get up in the night to get a drink, Sue, we can do it easy."

"That'll be nice," said his sister.

In the evening, while the Browns were at supper, an old man, who seemed to be a farmer, came strolling down the road, stopping at the big automobile, and looking from it over to the children's tent in the woods.

"You folks camping here?" he asked.

"Well, we're traveling in our car, and we've had to stop on account of a broken spring," explained Mr. Brown. "The children thought it would be fun to have a tent up in the woods. No objection I hope, if you own those trees."

"Bless your heart! No objection at all! I do own that patch of wood, and I'm glad to see the children's tent there. It sort of reminds me of war time, when I was in the army. You're welcome to stay as long as you like, and if you want anything I've got you can have it!"

"So you were in the war, too," remarked Uncle Tad, walking up to the farmer. "I'm a veteran myself. Where did you fight?"

The two elderly men began talking and soon found that they had been in the same Southern States together, though they had never met. Then, as evening came on, the two soldiers talked of the old days of the war, while Mr. Brown built a little campfire to make it seem pleasant. Bunny and Sue listened to the tales of battles until finally Mrs. Brown, noticing that their eyes were drooping, said:

"It's time for you tots to go to bed. Hadn't you better sleep in the automobile?"

"No, we're going to our tent," said Bunny, seriously.

"Yes, we want to camp out," added Sue, sleepy as she was.

Knowing that it was perfectly safe, for the children had often camped out before, Mr. and Mrs. Brown undressed the sleepy tots, and carried them to their cots in the tent. Dix and Splash were given beds of hay on the ground near the tent and told to stay on guard, which they would be sure to do.

"Do you think they'll sleep out all night?" asked Mr. Brown of his wife, as they made ready for bed in the automobile.

"I hardly think so," she said. "I'll leave the electric light, the one outside the 'Ark' near the back steps, burning, so if they want to crawl in here during the night they can."

"Good idea," said Mr. Brown.

Soon all was quiet around the big automobile and in the little white tent over amid the trees. Bunny and Sue had fallen asleep almost as soon as their heads touched the pillows.

But they did not sleep very long. Or so, at least, it seemed to them.

Sue awakened with a start. At first she could not remember where she was, though there was a bright moon shining outside and it made the tent light inside. Then she called:

"Bunny!"

"What's the matter?" he asked, for he was just about to awaken.

"Did you hear that?" asked Sue.

"What?" Bunny questioned.

"That sound."

Both listened. Outside the tent was a sound that could be plainly heard by the children.

"I -- I guess it's Dix snoring," said Bunny after a while.

"Or maybe Splash talkin' in his sleep," added Sue. "We aren't afraid, are we, Bunny?"

"Not a bit, Sue! It's nice here!" Bunny's tone was very confident.

Bunny closed his eyes and tried to go to sleep. So did Sue.

But neither of them could do so, though they closed their eyes very tight. Finally Sue asked:

"Bunny, are you asleep?"

"No. Are you?"

"No. And I don't believe I'm going to sleep. That funny noise is soundin' again. Say, Bunny, does Dix snore like: 'Who? Who? Who-ooo?'"

"No, I -- I never heard him."

"Then it isn't Dix! It's something else," said the little girl firmly.

Bunny listened. Outside the tent he heard a mournful:

"Whoo! Who? Too-who!"

"Oh, I know what that is now!" cried Bunny. "It's an owl."

"Does an owl bite?" asked Sue:

"Sure they do!"

In the dim moonlight that shone into the tent Bunny could see his sister get out of her cot, put on her slippers and dressing robe, and then take up her Teddy bear, turning on the eyelights.

"Where are you going?" asked Bunny.

"I'm goin' home to my regular bed!" said Sue. "This tent is all right, but a owl might bite through it. You'd better come with me, Bunny Brown."

"I -- I guess I will," said the little boy. "I wouldn't want you to go alone," he added brightly.

He, too, put on his robe and slippers, and then Sue, with her lighted Teddy bear, and Bunny, with his little flashlight, started toward the "Ark." The two dogs followed.

Up the steps, in the glare of the little outside electric light went the two tots. As they entered the automobile Mrs. Brown heard them and called:

"Who is there?"

"It's us," said Bunny.

"An old owl kept askin' us questions about who was it," added Sue, "an' we couldn't sleep. So we came in here."

"Crawl into your bunks," said Mother Brown. And that ended the children's sleeping in the tent, for a while at least.

The next morning Mr. Jason, the soldier-farmer who owned the wood where the tent was erected, came down to the "Ark."

"I'm going to drive over to Blue Lake to-day," he said. "Don't you folks want to go along? You might take your lunch and picnic there. It's got a waterfall."

"I did promise the children to take them to see it while we were here," said Mr. Brown. "Thank you, we should like to go with you." And a little later the Browns were at Blue Lake.



Chapter XX

Dix To The Rescue


"Where is the waterfall?"

"Can't we go in swimming?"

"I want to row a boat!"

"I want to fish!"

As soon as they jumped out of Farmer Jason's wagon at Blue Lake, Bunny Brown and his Sister Sue were saying these things and asking these questions. The children saw before them a large body of water, that seemed a deep blue under the shining sun, and round about it were small hills "like strawberries on top of a shortcake," as Sue said.

"Oh, what a beautiful place!" ejaculated Mrs. Brown.

"Yes, folks around here thinks as how it is right pretty," said Farmer Jason. "But you haven't seen the prettiest part yet -- that's the waterfall."

"Oh, that's where I want to go!" cried Bunny.

"And I want to go out in a boat," added Sue, renewing her first request.

"So do I! And fish!" chimed in Bunny.

"Now, one thing at a time," said Mr. Brown with a laugh. "You are hardly here yet and you want to do half a dozen things. Be patient. We are going to stay all day, for we brought our lunch, and I think we shall have time for everything you want to do."

"Yes, pitch right in and enjoy yourselves," said Farmer Jason with a laugh. "That's what the lake's here for. A few of us farmers own it, and the churches in this neighborhood generally has picnics here. I've got to drive over a few miles to see a man about some horses I want to buy, but I'll stop back in plenty of time to take you home."

The Browns and their lunch being safely unloaded from the wagon, including, of course, Sue's Teddy bear, Farmer Jason drove off, while Dix and Splash scampered about in the woods on the shore of the lake and went swimming, something which Bunny and Sue wanted to do at once.

"I think it is a little cool," said Mother Brown. "Besides, I didn't bring your bathing suits. I guess you can get along without a swim to-day."

Indeed there was enough else to do at Blue Lake, as the children very soon found out. Of course it was not the first time they had been at a lake in the woods, but there seemed to be something new about this place.

Perhaps the trees were greener. Certainly the lake seemed of a deeper blue than any the children had seen before. They ran up and down the pebbly shore, threw stones into the water to watch them sink, after sending out a lot of rings that made little waves on the beach. They tossed sticks into the water, which the dogs were eager to swim out for and bring back. Then Bunny had an idea.

"Sue, let's go in wading!" he cried.

"Oh, yes, let's!" she agreed instantly; and without saying anything to their father or mother about it the two took off their shoes and stockings and were walking about in the shallow water near the shore.

Mr. and Mrs. Brown, with Uncle Tad, were sitting in the shade, looking out over the beautiful lake. They were glad they had come on the little excursion, and the trouble of the broken spring of the automobile seemed turned into something good now.

"For," said Mrs. Brown, "it has given us a chance to camp out and to see this lake, and I would not have missed this sight for a great deal."

"Nor I, either," said her husband. "But suppose we go to take a look at the waterfall before lunch. I know I'll want to take a nap after I eat, and then it will soon be time for Mr. Jason to come back for us, so if we don't go now we may miss it."

"That's what I say," agreed Uncle Tad, and the three arose from the fallen tree on which they had been sitting. Just then Mother Brown caught sight of Bunny and Sue.

"Look at those children!" she cried.

"What's the matter?" asked Mr. Brown quickly. "They haven't fallen in, I hope!"

"Well, they're in all the same!" chuckled Uncle Tad. "Bunny has his knickerbockers rolled up as high as they'll go, and if Sue's clothes aren't wet I'm mistaken!"

For by this time, liking the fun so much, Bunny and Sue had waded out where the water was deeper, and their clothes had become splashed by the little waves they made as they moved along.

"Oh, dear! Such tykes!" exclaimed Mrs. Brown. "Well, it isn't too cool for wading, though it is for swimming. But I must get them dry if we are to go to the waterfall."

Mrs. Brown had brought some old towels along, for she knew what might happen when the children were going to play near a lake, and while Bunny and Sue were being told that they should have first asked whether or not they could go in wading, they were drying their pink toes on towels and getting ready to put on their shoes and stockings again.

"But we didn't think wading was as bad as swimming," said Bunny as he rubbed some sand off his fat legs.

"It isn't exactly," his mother answered. "But this time it was nearly as bad. But never mind. Come on and we'll see the waterfall."

Farmer Jason had told Mr. Brown how to walk to the place where the waters of a small river toppled over the rocks into the lake, and having hidden the bundle of lunch up in a tree, where wandering dogs could not get at it, the family set off, Dix and Splash running on ahead, to see the waterfall.

The way was through a pleasant wood, with little paths running here and there, and if Bunny and Sue had been wandering alone they probably would have gotten lost. But the road to the waterfall was a well-marked one and Mr. Brown kept to it until pretty soon Mrs. Brown said:

"Hark, I hear something."

There was a distant roaring in the woods.

"It's a trolley car," said Bunny.

His father, mother and Uncle Tad laughed.

"What a boy!" cried Mother Brown. "To think the roar of a beautiful waterfall is but the noise of a trolley car! He will never be a poet, will he Daddy?"

"I don't want to be," said Bunny quickly. "I'm going to be a policeman when I grow up, and have a gun."

"All right," chuckled Daddy Brown. "But a policeman's life is not an easy one."

The roaring noise became plainer, and then, as the path turned, the party came in sight of an open glade through which they could see the cataract.

It was not unlike a small Niagara in its way. For a distance back of the edge the waters of the little river bubbled and foamed over rough rocks. Then came a smooth stretch and, suddenly, the waters plunged over the broken ledge, falling about seventy feet to the lake below where they made a pool of foam.

"Isn't it wonderful?" murmured Mother Brown.

"It certainly is a beautiful picture," came from Mr. Brown.

"It's the prettiest little fall I've ever seen," added Uncle Tad.

Sue said nothing for a minute. Both she and Bunny were looking at the waterfall closely. Then Sue began to wrap a shawl, which she had brought along, over her Teddy bear.

"What's the matter?" asked Mother Brown.

"It's like rain all over Sallie Malinda," answered the little girl. "I don't want her to catch cold, for she might not shine her 'lectric eyes any more."

"That's all Sue seems to care about the fall," laughed Mother Brown in a whisper to her husband.

As for Bunny, he seemed to think them quite wonderful -- for a time. He stood as near the edge as his father would let him, looking up the rapids down which the waters rushed, to fall over the rocky edge, dropping in a smother of foam to the blue lake below. Silently he watched the smooth waters glide down like some ribbon, and then, turning to his father, he asked:

"Is this all they do?"

"All what does?" inquired Mr. Brown, not quite understanding.

"All the waterfall does. Does it just keep falling?"

"All day and all night, day after day and night after night, forever and forever," said Mr. Brown, for really the waterfall was a marvelous sight.

"Then I've seen enough," said Bunny, turning away. "If they've been doing this a long while, and will do it all next week, I can look at 'em then. Now I want to go out in a boat. I saw one as we came through the picnic grounds. I've had enough of waterfalls."

Mr. and Mrs. Brown and Uncle Tad looked at one another. But they said nothing. Bunny started down the hill again, toward the lake, Sue following with her Teddy bear.

"Bunny surely will never make a poet," chuckled his mother.

"Oh, well, perhaps there are enough poets in the world now," said Mr. Brown with a laugh.

Bunny and Sue were first at the place where the boat was kept. There were several of them, and Mr. Jason had said that picnic parties used them. The lake was not deep, he had added, and was very safe, for any one who knew anything about boats.

Bunny and Sue finally prevailed on Uncle Tad to take them out for a row after lunch, and when the two children were in their seats Dix insisted on following.

Mr. Brown, who decided to remain on shore with his wife, tried to call back the dog, but he would not come. Nor would he come when Splash barked and whined at him, asking, in dog language, I suppose, if Dix did not want to come and have a game of "water tag."

But Dix evidently wished to stay in the boat, and finally they let him remain, as he was a quiet dog, not given to jumping about. He curled up in front behind Sue and went to sleep.

Uncle Tad rowed about the lake. Bunny wished he had brought his fishing pole and line along, as they saw fish jumping in several places.

"Never mind, we're going to be here nearly a week yet," said Uncle Tad. "We can come again."

Just how it happened Sue herself could not explain. But, somehow or other, her Teddy bear slipped from her lap and was about to fall out of the boat. That would never do, the little girl decided, and of course she made a quick motion to catch her toy.

And, just then, Bunny leaned on the same side of the boat to pick up a floating stick so that the boat tipped.

"Look out!" cried Uncle Tad. "Sit still, children!"

But he spoke too late, for, in an instant, Sue fell out of the boat and into the lake. Uncle Tad was so surprised for a moment that he sat still. But not so Dix. He had awakened in a second, and with a loud bark sprang overboard to the rescue of the little girl.



Chapter XXI

The Circus


"Oh my!" cried Bunny Brown, as he saw his sister topple out of the boat into the lake. "Oh, dear!"

By this time Uncle Tad, the old soldier, was ready for action. He took off his coat, without standing up in the boat, for well he knew how dangerous that was, and he was just ready to slip overboard into the water, the bottom of which he could see, when Dix, who had thrust his head under the surface, came up with Sue held in his strong jaws, his teeth fastened in her dress near the neck.

"Oh, Dix! Dix!" cried Bunny, in delight. "I'm so glad you saved my sister. Oh, Dix! I'll love you all my life!"

Dix, holding Sue with her head well above the water, was swimming toward the boat. Bunny, eager to do what he could to help his sister, was leaning over the side, ready to reach her as soon as the dog came near enough. Then Uncle Tad cried:

"Sit still, Bunny! I'll take Sue in. But I must do it at the stern of the boat, and not over the side, as that might tip us over. You sit still in the middle of the boat."

Bunny, who had lived near the seashore all his life knew that "stern" meant the back of the boat. And he remembered that his father had often told him if ever he fell out of a boat and wanted to get in again without tipping the boat over, to do so from the stern, or from the bow, which is the front. A row-boat will not tip backwards or forwards as easily as it will to either side.

As soon as Bunny heard what Uncle Tad said, he obeyed. He sat down in the bottom of the boat between the seats. Then the old soldier, going to the stern, called to Dix:

"Around this way, old dog! Bring her here and I'll take her in. Come on, Dix!"

Whether the dog knew that it was safer to bring a person in over the stern of a boat or over the bow instead of over the side, I do not know. At any rate he did what Uncle Tad told him to do, and in another moment was close to the boat with Sue in his jaws. Uncle Tad lifted her into the boat and at once turned her on her face and raised her legs in the air. This was to let any water that she might have swallowed run out.

Sue began to kick her legs. She gasped and wiggled.

"Keep still!" cried Bunny. "Uncle Tad is giving you first aid." Bunny had often seen the lifeguards at the beach do this to swimmers who went too far out.

"I -- I won't keep still, Bunny Brown!" gasped Sue. "And I -- I don't need any first aid! I just helded my breath under water, I did, and I didn't swallow much anyhow. I was holding my breath when Uncle Tad began to raise up my legs, that's why I wiggled and couldn't speak. I'm all right now and I'm much obliged to you and Dix, Uncle Tad, and I hope my Sallie Malinda isn't in the lake."

Sue said this all at one time and then she had to stop for breath. But what she said was true. Her father had given her swimming lessons, and Sue was really a good little diver, and perfectly at home where the water was not too rough or deep. And, as she had said, as soon as she felt herself in the water she had taken a long breath and held it before her nose and mouth went under.

So while Sue was holding her breath, Dix had reached down and caught her, before she had really sunk to the bottom. For Sue had on a light and fluffy dress, and that really was a sort of life preserver. As it was, the dog had brought Sue to the boat before she had swallowed more than a few spoonfuls of water, which did her no harm. Of course she was all wet.

"You've gone in swimming, anyhow," said Bunny, as soon as he saw that his sister was all right.

"Yes, and we must get her to shore as soon as we can," said Uncle Tad. "Climb in, Dix, and don't scatter any more water on us than you can help, though we'll forgive you almost anything for the way you saved Sue."

The dog climbed in, over the stern where Uncle Tad told him to, and then gave himself a big shake.

All dogs do that when they come from the water, and Dix only acted naturally. He gave Bunny and Uncle Tad a shower bath but they did not mind. Sue could not be made any wetter than she already was.

"Now for a fast row to shore," said Uncle Tad. "I saw a farmhouse not far from where we got out of Mr. Jason's wagon, and I guess you can dry your clothes there, Sue."

As Uncle Tad started to row Sue cried:

"But where's Sallie Malinda? Where's my Teddy bear? I won't go without her!"

She spoke as if she meant it. Bunny and Uncle Tad looked on both sides of the boat, and there, on the white sandy bottom of the lake, in about four feet of water, lay the Teddy bear. It's eyes were lighted which made it the more easily seen, for Sue must have pressed the switch as she herself fell overboard. And, as it happened, the batteries and electric lighted eyes were not harmed by water.

"I'll get her for you," said Uncle Tad, and he reached for the Teddy bear with a boat hook, soon bringing up the toy.

"Oh, I hope she isn't spoiled!" cried Sue.

"She can dry out with you when you get to the farmhouse," said Bunny, and then Uncle Tad began to row toward shore.

Mr. and Mrs. Brown were surprised, and not a little worried, when they heard what had happened to Sue. But the little girl herself was quite calm about it.

"I just held my breath," she said. "I knew Bunny or somebody would get me out."

"I was going to," declared Bunny.

"Yes, I guess he'd have dived over in another second," remarked Uncle Tad. "But Dix was ahead of both of us."

"Well, I'm glad you're all right," said Mother Brown. "I do hope you won't take cold. We must get your wet clothes off."

Just then Mr. Jason came back with his horses and wagon, and he quickly drove the whole party to a near-by farmhouse where Sue, and all the others, were made welcome. Before the warm kitchen fire Sue was dressed in some dry clothes of a little girl who lived on the farm, while her own were put near the kitchen stove.

In a few hours the party was ready to go back to the "Ark," meanwhile having spent a good time at the farmhouse. Sue seemed all right, and really she had not been in much danger, for the water was not deep, and Uncle Tad was a good swimmer.

Bunny and Sue slept rather late the next morning, but when they did awaken they heard a queer rumbling on the road beside which their automobile was drawn up.

"Is that thunder?" asked Bunny.

"It sounds like it," answered Sue, who showed no signs of having caught cold from her bath in the lake.

The children peered from the little windows near their bunks. They saw going along the road a number of gaily painted wagons -- great big wagons, drawn by eight or ten horses each, and with broad-tired wheels.

Together Bunny and Sue cried:

"It's a circus! It's a circus! Hurrah!"



Chapter XXII

A Lion Is Loose


Bunny Brown and his Sister Sue lost no time in getting dressed that morning, and hurrying out to the tiny dining room where their mother was getting breakfast.

"Did you see it?" gasped Sue.

"Have the elephants gone past yet?" Bunny inquired, his eyes big with excitement.

"Oh, you mean the circus," said Mrs. Brown. "No, I haven't seen any elephants yet. The big wagons just started to go past."

"Then let's hurry up our breakfast and watch for the elephants and the tigers," cried Bunny, greatly worried lest he miss any of the animals.

"You have plenty of time," said Uncle Tad, who was out near the back steps of the automobile, sorting his fish lines and hooks. "The circus has just started to go past. Those wagons have in them the tent poles, the canvas for the tents, the things for the men to eat and the big stoves. These are always unloaded first -- in fact, they are sent on ahead of the rest of the show.

"Not until later in the morning will the animals and the other wagons come along. The circus must have unloaded over at Kirkwell," and he pointed to a railroad station about a mile away. "The tents are going up on the other side of this town, I heard some of the circus drivers say."

"Oh, won't we have fun watching them go past?" cried Sue. "I wonder if they'll have a parade? If they do, and it goes past our house -- I mean our automobile -- we can see it better than anybody, can't we?"

"Yes. But the parade won't come this far out into the country," said Uncle Tad. "It will go through the streets of the town."

"Where are you going?" asked Bunny, suddenly looking at the old soldier.

"I thought I'd go fishing over to Blue Lake. Looked yesterday as if there were plenty of fish there. Want to go with me, Bunny Brown?"

"Huh? An' the circus comin' to town?" asked Bunny, clipping the end off his words. "Say, Mother, aren't we going to the circus?" he asked quickly.

"Well, I didn't hear anything about it," said Mrs. Brown slowly.

"Can't you take us, Uncle Tad?" pleaded Sue, for she, as much as did her brother, wanted to see the big show.

"Well, I suppose I could put off my fishing till another day," said Uncle Tad slowly. "Are you sure you two want to go?"

"Are we!" cried Bunny.

"Oh, I want to go -- so much!" and Sue showed just how much by putting her arms around Uncle Tad's neck and hugging him as hard as she could. That was her way of showing "how much."

"Well, if it's as much as that I guess I'll have to take you," laughed Uncle Tad. "Mind you, I don't want to go myself," and he looked at Mrs. Brown in a queer way. "I don't care anything about a circus -- never did in fact. But if an old man has to give up his fishing trip, just to take two children to one of the wild animal shows, why I guess it will have to be done, that's all. But really I don't want to go," and he shook his head very seriously.

"Oh, Uncle Tad!" cried Sue. "Don't you want to see the elephants?"

"Nope," and the old soldier kept on shaking his head "crossways," as Bunny said.

"And don't you want to see the lions?"

"Nope."

"Nor the tigers?"

"Nope."

"Not even the camels and the monkeys and the men jumping over horses' backs, nor the giraffes with their long necks -- don't you want to see any of them?" Sue was talking faster and faster all the while.

Uncle Tad did not say anything, but a funny look came into his eyes, and Bunny was almost sure the old soldier was laughing on one side of his face at Mother Brown. Then Bunny cried:

"Oh, Sue! He's just fooling! He wants to go as much as we do!"

"Oh, Uncle Tad, I'm so glad!" cried Sue. "I love you -- so -- much!" and again she hugged him as hard as she could, and kissed him too.

"Now I'll surely have to go," he chuckled.

Breakfast was soon over, and by that time Bunny and Sue were so excited that they did not know what to do. Somehow they managed to get properly dressed, and by that time other circus wagons came along.

These wagons were gilded and painted more gaily than the first that had gone past. And from some of them came low growls or roars.

"Oh, they've got lions inside," said Sue, opening her eyes wide.

"And tigers, too," added Bunny in a wondering voice. "But I want to see the elephants," he added.

Pretty soon the big elephants came along, and behind them came camels and troops of horses. There were also a number of small boys and some girls who were following the circus to the lot where the big tents were already being put up.

"Say, I just like to see them!" cried Bunny as the elephants swung past the "Ark," which some of the country boys took to be one of the circus wagons broken down. "Elephants are great! I guess I'm going to be an elephant rider when I grow up, instead of a policeman," he said, as he saw men sitting on the heads of the big elephants while they lumbered heavily along.

"It would be fun to ride on one of them," said Sue. "But come on, Uncle Tad. Take us to the circus. We want to see the parade."

"We want to see everything," added Bunny.

"The side shows and everything, and, please, Mother, may we have some peanuts and popcorn?"

"Oh, I don't want you eating a lot of things that will make you ill," said Mrs. Brown.

"I mean to feed to the elephants," said Bunny. "Elephants love popcorn and peanuts a lot. Of course Sue and I could eat a little," he added.

"Well, a very little," agreed his mother. "Elephants are not made ill so easily as little boys. But get ready, if you are going."

It did not take the children and Uncle Tad long to get ready. As it was quite a distance from where the "Ark" was stationed beside the road to the circus ground, Uncle Tad hired Mr. Jason to drive him and the children over in the wagon.

"Oh, I see the tents!" cried Bunny, as they neared the ground.

"And I hear the music!" added Sue. "But we mustn't miss the parade."

The children were just in time for this, and when they had seen the procession wind its way about the streets they went back to the big white tents. Then the circus began.

What Bunny and Sue saw you can well imagine, for I think most of you have been to a circus, once at least. There were the wild animals -- the lions and the tigers in their cages, the funny monkeys, the long-necked giraffes -- and then came the performance. The clowns did funny tricks, the acrobats leaped high in the air, or fell into the springy nets. All this the children saw, and they ate some popcorn and peanuts, but fed more than they ate to the elephants.

Uncle Tad seemed to enjoy himself, too, though, every once in a while he would lean over and say to Bunny and Sue:

"Aren't you tired? Let's go home!"

And the performance was not half through! Bunny and Sue just looked at him and smiled. They knew he was joking.

But the circus came to an end at last, and though they were sorry they had to leave, Bunny and Sue were, late in the afternoon, well on their way to their automobile camp again. They talked of nothing but what they had seen, and every time they spoke of the show they liked it more and more.

"I wish we could go again to-night," said Bunny.

"It isn't good for little children to go to a circus at night," said Uncle Tad. "You've seen enough."

Of course Daddy Brown and Mother Brown had to hear all about it over the supper table, and they were glad the children had had such a good time. At night when they sat around a little campfire on the ground near the automobile, they could hear, in the distance, the music of the circus.

In the middle of the night Mr. and Mrs. Brown were awakened by hearing the noise of many persons rushing past on the road alongside of which their automobile was drawn up. Also the chugging of automobiles and the patter of horses' feet could be heard.

"I wonder what it can be," said Mrs. Brown. "Is it the circus coming back again?"

"No, they would be going the other way. I'll see if I can find out what it is."

Slipping on a bath robe, Mr. Brown went to the back door of the automobile. He saw a crowd of people rushing along.

"What's the matter?" he called.

"One of the circus lions is loose," was the answer, "and we're chasing it!"

BUNNY AND SUE FED THE ELEPHANTS. Bunny Brown and His Sister Sue on an Auto Tour. Page 218.



Chapter XXIII

The Scratched Boy


"What's that? What's the matter?" asked Mrs. Brown. In the darkness she had slipped to her husband's side. She, too, looked out on the crowd of men and boys rushing past in the moonlight. "What has happened?" she asked again, as Mr. Brown did not appear to have heard what she said.

"As nearly as I could understand," he said slowly, speaking in a low voice, "one of the men who ran past said a lion had broken loose from the circus."

"Oh, how dreadful!" exclaimed Mrs. Brown. "What shall we do? Did Uncle Tad bring his gun with him?"

"Hush! Don't wake the children," said Mr. Brown. "They might be frightened if they heard that a lion was loose."

"Frightened? I should think any one would be frightened!" exclaimed Mrs. Brown. "A savage lion raging around at night, trying to get something to eat --  -- "

"Now please don't get excited," begged Mr. Brown. "There is no danger -- at least I believe there isn't."

"No danger? And with a lion loose -- a hungry lion!"

"That's where I think you're wrong," said her husband. "The circus people usually keep their lions and other wild animals well fed. They know the danger a hungry beast might be if he should get loose. And I dare say they often do get loose, for all sorts of things may happen when the cages are taken to so many different places.

"But though this lion has broken loose, I don't believe it would bite even a rooster if it crowed at him. I mean he won't be hungry, because he'll have been well fed before the circus started away."

"Then you don't believe there is any danger?"

"Well, not enough to worry about. Another thing is that usually circus lions are so tame, having been caged so long, that they are fairly gentle."

"I read of one that bit his keeper," said Mrs. Brown.

"Oh, of course there are some dangerous lions in circuses. But we won't believe this one that got away is that kind until we are sure. There's a man who seems tired of running. I think he's going to stop and I'll ask him how it happened."

One of the crowd of men and boys, racing past the "Ark," had slowed his pace, being tired it seemed. Mr. Brown leaned out of the back door and called to him:

"What is the matter? Did a lion really get loose from the circus?"

"That's what really did happen, sir. Are you one of the circus folks?"

"No, we are just travelers. We are stopping here because one of the springs of our automobile is broken."

"Oh, excuse me. I thought this was one of the circus wagons. Yes, as they were loading the lion's cage on the train a few hours ago, it slipped, fell on its side and broke. The biggest lion in the circus got away before they could catch him, and they say he headed down this way. The circus men started after him with nets and ropes, and they offered a reward of twenty-five dollars to whoever caught him. So a lot of us started out, but I guess I'll go back. I'm tired out. I didn't have an automobile like some."

"Then the lion didn't get loose while the circus performance was going on?" asked Mrs. Brown.

"Oh, no. And it's a good thing it didn't, or there'd have been a terrible scare and maybe lots of folks hurt in the rush. The show was over, and most of the animal tent stuff was loaded on the flat cars when the lion's cage broke."

"Aren't you afraid to try to catch him?" asked Mrs. Brown.

"Well, I didn't stop to think of that. I don't know though that I am. I just started off with a rush -- the same as lots of others did who were watching the circus load -- when the lion got loose. I thought maybe I could earn that twenty-five dollars. You see that's given to whoever finds where the lion is hiding. The circus men just want to know that and then they'll do the catching. There really isn't much danger."

"Well, I shouldn't like to try it," murmured Mrs. Brown.

"I guess I'll give up, too," said the man.

He called a "good-night!" to Mr. and Mrs. Brown and went back along the road. There were no more people to be seen, those who had gone lion-hunting being now out of sight.

"Well, I'm glad the children didn't wake up," said Mrs. Brown, for, strange as it may seem, Bunny and Sue had slept all through the noise. But then they were tired because of having gone to the circus. "Shall you tell them about the lion being loose?"

"Oh, yes, to-morrow, of course. While I think there is little danger I would not want them to stray too far away, for the poor old lion may be hiding in the woods or among the rocks, and he might spring out on whoever passed his hiding place."

"Why do you call him a 'poor old lion'? I think he must be a very savage fellow."

"Oh, I think he'll turn out to be a gentle one," said her husband with a laugh.

Then Mr. and Mrs. Brown went to bed, after Uncle Tad had heard the story, and the rest of the night passed quietly. At the breakfast table Bunny and Sue were told of what had happened.

Bunny wanted to go right out with Uncle Tad, who was to take his gun.

"We'll hunt him and get the twenty-five dollars," said the little fellow.

"No. You'd better play around here for a while," ordered his father. "It will be safer."

"I wouldn't let him out of my sight for a million dollars!" cried Mrs. Brown.

"But we could take the two dogs, Dix and Splash, with us, and they could bite the lion if he chased us," said Bunny.

His mother shook her head, and Bunny knew there was no use teasing any more.

"I wouldn't go after any lion!" declared Sue. "And I want to find a good place to hide Sallie Malinda."

"What for?" asked Bunny.

"So the lion can't find her," said the little girl. "Lions don't like bears and this one might bite Sallie Malinda. Then maybe she couldn't flash her eyes any more." The Teddy bear had dried out after the fall into the lake, and was as good as ever.

So Bunny and Sue had to stay and play around the automobile, not going far away. Though at first they missed the long tramps in the fields and through the woods, they were good children and did as they were bid. Besides, deep down in his heart, Bunny was just a little bit afraid of the lion, even though he had said he wanted to go hunting for him with Uncle Tad.

Two days passed, and the lion had not been found. The circus had gone on, leaving two men in the town near which the automobile was stranded. These men, with a spare cage which had been left with them, were ready to go out with nets and ropes and capture the lion as soon as any one should bring in word as to where it was hiding.

The countrymen and the boys, who had no other work to do, still kept up the lion hunt, some with dogs, but the big circus animal was well hidden.

"If he was playing hide-and-go-seek," said Bunny, "I'd holler 'Givie-up! Givie-up! Come on in free!' For I never could find him, he has hidden himself so good."

"Well, I wish he would go and hide himself far, far away," almost snapped Sue. "Then we could go around like we used to, and go on the lake."

"I wish so too," agreed Bunny.

It was getting rather tiresome for the children to stay so close to "home," as they called the automobile, but Mr. Brown said the new spring would arrive in a few days, and then they would travel on again, far from where the lion was hiding.

"And we can keep on looking for Fred Ward," said Bunny. In the excitement over the circus the runaway boy had been almost forgotten.

It was three days after the lion had broken loose, and evening was approaching, when Mrs. Jason, wife of the farmer who had been so kind to the Browns, came hurrying down to the automobile beside the road. She was out of breath and seemed much excited.

"Oh, Mr. Brown!" she exclaimed. "Do you know anything about doctoring?"

"About doctoring! Why? Is Mr. Jason ill?"

"No, but I've got a badly hurt boy up at my house. He's all scratched up."

"Has he been picking berries?" asked Bunny.

"No. They're worse scratches than that. Big, deep ones on his face, hands and shoulders. I've bandaged him as best I could, and sent Mr. Jason for the doctor; but I was wondering if you could do anything until Dr. Fandon came."

"A scratched boy?" repeated Mr. Brown slowly. "What scratched him?"

"A great big lion, he says!" exclaimed Mrs. Jason. "I declare I'm so excited I don't know what to do!" and she sat down on a stool Mrs. Brown placed for her near the back steps of the automobile.



Chapter XXIV

The Barking Dog


Mr. and Mrs. Brown, not to say Bunny, Sue and Uncle Tad, were very, very much surprised when Mrs. Jason said the boy had been scratched by a lion.

"Are you sure about it?" asked the children's father.

"That's what he says," replied the farmer's wife. "He is certainly badly scratched, as I could see for myself. Whether it was by a lion or something else I can't say, never having seen a lion's scratches. The boy might be making up some story, but he certainly is scratched."

"The circus lion!" cried Mrs. Brown. "Oh, that must be the one that did it! The lion must be roaming around here! We must lock the automobile and stay inside!"

"Now please don't get excited," begged Mr. Brown. "In the first place this boy may not be telling the truth. He is scratched, for Mrs. Jason has seen the marks and bandaged them up, she says. But it may be the boy fell down in the bushes, or among the rocks and got scratched that way. Or it may have been some other wild animal in the woods that attacked him. There are some animals around here, aren't there?" he asked the farmer's wife.

"Well, skunks, groundhogs and the like of that, with maybe a fox or two. Of course foxes or groundhogs will bite if any one tries to catch them, but I don't know that they'd scratch, though they might if they were put to it. I never saw such scratches as these. And, as you say, Mrs. Brown, it may have been the circus lion which is hiding around here."

"You don't seem very frightened over it," said Mrs. Brown.

"Well, what's the use of being frightened until I see it?" asked Mrs. Jason. "I'm more worried about that poor boy. I wish I could do something for him to ease his pain until Dr. Fandon comes. He may be a long while."

"I'll come up with you and see what I can do," promised Mr. Brown. "Uncle Tad knows something about soldiers' wounds, and perhaps he could --  -- "

"Oh, don't take Uncle Tad with you!" pleaded Mrs. Brown. "We need one man around here if there's a lion loose in the woods. Come back as soon as you can," she begged her husband as he walked toward the farmhouse with Mrs. Jason.

"How did you happen to see the boy?" asked Mr. Brown.

"I was out gathering the eggs near the henhouse," said Mrs. Jason, "and I heard a sort of groaning noise. Then I saw somebody coming toward me.

"At first I thought it was a tramp, and I was just going to call my husband or one of the men, when I heard crying, and then I saw it was only a boy, and that he was bleeding."

"How long ago was it that you found the scratched boy?" asked Mr. Brown.

"Nearly an hour now. As soon as I saw what the matter was I hurried him into the house and got him on a couch. Mr. Jason and I did what bandaging we could, and then I made him go for the doctor."

"Did you know the boy, and did he say where the lion attacked him?" asked Mr. Brown.

"I never saw him before, that I know of. But he just managed to say the beast jumped out of the bushes at him when he was coming through our rocky glen, then all of a sudden he fainted."

"Where is this rocky glen of yours where you say the lion jumped out at the boy?"

"About two miles from here, back in the hills. Waste land, mostly. You aren't thinking of going there, are you?"

"Not now, though I think I'd better send word to the circus people that their lion is around here."

"Yes, it would be a good thing."

By this time Mr. Brown and Mrs. Jason were at the house.

"I'll take a look at him," said Mr. Brown.

He saw, lying on a couch, a tall lad, whose face and hands were covered with bandages. The youth was tossing to and fro and murmuring, but what he said could not well be understood, except that now and then he spoke of a lion.

"I didn't dare take his coat off to get at the scratches on his shoulders," said Mrs. Jason. "I thought I'd let the doctor do that."

"Yes, I guess it will be best. But if you have any sweet spirits of nitre in the house I'll give him that to quiet him and keep down the fever."

"Oh, we always keep nitre on hand," and Mrs. Jason helped Mr. Brown give some to the lad. In a little while he grew quieter, and then Dr. Fandon came in with Mr. Jason.

The two men helped the physician get the youth undressed and into a spare bed, and then the doctor, with Mrs. Jason's help, dressed the wounds on the boy's face and shoulders, while the men waited outside.

Then, having done what he could for the boy, and promising to call in the morning, when he could tell more about the boy's condition, the doctor went home, while Mr. Brown and Mr. Jason planned to get word of the lion to the two circus men who were still at the hotel in the village.

"I'll drive over with you," said the farmer. This they did, though it was late to drive to town, being after nine o'clock, stopping at the "Ark" on the way to tell what had taken place at the farmhouse.

"Poor fellow!" exclaimed Mrs. Brown. "We must try to help him."

"I'll let him play with my Teddy bear when he gets well," said Sue, and all the others laughed.

"The circus men will get after the lion in the morning," said the farmer when he and Mr. Brown were back at the "Ark" on their return from town.

Though they were excited, and not a little afraid, Bunny and Sue were at last in bed, but only after Uncle Tad had promised to sit up all night, as he used to do when a sentry in the war, and, with his gun, watch for any sign of the lion.

"And if you have to shoot him, which I hope you don't," said Bunny, "call me first so I can look at him. But I don't want to see him shot. Just make him go back to the circus."

"I will," promised Uncle Tad.

Bunny and Sue were up early the next morning, and even before breakfast they wanted their father to go up to the farmhouse to find out about the scratched boy, and also whether or not the lion had been caught.

"We'll see about the boy first," said Mr. Brown. "I guess it won't do any harm for me to take the children up," he said to his wife.

"You will be careful, won't you?" she begged.

"Indeed I will," he promised.

So Bunny, with his sister and his father, walked up to Mr. Jason's home. Dix and Splash went along, of course, and stood expectant at the door as Mr. Brown rang.

"Oh, good morning!" cried Mrs. Jason as she answered the bell. "Our scratched boy is much better this morning. He is not as badly hurt as we feared. Come in."

Mr. Brown and the children entered, and of course the dogs followed.

"Go back, Dix and Splash," ordered Mr. Brown. Splash turned and went out on the stoop, but Dix kept on. The dog was acting in a strange manner. The door to a downstairs bedroom, where the wounded boy was lying, was open. Dix ran in and the next moment he began to bark wildly, getting on the bed with his forefeet.

"Down, Dix! Down!" cried Mr. Brown. "What do you mean, sir?"

But Dix kept on barking and whining. He tried to lick the hands of the scratched boy.

"Oh, drive him away!" cried Mrs. Jason. "He'll hurt the boy."

But the boy, who seemed much better indeed, rose up in bed and cried:

"Don't send him away! That's Dix, my dog! Oh, Dix, you found me, didn't you?"



Chapter XXV

Found At Last


What with the barking of Dix, in which Splash, out on the porch, joined, the manner in which the scratched boy hugged the half-wild animal on his bed, the astonishment of Bunny Brown, his sister, his father and Mrs. Jason -- well, there was enough excitement for a few minutes to satisfy even the children.

Sue did not know what to make of the strange actions of Dix on the bed where the injured boy had been sleeping, and she whispered to Bunny:

"Maybe Dix wants to bite him!"

But Bunny shook his head. He understood what had happened.

"Don't you see, Sue!" he said. "He's been found."

"O-o-oh!" gasped the little girl.

"Yes, sir, Fred Ward, the boy who ran away from next door to us, has been found. That's his dog, Dix. And Dix knows him, just as we thought he would, even though his face is pretty well bandaged up. That's Fred Ward!"

"Is that your name?" asked Mr. Brown, who also understood what had happened.

"Well, I guess it is," was the slow answer. "But it isn't the name I've been going by lately. I called myself Professor Rombodno Prosondo, but now --  -- "

"Then, it was you all blacked up like a minstrel!" cried Bunny.

"Yes, I was playing on the banjo for Dr. Perry's medicine show, but when I saw you in the crowd I managed to get away. Then I joined the circus and now --  -- "

"Don't talk and excite yourself," said Mrs. Jason. "The doctor will be here in a little while and perhaps he can take the bandages off your face, so your friends will know you."

"Dix knows him all right," said Mr. Brown, and indeed the dog was half wild with joy at having found his master.

Dr. Fandon came in a few minutes later and said Fred was much better. When the face bandages were taken off, so new ones could be put on, Bunny and Sue at once recognized Fred, though his face was badly scratched.

Dix tried to lick his master's face, but had to be stopped for fear he might do Fred harm. So the dog had to show his joy by thumping his tail and whining softly.

Then Fred told his story. As has been said, he ran away from home because he felt his father should not have punished him.

"But I've had a good deal worse punishment since," the lad said, "and I'm sorry I ever ran away. I'd have gone home long ago only I was ashamed."

"Well, you needn't be," said Mr. Brown. "Your father and your mother both want you back. We have been looking for you as well as we could on our auto tour. But it was Dix who knew you first."

"I wish he had seen me before the lion did," said Fred, smiling a little. "I wonder where he went to after clawing me?"

At that moment there was a noise out in the yard back of the farmhouse. The crowing of roosters and the squawking of hens could be heard, mingled with a woman's voice.

"That's my wife!" cried Mr. Jason, jumping up, but at that moment his wife came into the room.

"I've caught it," she said coolly, though her face was flushed.

"Caught what?" they all cried.

"The circus lion," she answered. "I went out to the henhouse, and there he was crouching down in a corner, and looking as if he intended to have his choice of my fat pullets."

"What did you do?" asked Mr. Brown and Mr. Jason together.

"Well, I happened to have a broom stick in my hand so I hit him a smart blow over the nose to teach him to let my hens alone, and then I drove the chickens outside and locked the lion in the henhouse. He's there now. You'd better send for the circus folks to take him away. I don't want him around the place scaring the fowls."

"Didn't he scare you?" asked Mr. Brown.

"I never stopped to think whether he did or not," was the cool answer. "I just whacked him over the nose and he whined and cuddled up in a corner like a whipped dog."

"Oh, let's go out and look at the lion in the chicken coop!" cried Bunny.

"No, indeed," said his father. "Wait until the circus men come and put him in the cage."

A neighboring farmer had a telephone, and word was sent to one of the circus men who had stayed at the village hotel, while his companion had gone to the rocky glen with a crowd of men and boys to try to find the lion there, after the alarm given by Mr. Jason.

The circus man, who had remained in the hotel, came with a light cage, drawn by horses, and the lion was easily driven from the henhouse into the cage and was soon safe behind locks and bars.

"Mrs. Jason caught the lion!" cried the crowd that gathered to watch what happened.

"Did he bite you?" she was asked.

"Never a bite," she answered smiling.

"What! Poor old Tobyhanna bite?" cried one of the circus men. "Why, he hasn't but two teeth in his head and we have to feed him on boiled meat. He's no more dangerous than a tame dog, and when you hit him over the nose with your broom, lady, you must have hurt his feelin's dreadful."

"Well, I didn't mean to be rough," said Mrs. Jason with a smile, "but it's the first time I ever caught a lion."

"Yes, and you get the reward, too," added the circus man, as he paid the farmer's wife.

Then he started away with the lion in the cage to ship him back to the circus. And poor, old, almost toothless Tobyhanna, curled up in the corner of his cage and ate some bread and milk the farmer's wife gave him. He was happy he had been caught.

Fred Ward's story was soon told. After running away from home he joined the medicine show, because it gave him a chance to play the banjo he liked so well. He left Dr. Perry because he saw the Browns and feared they might have him sent home.

Then he joined the circus, the very one from which the lion had escaped. In that show Fred had been one of a group who blacked up and played on mandolins and guitars and banjos, and though he had played in front of Bunny, Sue and Uncle Tad, none of them knew him, nor did Fred see them.

The night the show left the town, and just before the lion escaped, Fred had a quarrel with one of the managers and left. He was not paid his money and, quite miserable, he wandered away, not knowing what to do. He became lost in the woods, and finally he reached the rocky gulch where the lion attacked him.

"It was just an accident. Tobyhanna didn't mean to hurt me," said Fred. "I'd often fed him and scratched his nose for him in the circus. But I walked right over him as he was asleep in between some rocks, and when he jumped out, as much scared as I was he happened to scratch me. Then I managed to get to this house and I guess I must have gone out of my head or fainted or something."

"You did," said Dr. Fandon, "but you are all right now."

"We must send word to your father that you are safe," said Mr. Brown, and this was done.

Fred was not quite well enough to be moved, but his father came for him the next day, and he made a great fuss over his boy. They understood each other better after that.

Mr. Ward thanked everybody who had done anything to help his son, and a few days later took Fred and Dix home, for the dog would not leave his master, much as he liked Splash, Bunny and Sue.

In due time Tobyhanna, the lion, was taken back to the circus, and he never got out of his cage again, as far as I ever heard.

"Well, I think we can keep on with our tour now," said Mr. Brown, a few days after the new spring had arrived.

"It seems almost like leaving home to go away from here," said Mother Brown, as they prepared to leave.

"We've had such fun camping here," added Sue.

"And lots of things have happened, too!" added Bunny. "I never was near where a lion was locked up in a chicken coop before."

"And I don't want to be again," said his mother.

"All aboard!" cried Uncle Tad.

And once more the "Ark," was traveling along the country road back toward Bellemere. The auto trip had been a great success, and Bunny and Sue talked of it many times, and of how Fred Ward had been found, and of the escaped lion that had scratched him.

But now it is time to say good-bye, though you must not think this is the last of the adventures of Bunny and Sue, even though there are no more in this book. There were more ahead of them, but, for the present, we will leave them.

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Stories From Livy

By

Alfred Church



Chapter I. The Story Of Romulus And Of Numa.

AEneas of Troy, coming to the land of Italy, took to wife Lavinia, daughter of King Latinus, and built him a city, which he called Lavinium, after the name of his wife. And, after thirty years, his son Ascanius went forth from Lavinium with much people, and built him a new city, which he called Alba. In this city reigned kings of the house and lineage of AEneas for twelve generations. Of these kings the eleventh in descent was one Procas, who, having two sons, Numitor and Amulius, left his kingdom, according to the custom, to Numitor, the elder. But Amulius drave out his brother, and reigned in his stead. Nor was he content with this wickedness, but slew all the male children of his brother. And the daughter of his brother, that was named Rhea Silvia, he chose to be a priestess of Vesta, making as though he would do the maiden honour; but his thought was that the name of his brother should perish, for they that serve Vesta are vowed to perpetual virginity.

But it came to pass that Rhea bare twin sons, whose father, it was said, was the god Mars. Very wroth was Amulius when he heard this thing; Rhea he made fast in prison, and the children he gave to certain of his servants that they should cast them into the river. Now it chanced that at this season Tiber had overflowed his banks, neither could the servants come near to the stream of the river; nevertheless they did not doubt that the children would perish, for all that the overflowing of the water was neither deep nor of a swift current Thinking then that they had duly performed the commandment of the King, they set down the babes in the flood and departed. But after a while the flood abated, and left the basket wherein the children had been laid on dry ground. And a she-wolf, coming down from the hill to drink at the river (for the country in those days was desert and abounding in wild beasts), heard the crying of the children and ran to them. Nor did she devour them, but gave them suck; nay, so gentle was she that Faustulus, the King's shepherd, chancing to go by, saw that she licked them with her tongue.

This Faustulus took the children and gave them to his wife to rear; and these, when they were of age to go by themselves, were not willing to abide with the flocks and herds, but were hunters, wandering through the forests that were in those parts. And afterwards, being now come to full strength, they were not content to slay wild beasts only, but would assail troops of robbers, as these were returning laden with their booty, and would divide the spoils among the shepherds. Now there was held in those days, on the hill that is now called the Palatine, a yearly festival to the god Pan. This festival King Evander first ordained, having come from Arcadia, in which land, being a land of shepherds, Pan that is the god of shepherds is greatly honoured. And when the young men and their company (for they had gathered a great company of shepherds about them, and led them in all matters both of business and of sport) were busy with the festival, there came upon them certain robbers that had made an ambush in the place, being very wroth by reason of the booty which they had lost. These laid hands on Remus, but Romulus they could not take, so fiercely did he fight against them. Remus, therefore, they delivered up to King Amulius, accusing him of many things, and chiefly of this, that he and his companions had invaded the land of Numitor, dealing with them in the fashion of an enemy and carrying off much spoil. To Numitor, therefore, did the King deliver Remus, that he might put him to death. Now Faustulus had believed from the beginning that the children were of the royal house, for he knew that the babes had been cast into the river by the King's command, and the time also of his finding them agreed thereto. Nevertheless he had not judged it expedient to open the matter before due time, but waited till occasion or necessity should arise. But now, there being such necessity, he opened the matter to Romulus. Numitor also, when he had the young man Remus in his custody, knowing that he and his brother were twins, and that the time agreed, and seeing that they were of a high spirit, bethought him of his grandsons; and, indeed, having asked many questions of Remus, was come nigh to knowing of what race he was. And now also Romulus was ready to help his brother. To come openly with his whole company he dared not, for he was not a match for the power of King Amulius; but he bade sundry shepherds make their way to the palace, each as best he could, appointing to them a time at which they should meet. And now came Remus also, with a troop of youths gathered together from the household of Numitor. Then did Romulus and Remus slay King Amulius. In the meanwhile Numitor gathered the youth of Alba to the citadel, crying out that they must make the place safe, for that the enemy was upon them; but when he perceived that the young men had done the deed, forthwith he called an assembly of the citizens, and set forth to them the wickedness which his brother had wrought against him, and how his grandsons had been born and bred and made known to him, and then, in order, how the tyrant had been slain, himself having counselled the deed. When he had so spoken the young men came with their company into the midst of the assembly, and saluted him as King; to which then the whole multitude agreeing with one consent, Numitor was established upon the throne.

After this Romulus and his brother conceived this purpose, that, leaving their grandfather to be king at Alba, they should build for themselves a new city in the place where, having been at the first left to die, they had been brought up by Faustulus the shepherd. And to this purpose many agreed both of the men of Alba and of the Latins, and also of the shepherds that had followed them from the first, holding it for certain all of them that Alba and Lavinium would be of small account in comparison of this new city which they should build together. But while the brothers were busy with these things, there sprang up afresh the same evil thing which had before wrought such trouble in their house, even the lust of power. For though the beginnings of the strife between them were peaceful, yet did it end in great wickedness. The matter fell out in this wise. Seeing that the brothers were twins, and that neither could claim to have the preference to the other in respect of his age, it was agreed between them that the gods that were the guardians of that country should make known by means of augury which of the two they chose to give his name to the new city. Then Romulus stood on the Palatine hill, and when there had been marked out for him a certain region of the sky, watched therein for a sign; and Remus watched in like manner, standing on the Aventine. And to Remus first came a sign, six vultures; but so soon as the sign had been proclaimed there came another to Romulus, even twelve vultures. Then they that favoured Remus clamoured that the gods had chosen him for King, because he had first seen the birds; and they that favoured Romulus answered that he was to be preferred because he had seen more in number. This dispute waxed so hot that they fell to fighting; and in the fight it chanced that Remus was slain. But some say that when Romulus had marked out the borders of the town which he would build, and had caused them to build a wall round it, Remus leapt over the wall, scorning it because it was mean and low; and that Romulus slew him, crying out, "Thus shall every man perish that shall dare to leap over my walls." Only others will have it that though he perished for this cause Romulus slew him not, but a certain Celer. This much is certain, that Romulus gained the whole kingdom for himself and called the city after his own name. And now, having first done sacrifice to the gods, he called a general assembly of the people, that he might give them laws, knowing that without laws no city can endure. And judging that these would be the better kept of his subjects if he should himself bear something of the show of royal majesty, he took certain signs of dignity, and especially twelve men that should continually attend him, bearing bundles of rods, and in the midst of the rods an axe; these men they called lictors.

Meanwhile the city increased, for the King and his people enlarged their borders, looking rather to the greatness for which they hoped than to that which they had. And that this increase might not be altogether empty walls without men, Romulus set up a sanctuary, to which were gathered a great multitude of men from the nations round about. All that were discontented and lovers of novelty came to him. Nor did he take any account of their condition, whether they were bond or free, but received them all. Thus was there added to the city great strength. And the King when he judged that there was strength sufficient, was minded to add to the strength counsel. Wherefore he chose a hundred men for counsellors. A hundred he chose, either because he held that number to be sufficient, or because there were no more that were fit to bear this dignity and be called Fathers, for this was the name of these counsellors.

After this the people bethought themselves how they should get for themselves wives, for there were no women in the place. Wherefore Romulus sent ambassadors to the nations round about, praying that they should give their daughters to his people for wives. "Cities," he said, "have humble beginnings even as all other things. Nevertheless they that have the gods and their own valour to help become great. Now that the gods are with us, as ye know, be assured also that valour shall not be wanting." But the nations round about would not hearken to him, thinking scorn of this gathering of robbers and slaves and runaways, so that they said, "Why do ye not open a sanctuary for women also that so ye may find fit wives for your people?" Also they feared for themselves and their children what this new city might grow to. Now when the ambassadors brought back this answer the Romans were greatly wroth, and would take by force that which their neighbours would not give of their free will. And to the end that they might do this more easily, King Romulus appointed certain days whereon he and his people would hold a festival with games to Neptune; and to this festival he called all them that dwelt in the cities round about. But when many were gathered together (for they were fain to see what this new city might be), and were now wholly bent on the spectacle of the games, the young men of the Romans ran in upon them, and carried off all such as were unwedded among the women. To these King Romulus spake kindly, saying, "The fault is not with us but with your fathers, who dealt proudly with us, and would not give you to us in marriage. But now ye shall be held in all honour as our wives, and shall have your portion of all that we possess. Put away therefore your anger, for ye shall find us so much the better husbands than other men, as we must be to you not for husbands only but parents also and native country."

In the meanwhile the parents of them that had been carried off put on sackcloth, and went about through the cities crying out for vengeance upon the Romans. And chiefly they sought for help from Titus Tatius, that was king of the Sabines in those days, and of great power and renown. But when the Sabines seemed to be tardy in the matter, the men of Caere first gathered together their army and marched into the country of the Romans. Against these King Romulus led forth his men and put them to flight without much ado, having first slain their king with his own hand. After then returning to Rome he carried the arms which he had taken from the body of the king to the hill of the Capitol, and laid them down at the shepherds' oak that stood thereon in those days. And when he had measured out the length and breadth of a temple that he would build to Jupiter upon the hill, he said, "O Jupiter, I, King Romulus, offer to thee these arms of a King, and dedicate therewith a temple in this place, in which temple they that come after me shall offer to thee like spoils in like manner, when it shall chance that the leader of our host shall himself slay with his own hands the leader of the host of the enemy." And this was the first temple that was dedicated in Rome. And in all the time to come two only offered in this manner, to wit, Cornelius Cossus that slew Lars Tolumnius, king of Veii, and Claudius Marcellus that slew Britomarus, king of the Gauls.

After this, King Tatius and the Sabines came up against Rome with a great army. And first of all they gained the citadel by treachery in this manner. One Tarpeius was governor of the citadel, whose daughter, Tarpeia by name, going forth from the walls to fetch water for a sacrifice, took money from the King that she should receive certain of the soldiers within the citadel; but when they had been so received, the men cast their shields upon her, slaying her with the weight of them. This they did either that they might be thought to have taken the place by force, or that they judged it to be well that no faith should be kept with traitors.

Some also tell this tale, that the Sabines wore great bracelets of gold on their left arms, and on their left hands fair rings with precious stones therein, and that when the maiden covenanted with them that she should have for a reward that which they carried in their left hands, they cast their shields upon her. And other say that she asked for their shields having the purpose to betray them, and for this cause was slain.

Thus the Sabines had possession of the citadel; and the next day King Romulus set the battle in array on the plain that lay between the hill of the Capitol and the hill of the Palatine. And first the Romans were very eager to recover the citadel, a certain Hostilius being their leader. But when this man, fighting in the forefront of the battle, was slain, the Romans turned their backs and fled before the Sabines, even unto the gate of the Palatine. Then King Romulus (for he himself had been carried away by the crowd of them that fled) held up his sword and his spear to the heavens, and cried aloud, "O Jupiter, here in the Palatine didst thou first, by the tokens which thou sentest me, lay the foundations of my city. And lo! the Sabines have taken the citadel by wicked craft, and have crossed the valley, and are come up even hither. But if thou sufferest them so far, do thou at the least defend this place against them, and stay this shameful flight of my people. So will I build a temple for thee in this place, even a temple of Jupiter the Stayer, that may be a memorial to after generations of how thou didst this day save this city." And when he had so spoken, even as though he knew that the prayer had been heard, he cried, "Ye men of Rome, Jupiter bids you stand fast in this place and renew the battle." And when the men of Rome heard these words, it was as if a voice from heaven had spoken to them, and they stood fast, and the King himself went forward and stood among the foremost. Now the leader of the Sabines was one Curtius. This man, as he drave the Romans before him, cried out to his comrades, "See we have conquered these men, false hosts and feeble foes that they are! Surely now they know that it is one thing to carry off maidens and another to fight with men." But whilst he boasted himself thus, King Romulus and a company of the youth rushed upon him. Now Curtius was fighting on horseback, and being thus assailed he fled, plunging into a certain pool which lay between the Palatine hill and the Capitol. Thus did he barely escape with his life, and the lake was called thereafter Curtius' pool. And now the Sabines began to give way to the Romans, when suddenly the women for whose sake they fought, having their hair loosened and their garments rent, ran in between them that fought, crying out, "Shed ye not each other's blood ye that are fathers-in-law and sons-in-law to each other. But if ye break this bond that is between you, slay us that are the cause of this trouble. And surely it were better for us to die than to live if we be bereaved of our fathers or of our husbands." With these words they stirred the hearts both of the chiefs and of the people, so that there was suddenly made a great silence. And afterwards the leaders came forth to make a covenant; and these indeed so ordered matters that there was not peace only, but one state where there had been two. For the Sabines came to Rome and dwelt there; and King Romulus and King Tatius reigned together. Only, after a while, certain men of Lanuvium slew King Tatius as he was sacrificing to the gods at Lavinium; and thereafter Romulus only was king as before.

When he had reigned thirty and seven years there befell the thing that shall now be told. On a certain day he called the people together on the Field of Mars, and held a review of his army. But while he did this there arose suddenly a great storm with loud thunderings and very thick clouds, so that the king was hidden away from the eyes of all the people. Nor indeed was he ever again seen upon the earth. And when men were recovered of their fear they were in great trouble, because they had lost their King, though indeed the Fathers would have it that he had been carried by a whirlwind into heaven. Yet after awhile they began to worship him as being now a god; and when nevertheless some doubted, and would even whisper among themselves that Romulus had been torn in pieces by the Fathers, there came forward a certain Proculus, who spake after this manner: "Ye men of Rome, this day, in the early morning, I saw Romulus, the father of this city, come down from heaven and stand before me. And when great fear came upon me, I prayed that it might be lawful for me to look upon him face to face. Then said he to me, 'Go thy way, tell the men of Rome that it is the will of them that dwell in heaven that Rome should be the chiefest city in the world. Bid them therefore be diligent in war; and let them know for themselves and tell their children after them that there is no power on earth so great that it shall be able to stand against them.' And when he had thus spoken, he departed from me going up into heaven." All men believed Proculus when he thus spake, and the people ceased from their sorrow when they knew that King Romulus had been taken up into heaven.

And now it was needful that another king should be chosen. No man in those days was more renowned for his righteousness and piety than a certain Numa Pompilius that dwelt at Cures in the land of the Sabines. Now it seemed at first to the Senate that the Sabines would be too powerful in the state if a king should be chosen from amongst them, nevertheless because they could not agree upon any other man, at last with one consent they decreed that the kingdom should be offered to him. And Numa was willing to receive it if only the gods consented. And the consent of the gods was asked in this fashion. Being led by the augur into the citadel, he sat down on a stone, with his face looking towards the south, and on his left hand sat the augur, having his head covered and in his hand an augur's staff, which is a wand bent at the end and having no knot. Then looking towards the city and the country round about, he offered prayers to the Gods and marked out the region of the sky from the sunrising to the sunsetting; the parts towards the south he called the right, and the parts towards the north he called the left; and he set a boundary before as far as his eye could reach. After this he took his staff in his left hand and laid his right on the head of Numa, praying in these words: "Father Jupiter, if it be thy will that this Numa Pompilius, whose head I hold, should be King of Rome, show us, I pray thee, clear tokens of this thy will within the space which I have marked out." He then named the tokens which he desired, and when they had been shown, Numa was declared to be King.

King Numa, considering that the city was but newly founded, and that by violence and force, conceived that he ought to found it anew, giving it justice and laws and religion; and that he might soften the manners and tempers of the people, he would have them cease awhile from war. To this end he built a temple of Janus, by which it might be signified whether there was peace or war in the State; for, if it were peace, the gates of the temple should be shut, but if it were war, they should be open. Twice only were the gates shut after the days of Numa; for the first time when Titus Manlius was Consul, after the ending of the first war against Carthage, and for the second time when the Emperor Augustus, after vanquishing Antony at Actium, established universal peace both by land and sea. This temple then King Numa built, and shut the gates thereof, having first made treaties of peace with the nations round about.

Many other things did King Numa set in order for his people. First he divided the year into twelve months, each month being according to the course of the moon, and in every twenty-fourth year another month, that the year might so agree with the course of the sun. Also he appointed certain lawful days for business, and other days on which nothing might be done. He made priests also, of whom the chief was the priest of Jupiter, to whom he gave splendid apparel and a chair of ivory. Two other priests he made, one of Mars, and the other of Quirinus, that is to say, of Romulus the god. And he chose virgins for the service of Vesta, who should keep alive the sacred fire, and twelve priests of Mars, whom he called the Salii, to be keepers of the sacred shield. (This shield, men said, fell down from heaven, and that it might be kept the more safely, King Numa commanded that they should make eleven other shields like unto it.) This shield and its fellows the Salii were to carry through the city, having on flowered tunics and breastplates of brass, and dancing and singing hymns. And many other things as to the worship of the gods, and the interpreting of signs, and the dealing with marvels and portents, King Numa set in order. And that the people might regard these laws and customs with the more reverence, he gave out that he had not devised them of his own wit, but that he had learnt them from a certain goddess whose name was Egeria, whom he was wont to meet in a grove that was hard by the city.

King Numa died, having reigned forty and three years; and the people chose in his room one Tullus Hostilius.




Chapter II. The Story Of Alba.

King Tullus Hostilius, being newly come to the throne, looked about for an occasion of war; for the Romans had now for a long time been at peace. Now it chanced that in those days the men of Rome and the men of Alba had a quarrel, the one against the other, the country folk being wont to cross the border and to plunder their neighbours; and that ambassadors were sent from either city to seek restitution of such things as had been carried off. King Tullus said to his ambassador, "Delay not to do your business so soon as ye shall be come to Alba;" knowing that the men of Alba would certainly refuse to deliver up the things, and thinking that he could thus with a good conscience proclaim war against them. As for the ambassadors of Alba, when they were come to Rome, they made no haste about their business, but ate and drank, the King entertaining them with much courtesy and kindness. While therefore they feasted with him, there came back the ambassadors of Rome telling the King how they had made demand for the things carried off, and when the men of Alba had refused to deliver them, had declared war within the space of thirty days. Which when the King heard, he called to him the ambassadors of Alba, and said to them, "Wherefore are ye come to Rome? Set forth now your mission." Then the men, not knowing what had befallen, began to make excuse, saying, "We would not willingly say aught that should displease the King, but we are constrained by them that have sent us thither. We are come to ask for the things that your country folk have carried off. And, if ye will not deliver them up, we are bidden to declare war against you." To this Tullus made answer, "Now do I call the Gods to witness that ye men of Alba first refused to repair the thing that has been done amiss, and I pray them that they will bring all the blood of this war upon your heads." And with this message the men of Alba went home.

After this the two cities made great preparations for war. And because the men of Troy had built Lavinium, from which some going forth had set up the city of Alba, and from the royal house of Alba had come the founder of Rome, it was as though the children would fight against their fathers. Yet it came not to this, the matter being finished without a battle. The men of Alba first marched into the land of the Romans, having with them a very great army, and pitched their camp five miles from the city, digging about it a deep ditch. But while they lay in this camp their King Cluilius died, and a certain Mettus was made dictator in his room. Which when King Tullus heard, he became very bold, saying that the gods had smitten Cluilius for his wrong-doing, and would smite also the whole people of Alba. Whereupon he marched into the land of the Albans, leaving the enemy's camp to one side. And when these also had come forth against him, and the two armies were now drawn up in battle array, the one against the other, there came a messenger to King Tullus, saying that Mettus of Alba desired to have speech with him, having that to say to him which concerned the Romans not less than the men of Alba. Nor did King Tullus refuse to hear him, though indeed battle had pleased him better than speech. So when the King and certain nobles with him had gone forth into the open space that was between the two armies, and Mettus also with his companions had come to the same place, this last spake, saying, "I have heard King Cluilius that is dead affirm that your wrong-doing, ye men of Rome, in that ye would not deliver up the things that had been carried off, was the cause of this war; nor do I doubt but that thou, King Tullus, hast the same quarrel against us. Yet if we would speak that which is true rather than that which has a fair show, we should, I doubt not, confess that we, though we be both kinsmen and neighbours, are driven into this war by the lust of power. Now I say not whether this be just or no. Let others look to this; for I am not King of Alba, but captain of the host only. Yet there is a matter which I would fain call to thy mind, King. Thou knowest the Etruscans, how mighty they are both by land and sea; for indeed they are nearer by far to thee at Rome than to us at Alba. Bethink thee, therefore, how, when thou shalt give the signal of battle between thy army and our army, the same Etruscans will look on, rejoicing to see us fight together; and how, when the battle is ended, they will fall upon us, having us at disadvantage; for of a truth, whether ye or we prevail, we shall have but little strength remaining to us. If therefore we be not content with the freedom that we have, but must needs set on the chance of a die whether we shall be masters or servants, let us devise some way by which the one may win dominion over the other without great loss and shedding of blood." Now King Tullus was a great warrior, and would willingly have fought, being confident that he and his people would prevail; nevertheless the thing that Mettus of Alba had said pleased him. And when they came to consider the matter, there seemed by good fortune to be a way ready to their hands. There were in the army of Alba three brothers that had been born at one birth, whose name was Curiatius. And in the army of the Romans there were other three, and these born likewise at one birth, whose name was Horatius. Nor was there much difference in respect either of age or of strength between the brothers of Alba and the brothers of Rome. Then King Tullus and Mettus of Alba called for the brothers, and enquired of them whether they were willing to fight, each three for their own country, agreement being first made that that people should bear rule for ever whose champions should prevail in the battle. And as the young men were willing, a place was appointed for the battle and a time also. But first there was made a treaty in this fashion, for the fashion of making treaties is the same always, though their conditions be different. The herald said, "Wilt thou, King Tullus, that I make a treaty with the minister of the people of Alba?" And when the King answered "Yea," the herald said, "I will that thou give me the sacred herbs." Then the King made reply, "Take them, and see that they be clean." So the herald took them clean from the hill of the citadel. Having done this, he said to the King, "Dost thou appoint me to do the pleasure of the people of Rome, me and my implements and my attendants with me?" And the King answered, "So that it be without damage to the people of Rome." Then the herald appointed one Spurius to be minister that he should take the oath, and touched his hair with the sacred herbs. And when Spurius had taken the oath, and the conditions of the treaty had been read aloud, he spake, saying, "Hear thou, Jupiter, and thou also, minister of the people of Alba, and ye men of Alba; as these conditions have been duly read aloud this day from the beginning even to the end from these tables, and after the interpretation by which they may be the most easily understood, even so shall the Roman people abide by them. And if this people, acting by common consent, shall falsely depart from them, then do thou, O Jupiter, smite the Roman people, even as I shall smite this swine to-day. And smite them by so much the more strongly as thou art stronger than I." And when he had said this he smote the swine with a knife of stone. The men of Alba also took the oath, and confirmed it after their own fashion. These things having been thus ordered, the champions made them ready for battle. And first their fellows exhorted them severally in many words, saying that the gods of their country, their countrymen also and kinsfolk, whether they tarried at home or stood in the field, regarded their arms that day; and afterwards they went forth into the space that lay between the two armies. And these sat and watched them before their camps, being quit indeed of the peril of battle, but full of care how the matter should end, seeing that so great things, even sovereignty and freedom, should be decided by the valour and good luck of so few men. Then, the signal of battle being given, the three met the three with such courage and fierceness as though there were a whole army on either side. And as their swords rang against each other and flashed, all men trembled to see, and could scarcely speak or breathe for fear of what should happen. And for a while, in so narrow a space did the men fight, nought could be seen but how they swayed to and fro, and how the blood ran down upon the ground. But afterwards it was plain to see that of the three Romans two were fallen dead upon the ground, and that of the three champions of Alba each man was wounded.

At this sight the Alban host shouted for joy, but the men of Rome had no more any hope but only fear, to think what should befall their one champion that had now three enemies against him. Now, by good luck, it had so fallen out that this one had received no wound, so that, though he was no match for the three together, he did not doubt but that he should prevail over them severally one by one. Wherefore, that he might so meet them, dividing them the one from the other, he made a feint to fly, thinking that they would follow him each as quickly as his wound might suffer him. And so it fell out. For when he had fled now no small space from the ground where they had fought at the first, he saw, looking behind him, that the three were following him at a great distance one from the other, and that one was very near to himself. Then he turned himself and ran fiercely upon the man; and behold even while the men of Alba cried aloud to the two that they should help their brother, he had slain him, and was now running towards the second. And when the men of Rome saw what had befallen, they set up a great shout, as men are wont when they have good luck beyond their hopes; and their champion made such haste to do his part that or ever the third of the Alban three could come up, though indeed he was close at hand, he had slain the second also. And now, seeing that there remained one only on either side, there was in some sort an equality, yet were the two not equal either in hope or in strength. For the champion of Rome had suffered no wound, and having overcome his foes now once and again was full of courage; but the champion of Alba being now spent with his wound, and wearied also with running, was as it were vanquished already. Nor indeed was there a battle between the two; for the Roman cried, "One and another of my foes have I offered to the spirits of my brothers; but this third will I offer to the cause for which we have fought this day, even that Rome may have the dominion over Alba." And when the champion of Alba could now scarce bear up his shield, he stood over and ran his sword downwards into his throat Afterwards, as the man lay dead upon the ground, he spoiled him of his arms. Then did the men of Rome receive their champion with much rejoicing, having all the more gladness because they had been in so great fear. Afterwards each host set themselves to bury their dead, whose tombs remain to this day, each in the spot where he fell, for the two Romans are buried in one sepulchre nearer to Alba, and the three champions of Alba as you go towards Rome, but with somewhat of space between them, even as they fought.

Before the armies departed to their homes, Mettus of Alba inquired of Tullus what he would have him to do according to treaty. And the King answered, "Keep the young men under arms. I shall call for them if I have war against the men of Veii."

And now the men of Rome went back to the city, and Horatius went before them, carrying the spoils of the three whom he had slain. But at the Capene gate there met him his sister, who was betrothed to one of the champions of Alba; and when the maiden saw upon his shoulders the cloak of her betrothed (and indeed she had wrought it with her own hands) she tore her hair and cried to the dead man by name with a lamentable voice. But Horatius was wroth to hear the words of mourning on the day when he had won so great a victory and the people rejoiced; and he drew his sword and slew the maiden, crying, "Depart hence to thy lover with the love that thou cherishest out of season; thou that forgettest thy brethren that are dead, and thy brother that is yet alive, and thine own people also. So perish whosoever shall make lamentations for an enemy of Rome." And when the Fathers and the Commons saw what was done, they thought it a wicked deed, but remembered what great service the man had newly rendered to Rome. Nevertheless they laid hands on him and took him to the King that he should judge him. But the King being loath to judge such a matter, or to give sentence against the man, said, "I appoint two men as the law commands, who shall judge Horatius for murder." Now the law was this: "If a man do murder, two men shall judge him; if he appeal against the two, let the appeal be tried; if their sentence be confirmed, ye shall cover his head and scourge him within the walls or without the walls, and hang him by a rope upon the gallows." Then there were appointed two men according to the law, who affirmed that they could not let the man go free, whether his guilt was small or great, seeing that he had manifestly done the deed. Therefore said one of them, "Publius Horatius, we adjudge thee to be guilty of murder. Go, lictor, bind his hands." But when the lictor came and was now ready to cast the rope about him, Horatius cried, "I appeal to the people;" for the King himself, being mercifully disposed to him, bade him do so. Then was there a trial before the people, in which that which most wrought upon the hearts of men was that the father of Horatius constantly affirmed that his daughter had been rightly slain. "Nay," said he, "verily, if the young man had not slain her, I had used against him my right as a father, and had condemned him to die."

Then again he besought them that they should not leave him desolate and bereaved of his children, he who but the day before had had so fair a stock. Afterwards, throwing his arms about the young man, he stretched out his hands to the spoils of the Curiatii, crying, "Will ye endure, men of Rome, to see him bound under the gallows and beaten with stripes whom ye beheld but yesterday adorned with these spoils and rejoicing in his victory? Not so. Surely the men of Alba themselves had not borne to see such a sight. Go, lictor, bind his hands, though but yesterday they won so great a dominion for the people of Rome. Go, cover the head of him that made this people free; hang him upon the accursed tree; scourge him, whether within the walls, so that thou do it among the spoils of them that he slew, or without the walls, so that it be near to the sepulchres of the champions of Alba. Whither can ye take this youth that the memorials of his valour shall not save him from so foul a punishment?" And when the people saw the tears of the old man, and bethought them also what great courage the youth had shown in danger, they could not endure to condemn him; but regarding his valour rather than the goodness of his cause, let him go free. Only, because the deed had been so manifest, a command was laid upon the father that he should make a trespass offering for his son at the public charge. Then the father, having made certain sacrifices of expiation -- which are performed to this day in the house of Horatius -- set up a beam across the way and covered his son's head, and led him beneath it. As for the maiden, they built her tomb of hewn stone in the place where she was slain.

Now the men of Alba were wroth to think that the fortunes of the whole people had been thus trusted to the hands of three soldiers; and Mettus, being of an unstable mind, was led away to evil in his desire to do them a pleasure. And as before he had sought for peace when others were desirous of war, so now he desired war when others were minded to be at peace. But because he knew that the men of Alba were not able of their own strength to do that which they desired, he stirred up certain others of the nations round about, that they should make war openly against Rome. As for himself and his people, he purposed that they should seem indeed to be friends and allies, but should be ready for treachery when occasion served. Thereupon the men of Fidenae, being colonists from Rome, and the men of Veii promised that they would make war, and Mettus on his part promised that he would come over to them with his army in the battle. First the men of Fidenae rebelled, and King Tullus marched against them, bidding Mettus come also with his army, and having crossed the river Anio, pitched his camp where Anio flows into Tiber. And by this time the men of Veii also had come up with their army, and these were on the right wing next to the river, and the men of Fidenae on the left, next to the mountains. The ordering of King Tullus was that he and his men should do battle with the men of Veii, and Mettus and the Albans with the men of Fidenae. Now Mettus, as he was not minded to do right, so had no courage to do wrong boldly; and because he dared not to go over to the enemy, led his men away slowly towards the mountains. Being come thither, he set out his men in battle array, being minded to join them whom he should perceive to prevail. At first the Romans marvelled that Mettus and his men should so depart from them; and after a while they sent a messenger to the King, saying, "The men of Alba have left us." Then the King knew in his heart that there was treachery, and he vowed that he would build temples to Paleness and Panic, if he should win the victory that day. Nevertheless he showed no sign of fear, but cried to the horsemen with a loud voice, that the enemy might hear, saying, "Go thou back to the battle, and bid thy comrades be of good courage. Mettus does my bidding that he may take the men of Fidenae in the rear." Also he bade the cavalry raise their spears in the air, that so the Romans might, for the most part, be hindered from seeing that the men of Alba had deserted them; and they that saw, believing what the King had said, fought with the more courage. Then there fell a great fear upon the enemy, for these also had heard the saying, which, being in the Latin tongue, was understood of the men of Fidenae. They, therefore, fearing lest Mettus and the army of Alba should come down from the mountains and shut them off from their town, began to give ground. And when the King had broken their array, he turned the more fiercely on the men of Veii. These also fled before him, but were hindered from escape by the river. And some, throwing away their arms, ran blindly into the water, and some while they lingered on the bank, and knew not whether they should fight or fly, so perished. Never before had the Romans so fierce a fight with their enemies.

After this the army of Alba came down from the mountains, and Mettus said to the King that he rejoiced that he had won so great a victory, and the King on his part spake friendly to him, and would have him join his camp with the camp of the Romans. Also he appointed a sacrifice of purification for the next day. And when it was day, all things being now ready after the custom of such sacrifices, the King commanded that both armies should be called to an assembly. And the heralds summoned the men of Alba first, so that they might be in the inner place; to which also they came of their own accord, for they sought to be near the King, greatly desiring to hear what he should say. And the King so ordered it to the end that the army of Rome might surround them on all sides. Also he gave his commands to certain captains of hundreds that they fulfil without delay whatsoever commands he should give them. After this the King spoke in this fashion, "Men of Rome, if ever before ye had occasion to give thanks for victory won, first to the immortal Gods, and secondly to your own valour, such occasion ye found in the battle of yesterday. For ye fought not only with the enemy, but with that from which there is peril greater by far, even treachery in allies. I would not have you ignorant of the truth. It was not by any ordering of mine that the men of Alba went towards the mountains. I gave no such command; yet did I feign that I had given it to this end, that ye might not know that ye were deserted, and so might fight with the better courage, and that our enemies, thinking that they should be assailed from behind, might be stricken with fear and so fly before us. Yet I say not that all the men of Alba are guilty of this matter. They followed their captain, even as ye, men of Rome, would have followed me whithersoever I might have led you. Mettus only is guilty. He contrived this departure, even as he brought about this war, and brake the covenant that was between Alba and Rome. And what he hath done others may dare hereafter, if I do not so deal with him that he shall be an ensample for all that come after." Then the captains of hundreds, having arms in their hands, laid hold upon Mettus. After this the King spake again: "May the Gods bless to the people of Rome, and to me, and to you also, men of Alba, that which I purpose to do. For my purpose is to carry away the people of Alba to Rome; the commons of Alba will I make citizens of Rome, and the nobles will I number among our Senators. So shall there be one city and one commonwealth." When the men of Alba heard these words, all had not the same mind about the matter, but all kept silence, fearing to speak, because being without arms they were compassed on every side with armed men.

Then said the King, "Mettus, if indeed thou couldst learn faith and the keeping of treaties, I had suffered thee to live that thou mightest have such teaching from me. But now, seeing that thy disease is past healing, thou shalt teach other men to hold in reverence the holy things which thou hast despised. For even as thou wast divided in heart between Rome and Fidenae, so shall thy body be divided." Then at the King's bidding, they brought two chariots, with four horses harnessed to each of them; and binding the body of Mettus to the chariots, they drave the horses divers ways so that the man was torn asunder.

In the meanwhile there had been sent horsemen to Alba who should bring the people to Rome; and now the army also was led thither that they might destroy the city utterly. Great sorrow was there in Alba that day, men knowing not for fear and grief what they should carry with them or leave behind. For a while, indeed, they wandered through their houses, knowing that they should not see them any more. But when the horsemen shouted to them that they should depart, and the crash of houses which men were now destroying began to be heard, and the dust rising up from the outskirts of the city covered all things as with a cloud, then they snatched up in haste each such things as they could, and so departed the home in which they had been born and bred. Very lamentable was their cry as they went, more especially of the women, when they saw armed men in the temples wherein they had been wont to worship, the very gods themselves being left, as it seemed, in captivity. And when the people were now gone forth from their city the Romans left not one stone upon another of all that was in the city; so that that which had been four hundred years in building (for so long had Alba endured) perished in one hour. Nevertheless they harmed not the temples, for so the King had commanded.

But because Alba was thus brought to destruction, Rome increased greatly; for the number of the citizens was increased twofold. The Coelian hill was added to the city, in which hill, that others might the more readily dwell there, the King himself commanded that they should build him a palace. Also the chief houses of Alba, as the house of Julius and of Servilius, were chosen into the Senate; and that there might be a place of meeting for the Senate being thus multiplied, the King built a temple and called it Hostilia, after his own name. Also ten squadrons of horsemen were chosen out of the men of Alba. But after certain days, when the Romans had now conquered the Sabines, and had made treaties of peace with the Etrurians, and were in great peace and prosperity, they and their King, there was brought tidings to Rome that there had fallen a shower of stones on Mount Alba. Which when men could scarce believe, they sent messengers to learn if these things were true, who having come to Alba, found the stones lying on the ground, even as it had been hail. Also there was heard a voice from the grove that was on the top of the hill, saying, "Let the men of Alba do worship after the manner of their fathers;" for they having left their country, had left also their gods, and did worship after the manner of the Romans, or for wrath at that which had befallen them, as is wont to be with men in such case, had ceased from worship altogether. The Romans also, by reason of this same voice that was heard on Mount Alba, or by warning of the soothsayers, kept a festival of nine days. And this became a custom for the time to come, that when there came tidings of such marvels to Rome, there was kept a like festival. Now the end of King Tullus was this. There came a pestilence upon the land. And when for this cause the people were wearied of war, nevertheless the King, both because he delighted in war, and because he believed that the young men should have better health if they went abroad than if they tarried at home, gave them no rest But after a while he also fell into a tedious sickness, which so brake him both in body and mind that, whereas in time past he thought it unworthy of a King to busy himself with matters of religion, now he gave himself up wholly to superstition, and filled the minds of his people also with the like thoughts, so that they regarded nothing but this, how they should make atonement to the Gods, and so be rid of their present distress. As for the King himself, men say that reading the sacred book of King Numa he found therein certain sacrifices, very secret and solemn, that should be done to Jupiter by such as would bring him down from heaven, and that he shut himself up to do these sacrifices; but because he set not about them rightly or did them not in due form, there appeared to him no similitude of the immortal gods (for such he had hoped to see); but Jupiter, having great wrath at such unlawful dealings, struck him with lightning, and consumed both him and his house.




Chapter III. The Story Of The Elder Tarquin.

Demaratus was lord of Corinth in the land of Greece. This Demaratus had a son who, having been driven from Corinth by strife among the citizens, came to Tarquinii that is in the land of Etruria, and dwelt there. And having married a wife, he had two sons born to him, Lucumo and Aruns. (It was the custom of the princes of the Etrurians to call the eldest son Lucumo and the younger Aruns.) This Lucumo, being very wealthy (for his father had left to him all his riches, his brother Aruns having died), took to wife a certain Tanaquil that was a noble lady in those parts. Now Tanaquil could not endure that any should be preferred before him, wherefore when the people of Tarquinii despised Lucumo, because he was the son of a stranger, Tanaquil could not endure it, and caring not for her country, if only she could see her husband held in honour, purposed to depart thence and dwell elsewhere. And of all places Rome seemed to her the best, being a new country wherein men were honoured for their deservings rather than for their birth, and he that should show himself brave and diligent would find occasion to win renown. So Numa, coming from Cures that is in the land of the Sabines, had been called to the kingdom. King Ancus also was born of a mother that was a Sabine, nor was noble at all save for his kinship to Numa. With these words she easily persuaded her husband, so that, gathering together all his possessions, he departed from Tarquinii to Rome. And when he came near to the city, at the hill that is called Janiculum, there happened to him this marvel. As he sat in the chariot with his wife, an eagle, having its wings stretched out, descended slowly upon him from the sky, and carried off the hat that was upon his head. Then for a while it flew over the chariot, making a great crying, and afterwards, as it had been inspired to do this office, set it back upon his head, and so vanished into the air. Now all the women of the Etrurians have great knowledge of augury (for so they call the signs and tokens of birds), and Tanaquil was of good courage when she saw what the eagle had done, and she embraced her husband, and bade him hope for great honours in Rome; for the bird, she said, had come from the sky, and the sign that it showed concerned the crown of a man, for it had taken from his head the glory that man's hand set upon it, that it might give it back to him from the gods. So Lucumo and Tanaquil his wife came to Rome, hoping to do great things; and the man dwelt there, giving out that his name was Tarquinius. And because he was a new comer and wealthy, men took the more note of him; also he would speak courteously to all men, and use much hospitality, and do such service as he could to them that had need of it And after a while King Ancus heard of him, and made acquaintance with him, which acquaintance grew into friendship, till at the last, having found him faithful and ready in all that was put into his charge, whether at home or abroad, he appointed him to be guardian to his children.

After this King Ancus died, having reigned twenty and four years, and left two sons, not yet old enough to reign, yet nearly grown to manhood. And some would have delayed the choosing of a king till these should be come to full age, but Tarquinius counselled that he should be chosen forthwith. And when the day for this choosing was appointed, having sent out the lads to hunt, he spake to the people after this manner. "This is no new thing that I seek the kingdom at your hands; for Tatius the Sabine became your king, having been before not a stranger only but also an enemy; and Numa also was called to this dignity, though he sought not for it. As for me, I came hither so soon as I was master of myself; and of the years of my manhood, I have lived in Rome more than in my own country; nor have I been ill taught the ways of a King, ministering to Ancus both at home and abroad."

With these words he persuaded the people that they chose him to be king. Being so chosen he did many things that pleased the people; for having waged war with the Latins, and taken one of their cities and with it much booty, he built the great circus, and fetched horses and boxers from the land of Etruria to make sport. This became a custom year by year; and they called these games the Great Games of Rome.

Afterwards he would have compassed the city with a wall of stone; but while he was busy with the building of it the Sabines came upon him. And this they did with such speed that they had crossed the Anio before ever the Romans were ready to meet them; and when they fought many were slain on both sides, but neither had the victory. Now when the King, the enemy having returned to their camp, had space to consider how he might best make his army the stronger, it seemed that it would profit him most if he should increase the number of his horsemen, of whom there were three companies only. But when he was minded to add others to them, and to call them after his own name, one Attus Navius, that was a famous soothsayer in those days, withstood him. "For," said he, "King Romulus made these companies in due form, and thou mayest not add to their number, unless the gods permit, signifying their will by the voices of birds." But the King was wroth to hear these words, and mocked the soothsayers art, saying, "Come now, thou wise man, divine unto me, can that which I think in my heart be done, or no?" Attus answered, having first made trial of his art, "Of a surety it can be done." Then said the King, "I thought this thing in my heart, that thou shouldest cut asunder this whetstone with a razor. Take it, therefore, and cut it asunder; for thy birds will have it that thou canst." And straightway Attus took the whetstone and cut it asunder. So they made a statue of him, standing with his head covered, in the place where the thing was done; even in the place of assembly, on the right hand of the steps by which a man goes up to the senate-house. And by his side they laid the stone to be a memorial of this miracle to them that should come after. Certainly there came such honour to the soothsayers that nothing thereafter was done at home or abroad except they first allowed it; and if an assembly of the people was called or the army gathered together, it must be dispersed again unless the birds should signify that it was according to the pleasure of the gods. King Tarquin, therefore, changed not the number or the name of the companies. Only he added to each as many more horsemen as it had at the first.

After this there was yet another battle with the Sabines; and these fled before the Romans, the horsemen especially doing good service against them. And the King sent them that were taken captive and the booty to Rome; but the arms of those that were slain he made into a great heap, and burned them with fire, for he had vowed thus to Vulcan, that is the god of fire. And the King took Collatia, that is a town of the Sabines, from them, and afterwards he subdued the whole nation of the Latins that it became obedient to Rome.

They tell this story also of King Tarquin. There came to him one day a woman bearing twelve books, which she said were books of prophecies, wherein were written all things that should come to pass thereafter concerning the city of Rome. These books she would have sold to him. But because he knew not who she was, nor what she brought, and also because the price of the books seemed great out of measure, he would have none of them. Then the woman departed, and having burned three of the books with fire, brought back the nine that remained, and would sell them. And the price that she had demanded for the twelve, this she asked without abatement for the nine. And when the King would not buy, she departed and burned three more; and so returning would sell the six; but the price was that which she demanded for the twelve. Then the King, being greatly astonished, asked counsel of the priests and the soothsayers, and so bought the books. These were kept with great care and honour at Rome; and when in time to come there arose great need or peril in the city, then there were appointed men of repute who should open the books and learn what had best be done.

In those days there happened, in the palace of the King, a great marvel. There was a certain slave boy whose name was Servius Tullius. The head of this boy, as he slept, was seen to burn with fire; and when the King and the Queen had been called to see this strange thing, and certain of the servants would have fetched water wherewith to quench the fire, Queen Tanaquil would not suffer them, but commanded that they should leave the child as he lay. And when he woke from his sleep, lo! the flame departed. Then said Queen Tanaquil to her husband, "Seest thou this boy whom we rear in this humble fashion? Know that he will be in time to come a light in our darkness, and a succour to our house in its great trouble. Let us, therefore, use all favour and kindness to him." Thereafter they dealt with the lad as though he were free-born and not a slave, and gave him such teaching as befits them that are born to high place. The lad also, on his part, showed such parts and temper as befitted the house of a king; and when Tarquin would choose a husband for his daughter there was not found one fitter for such honour than Servius. So the King betrothed to him his daughter. Yet is it scarce to be believed that he would have done this thing if Servius had been indeed born of a bond-woman. Some say, therefore, and the story seems worthy of belief, that he was the son of a great lady of Corniculum, which was a town of the Latins; that this town being taken by King Tarquin, Servius Tullius, that was its chief ruler, was slain, whose wife, being with child, was carried to Rome; and that because she was of noble birth she was not sold into slavery with the other women but taken into the King's palace, and there bare this child, of whom, because his mother had been taken captive in war, men said that he was the son of a slave.

Now the sons of Ancus, since they had been grown to manhood, had taken it ill that Tarquin had been preferred before them to the throne of their father, and now they were the more angry, seeing how he had chosen another than them to be king after him. "See, now," they said, "this fellow that is not a Roman, nay, nor an Italian, but a stranger from Greece, how being made tutor to us by the King our father, he filched the throne from us by craft, and now handeth it over to one that is the son of a bond-woman. Surely this is a shameful thing for this city and people. For the kingdom of Romulus, that is now a god in heaven, will pass within the space of a hundred years to one that is a slave."

And first they would avenge themselves on King Tarquin. This they did after this fashion. They chose them two shepherds, the fiercest of their company, and caused them to come, carrying crooks of iron, after their custom, within the King's palace; who, so soon as they were come within the porch, made as if they had a grievous quarrel the one against the other, and cried out that the King should be the judge between them; for in those days kings were wont to perform the office of a judge. So they that kept order in the palace brought them before the King. At the first they made both of them a great uproar, crying out against each other; but afterwards, when the beadle bade them be quiet if they would be heard of the King, bare themselves in more orderly fashion. Then the first began to tell his story; but when the King turned to him, and was wholly given up to hearing what the man might say, the other dealt him a great blow upon the head with the iron which he carried. And when he had done this he left the iron where it was, and hasted, he and his companion with him, to escape by the door. Then some of the ministers of the court caught the King as he fell ready to die upon the ground, and others laid hold on the murderers and hindered them from escaping. At the same time much people ran together to the place, wondering what new thing had happened. But Queen Tanaquil gave command that they should shut the doors of the palace, and would have none remain within but her own folk. And first she prepared with all diligence such things as might be serviceable in the dressing of the wound, making as if there were some hope that the King might yet live; and next she devised how, this hope failing her, things might nevertheless be ordered according to her wish. Sending, therefore, for Servius in all haste, she pointed to the King, as he lay now ready to die, and spake, saying, "Servius, my son, this kingdom is thine if thou wilt only show thyself a man. Neither shall it go to them who have done this wicked deed, albeit not by their own hands. Rouse thyself, therefore, and follow the leading of the Gods, who, in days past, showed that thy head should bear great honour by the fire from heaven which they caused to shine round about it. Let that fire stir thee this day. Nor do thou take account of thy birth. For we also were strangers to this city and yet have borne rule therein. Bethink thee, therefore, what manner of man thou art, rather than of whom thou wast born. And if perchance thine own counsels are troubled at so grievous a chance, be thou obedient unto mine."

After this, as the people without the palace cried aloud and would have thrust in the doors, the Queen went to an upper chamber and spake to the multitude through a window that looked upon the New Street (for the palace of the King stood hard by the temple of Jupiter the Stayer). "Be of good courage and hope," she said; "the King was stunned by the suddenness of the blow, but the iron entered not deep into the flesh, and he came speedily to himself. Now we have washed off the blood and looked into the wound. All is well. Be of good cheer, therefore, and believe that before many days be past ye shall see the King. Meanwhile, render due obedience to Servius, who will do justice between man and man in the room of the King and order all else that shall be needed." So Servius came forth to the people, wearing the royal robe, with the men that bare the axes after him; and sitting down on the throne of the King, heard the causes of them that sought for justice, giving judgment in some things, and in others making mention that he would consult King Tarquin. This he did for many days, none knowing that the King was dead, and established himself in power, while he made as if he were administering the power of another. And when Queen Tanaquil thought that the due time was come, she gave out that King Tarquin was dead, and commanded that mourning should be made for him according to custom. And Servius, coming forth with his guards about him, was proclaimed King; only at the first the Senate alone, and not the people, consented. As for the sons of An eus, when they heard that the murderers had been taken, and that the King was yet alive, and that Servius also was so well established in his power, they fled to the town of Suessa Pometia.




Chapter IV. The Story Of Servius.

And now Servius thought to establish himself in his kingdom. And first of all, lest the sons of King Tarquin should so regard him as the son of Ancus had regarded King Tarquin, he gave his daughters in marriage to the two young men (for King Tarquin had left two sons, Lucius and Aruns by name). Nor yet did the counsels of man avail to change the decree of fate, that there should rise up against the King foes from out of his own household, as, indeed, will be shown hereafter. Yet for a while all things went peaceably. First the King got himself great renown in a war with the men of Veii, with whom the truce had expired by lapse of time. These he put to flight with great slaughter, and so returning to Rome was manifestly acknowledged not by the Senators only, but was also by the people.

And now he set about the work of ordering the state, dividing the citizens according to their birth and to that which they possessed. First of all he put the Senators, and after them such as served in the wars on horseback, and these he called knights. And the rest of the people he divided into classes according to the armour with which they were able to furnish themselves for war. The first class were they that had one hundred thousand pounds of brass or more; and these had for armour a helmet, a long shield, a cuirass, and greaves upon their legs, of brass all of them, and for warfare a spear and a sword. In this class there were eighty companies of a hundred, forty of the elders that should defend the city, and of the younger that should go and fight abroad forty also. The next class to these had a short shield for a long, and lacked the cuirass; and after these another that had the same arms, only wanting the greaves. The fourth class had nothing of armour, and for weapons a spear and a javelin; and the fifth slings and stones. These last were such as had eleven thousand pounds of brass; as for such as had less they were free from service in war. When this ordering was finished, he commanded that the people should assemble themselves on the field of Mars; and when their number was counted, it was found that they were eighty thousand in all. King Servius also was minded to enlarge his kingdom by including within it the nations round about, seeking to do this not by arms so much as by counsel. And first he joined the Latins to the Romans, contriving the matter in this fashion. There was in those days a famous temple of Diana at Ephesus which the cities of Asia had joined together in building. Now King Servius would often speak of this thing to the Princes of Latium, to whom, indeed, he was careful to use much hospitality, declaring how noble and excellent a thing it was that they who dwelt in the same land should have their gods also and worship in common. And when he had ofttimes used much argument to this purpose, at the last he persuaded them that the cities of Latium should join together with men of Rome and build a temple to Diana, and that this temple should be at Rome, whereby it was confessed that Rome was the chief city.

As for the Sabines this same end was brought about in a different fashion. There was a certain householder of this nation that had born upon his farm a heifer of marvellous greatness and beauty. How great it was might be seen from the horns of the beast which hung in the front of Diana's temple for many generations. Now the birth of this great creature was counted for a portent; and the prophets prophesied that the rule should belong to that nation whose citizens should offer it in sacrifice to Diana; and this prophecy came to the ears of Diana's priest. The Sabine therefore, so soon as a fitting day for sacrifice was come, brought the great heifer to the temple at Rome and set it before the altar. And when the priest saw it he perceived from its greatness that it was the beast of which the prophets had spoken. Therefore knowing what they had said he spake to the man, saying, "Friend, what is this that thou art minded to do? Wilt thou do sacrifice to Diana profanely, not having first cleansed thyself? See now where the Tiber flows in the valley beneath. Do thou therefore bathe thyself therein and so offer thy sacrifice." And when the man, being very scrupulous to do all things in order that the thing might have its due fulfilment, went down to this river, the priest took the heifer and offered it up to the goddess. This thing was marvellously pleasing to King Servius and to all the people.

The King, having now enlarged his borders, divided the land which had been taken from the enemy man by man among the people; and feared not, having gained their hearts by this bounty, to ask them, being gathered together in assembly, "Is it your pleasure that I should reign over you?" To which question there was given such assent as no king before him had received. Nevertheless the son of King Tarquin ceased not to cherish in his heart the hope of the kingdom; to which hope, indeed, he was the more stirred up by Tullia his wife. For now there sprang up in the palace of the kings of Rome a monstrous growth of wickedness, to the end, it may well be believed, that the people might, for hatred of kingship and its way, come the earlier to love liberty.

Now King Tarquin had two sons, this Lucius, of whom mention has been made, a haughty and violent man, and another, Aruns by name, that was of a quiet and gentle temper. And as they differed the one from the other, so also did their wives, the daughters of King Servius; and it so fell out that she that had the fiercer temper of the two, a certain Tullia, was married to Aruns, and she that was gentle to Lucius. Now it vexed Tullia to the heart that her husband was of so peaceable a spirit, so that in the end she despised him, and looked to his brother as being the more worthy to be her husband. And the end of the matter was this, that Lucius and Tullia plotted together this great wickedness, that he should rid himself of his wife and she should rid herself of her husband. And this they did; and then the two being thus in evil fashion made one, Lucius took Tullia to wife, the King not hindering the thing, though indeed he approved it not. And now did this wicked woman increase day by day her rage and fury against the King her father. For having done one evil deed she began to compass others; nor would she suffer her husband to rest, stirring him up to all wickedness, and speaking to him in such fashion as this: "Truly I had a husband that pleased me well had I been content to serve together with him. But the husband that I looked for was one that should think himself worthy to be a king, that should remember that he was a son of King Tarquin, that should choose rather to have the crown in possession than to hope for it hereafter. Such an one I thought to find in thee; and if I thought right, then truly I call thee true husband and King, but if not, then I count myself to have suffered loss, seeing that thou art not a coward only, but also bloodguilty. Be up and doing, therefore. Thou hast not, as had thy father, to pome from Corinth, or even from Tarquinii, to win for himself a kingdom among strangers. All things that are about thee mark thee out for kingship, to which, if thou judge thyself unequal, then depart from this place where thou seemest to be that which thou art not."

With such words did Tullia daily stir up her husband; thinking shame to herself, if so be Tanaquil, who was a foreigner, had been able to make two kings, first her husband and then her son-in-law, she, being the daughter of a king, could not accomplish as much. Then did Lucius begin to seek favour among the nobles, especially such as were of the lesser houses, and so ambitious of higher place in the State. Some he would remind of kindnesses that his father had done them in past time, and would ask for a like return; and to some he would promise gifts; and all he sought to turn against the King. And at the last, when it now seemed time to make his venture, he burst into the market-place, having with him a company of armed men; and all that stood near being so stricken with dismay that they hindered him not, commanded the herald that he should call the Senators to meet King Tarquin. Nor did the Senators, being thus summoned, refuse to come, for some had been won over to the young man beforehand, and others feared that they should suffer harm if they came not, for the matter was altogether beyond their expectation; also they thought that King Servius had already perished. And when they were were assembled, Tarquin sat down upon the throne and spake in some such fashion as this: "The slave that was the son of a slave-woman seized the kingdom when the King my father had been shamefully slain. Neither was there any assembly held for election; nor did the people give their votes for him, nor did the Senate confirm the matter. By none of these things doth he possess this great dignity, but by the bounty of a woman. And now he, being such an one as he is, favours the lowest of the people, to whom he divideth this land, which is of right the possession of the nobles; in like manner the burdens which at one time were borne in common by all, he putteth upon you; and this ordering of the citizens that he hath lately established, for what purpose is it but that he may know who hath aught, that he may make distribution to the needy?"

While he thus spake there came in King Servius, having been fetched by a messenger in hot haste, and cried with a loud voice from the porch of the senate-house, "What doest thou here, Tarquin? How darest thou, while I am yet alive, to call the Senators together and to sit upon my throne?"

To this Tarquin made answer, "This throne is the throne of the King my father, of which I, being the son of a king, am worthier than thou that art the son of a slave. Surely now thou hast long enough triumphed over them that are by right thy masters."

After this there was a great shouting and tumult, some favouring Servius and some Tarquin; and the people ran together into the senate-house; and it was manifest that he that should prevail in that conflict would possess the kingdom. Then Tarquin, thinking that having ventured so much he must dare all things, laid hands on King Servius and cast him down the steps of the senate-house into the market-place. Then they that accompanied the King, that, is to say his ministers and guards, were stricken with fear and fled, and Servius himself, seeking to return to the palace, and having now reached the end of the street of Cyprus, was overtaken by them that Tarquin had sent to pursue him, and there slain. And men say that this was done at the bidding of Tullia; and indeed it agrees with the other wickedness of this woman. That she rode in her carriage into the market-place, and, fearing not to come into the assembly of men, called forth her husband from the senate-house, and before all others saluted him as King -- all this is known for certain. And when he bade her depart to her home, and she had come to the top of the street of Cyprus, and would turn aside to the Esquiline Hill, he that drave the horses drew back the rein and tarried, showing to his mistress the body of Servius where it lay in the street Then did she a wicked deed, whereof there remains a memorial to this day, in that men call the street the Wicked Street, for she drave her carriage over the body of her father, and so went on to her house, having the blood of her father upon her wheels, aye, and upon her own garments. And as the reign of King Tarquin began with blood, even so also did it end.




Chapter V. The Story Of Brutus.

Lucius Tarquin, having thus seized the kingdom (for he had not the consent either of the Senators or of the Commons to his deed), bare himself very haughtily, so that men called him Tarquin the Proud. First, lest some other, taking example by him, should deal with him as he had dealt with Tullius, he had about him a company of armed men for guards. And because he knew that none loved him, he would have them fear him. To this end he caused men to be accused before him. And when they were so accused, he judged them by himself, none sitting with him to see that right was done. Some he slew unjustly, and some he banished, and some he spoiled of their goods. And when the number of the Senators was greatly diminished by these means (for he laid his plots mostly against the Senators, as being rich men and the chief of the State), he would not choose any into their place, thinking that the people would lightly esteem them if there were but a few of them. Nor did he call them together to ask their counsel, but ruled according to his own pleasure, making peace and war, and binding treaties or unbinding, with none to gainsay him.

Nevertheless, for a while he increased greatly in power and glory. He made alliance with Octavius Mamilius, prince of Tusculum, giving him his daughter in marriage; nor was there any man greater than Mamilius in all the cities of the Latins; and Suessa Pometia, that was a city of the Volsci, he took by force, and finding that the spoil was very rich (for there were in it forty talents of gold and silver), he built with the money a temple to Jupiter on the Capitol, very great and splendid, and worthy not only of his present kingdom but also of that great Empire that should be thereafter. Also he took the city of Gabii by fraud, as shall now be told.

The manner of his fraud was this. He made as if he had changed his purpose about the city, leading away his army from before it, and busying himself with laying the foundations of the Temple of Jupiter and other like things. But while he did this, Sextus, that was the youngest of his three sons, fled to Gabii, as if he were a deserter from the army of his father, and complained grievously to the men of the city of the cruelty which the King had used towards him. "Surely now," he said, "my father has turned away his fury from others upon them that are of his own household; and that same solitude which he has made in the Senate he would have also in his own home, being so jealous of his kingdom that he will not have any near him that shall inherit it. As for myself I barely escaped with my life from them that would have slain me by his command; nor do I count myself safe except among such as are enemies to the King. As for you, think not that he has given up his purpose concerning you. He only waits an occasion when he may take you unawares." The men of Gabii, when they heard these words, received the young man kindly and bade him be of good cheer, for that they would defend him from his father. They said also that they counted themselves fortunate to gain such help, knowing him to be brave and skilful in war, and that doubtless, with his aid, they should soon carry the war from their own city even to the walls of Rome. After this, when the young man had gone, not once only but many times, with the young men of Gabii, making war against the Romans and plundering their country, and had always fared well, putting the enemy to flight and' bringing back much spoil (and, indeed, things were so ordered by the King that it should be so), the people of Gabii were persuaded that he was dealing honestly with them, and chose him to be the captain of their host. After this, when he found that he could now do all things at his pleasure in Gabii, he sent a messenger to the King his father, desiring to know what he would have him do. To this messenger the King, doubting whether the man was faithful, gave no answer by word of mouth, but rose up from his place and walked in the garden that was by the palace, having the look of one that took deep counsel with himself. And as he walked he smote off the heads of the tallest poppies that were in the garden with a staff that he had in his hand, but spake never a word. At the last, the messenger being wearied out with the asking of a question to no purpose, departed, thinking that he had now fulfilled his errand. And when he came to Gabii he told to Sextus what he had seen; "only," he said, "the King your father, whether for anger or for haughtiness, spake not one word." But Sextus knew right well what his father would have him do. For he set himself to overthrow the chief men of the city. Some he accused to the people; and against some he took occasion of offence given to the Commons. Some were put to death publicly, and others, to whose charge nothing could be laid, were slain by secret violence. Others again were suffered to go of their own accord into banishment; and the goods of all, whether they were slain or banished, were divided amongst the Commons; nor did these, being blinded by the desire of gain, perceive what damage the State suffered, till Gabii, having lost all its rulers and counsellors, fell into the hands of the Romans without so much as a battle. By such means did King Tarquin increase his power.

Now there was at Rome in the days of Tarquin a noble youth, by name Lucius Junius, who was akin to the house of Tarquin, seeing that his mother was sister to the King. This man, seeing how the King sought to destroy all the chief men in the State (and, indeed, the brother of Lucius had been so slain), judged it well so to bear himself that there should be nothing in him which the King should either covet or desire. a prey; for which reason men gave him the name of Brutus, or the Foolish. Then he bided his time, waiting till the occasion should come when he might win freedom for the people.

Now it chanced that King Tarquin, being disturbed by the marvel of a great snake, which had been seen of a sudden to glide from the altar in his house, sent messengers to Delphi to inquire of the god what this thing might mean. And because he cared not that any strangers should hear the answer of the oracle, he sent his own sons, Titus and Aruns, and with them, to bear them company, or rather as one of whom they might make sport, this same Lucius Brutus. And when the young men offered gifts to the god, Brutus offered gold hidden away in a stick that had been hollowed to receive it; meaning thereby a parable of himself, as of a light hidden beneath that which seemed dull and of little worth. Now when the sons of the King had fulfilled the commands of their father, there came upon them a desire to enquire of the god which of them should be king in time to come. Whereupon there came forth from the depths of the cave this voice: "Know, O young men, that he of you who shall first give a kiss to his mother, shall bear the chief rule hereafter at Rome." When the sons of the King heard these words they would have their brother Sextus, who had been left behind at Rome, know nothing of the matter, lest he also should have a hope of the kingdom, Wherefore they agreed among themselves that the matter should be kept secret, and that they should leave to the casting of lots which of the two should first give a kiss to his mother. But Brutus judged that the answer of the god had another signification than this. Therefore, so soon as they were come out of the temple, he made as if he stumbled, and falling on his face, he kissed the earth, holding that the earth was his mother, being indeed the common mother of us all.

Not many days after these things there came to Brutus an occasion of showing what manner of man he was. Sextus, the King's son, did so grievous a wrong to Lucretia, that was the wife of Collatinus, that the woman could not endure to live, but slew herself with her own hand. But before she died she called to her her husband and her father and Brutus, and bade them avenge her upon the evil house of Tarquin. And when her father and her' husband sat silent for grief and fear, Brutus drew the knife wherewith she slew herself from the wound, and held it before him dripping with blood, and cried aloud, "By this blood I swear, calling the Gods to witness, that I will pursue with fire and sword and with all other means of destruction Tarquin the Proud, with his accursed wife and all his race; and that I will suffer no man hereafter to be king in this city of Rome." And when he had ended he bade the others swear after the same form of words. This they did and, forgetting their grief, thought only how they might best avenge this great wrong that had been done.

First they carried the body of Lucretia, all covered with blood, into the market-place of Collatia (for these things happened at Collatia), and roused all the people that saw a thing so shameful and pitiful, till all that were of an age for war assembled themselves carrying arms. Some of them stayed behind to keep the gates of Collatia, that no one should carry tidings of the matter to the King, and the rest Brutus took with him with all the speed that he might to Rome. There also was stirred up a like commotion, Brutus calling the people together and telling them what a shameful wrong the young Tarquin had done. Also he spake to them of the labours with which the King wore them out in the building of temples and palaces and the like, so that they who had been in time past the conquerors of all the nations round about were now come to be but as hewers of wood and drawers of water. Also he set before them in what shameful sort King Tullius had been slain, and how his daughter had driven her chariot over the dead body of her father. With suchlike words he stirred up the people to great wrath, so that they passed a decree that there should be no more kings in Rome, and that Lucius Tarquin with his wife and his children should be banished. After this Brutus made haste to the camp and stirred up the army against the King. And in the meanwhile Queen Tullia fled from her palace, all that saw her cursing her as she went As for King Tarquin, when he came to the city he found the gates shut against him; thereupon he returned and dwelt at Caere that is in the land of Etruria, and two of his sons with him; but Sextus going to Gabii, as to a city which he had made his own, was slain by the inhabitants.

The King and his house being thus driven out, Brutus was made consul with one Collatinus for his colleague. First he bound the people by an oath that they would never thereafter suffer any man to be king at Rome; and afterwards, because Collatinus was of the name and lineage of Tarquin, he wrought with them that he also should be banished from the city. "These Tarquins," he said, "are overmuch accustomed to kingship. For Tarquin the elder reigned in Rome, and though after him another, even Servius, was king, yet did not his son forget the kingdom of his father, but took it for his own. And now this Collatinus Tarquin bears rule in the city, whose very name, seeing that they of his house know not how to be subject unto others, has in it great danger to liberty." When he had wrought on the minds of the people with these words, he called the people to an assembly, and spake to them thus: "Ye have sworn that ye will suffer no man to be king at Rome, nor endure aught which may bring liberty into peril. Now this that I am about to say, I say against my will, speaking against a man that is dear to me, nor indeed had I said it but that my love for my country prevailed over all other things. The Roman people are not assured in their heart that they have won liberty in very deed and truth, knowing that they who are of the house and lineage of the King not only dwell in this State, but even bear rule in it. Do thou, therefore, Collatinus, remove this fear from the heart of thy countrymen. We deny not that thou didst drive away the kings. Complete therefore this thy good deed, even by taking away from this city a name which is the name of kings. All that thou hast we will duly render thee; nay more, if thou lackest anything, we will supply it bountifully. Depart therefore as a friend might depart; for though this fear be idle, yet it troubles thy countrymen who think that they shall not be quit of kingship till they be quit of all that bear a king's name." To these words Collatinus at the first could answer nothing, so astonished was he at the matter; and afterwards, when he would have spoken, the chief men of the State came round, entreating that he would hearken to Brutus. So when he had considered the thing for a space, he consented, fearing lest, when he should be no longer Consul, the same might happen to him, together also with loss of his goods and much wrong to himself. Wherefore he abdicated his office and departed with all that he had to Lanuvium. After this Brutus caused that the people passed a law that all of the house of Tarquin should be banished for ever.

That the King would seek to come back by force of arms none doubted. But while he delayed, as indeed he did delay beyond the expectation of all, liberty was well nigh lost by treachery and treason. There were among the youth of Rome certain young nobles that had been wont to live as companions with the King's son with much license and luxury, after the fashion of courts. These men, now that all citizens had equal rights, loudly complained among themselves that other men's freedom had turned to their own bondage. "It pleaseth us well," said they, "to have a king, for he is a man even as we are, from whom we may ask and obtain what we will, be it right or wrong, who can have a favour and do kindness, can be angry or have compassion, whereas laws are deaf and not to be turned by prayers, being better forsooth for the poor than for the rich."

While they thought these things in their hearts there chanced to come ambassadors from King Tarquin. These made no mention of the matter whether the King should return, but asked only that his goods should be restored to him. To these the Senate gave audience; and when they had heard them were not a few days in debating the matter, for they said, "If we give not back these goods, there is open cause for war; and if we give them back, we minister means by which war may be carried on." In the meanwhile the ambassadors, making pretence to concern themselves only about the goods of the King, plotted in secret how they might bring him back. Going about therefore among the young nobles as if they would bespeak their favour on behalf of their errand, they made trial of what temper they were as to the bringing back of the King, and when they found that their words were not ill taken, they gave them certain tokens that they had brought from Tarquin, and had converse how the gates might be opened to him by night. And the matter was put in charge of certain noblemen, brothers, whose sister Brutus had to wife, and of this marriage there had been born to Brutus two sons that were now grown to manhood; and these young men had knowledge of the plot from the brethren of their mother. After a while the Senate passed a decree that the goods of the King should be given back to him; and the ambassadors made excuse to tarry yet longer, asking time of the Consul that they find waggons sufficient, to carry the goods. This time they spent wholly in consulting with them that were privy to the plot, being urgent with them that; they should give them a letter to carry to the King, "for," said they, "who will believe us if we bring not some written testimony in a matter so grave?" So the conspirators gave them a letter and thereby made manifest proof of their guilt. For a certain slave had conceived some suspicion of the matter, but waited for some more certain knowledge. Now it fell out that on the night before the day when the ambassador should depart there was a banquet at the house of them that had chief charge of the matter in Rome, at which banquet there was much talk, none being present but such as were privy to the plot. But the slave of whom mention has been made, having hidden himself, overheard that which was said; and when he knew that the letter had been given, he carried the matter straightway to the Consuls, who going laid hands on the ambassadors and on them that were privy to the plot, and so without uproar or violence brought the matter to an end. They that would have betrayed their country were thrown straightway into prison; as for the ambassadors, men doubted awhile how they should deal with them; but judged it better to send them away unhurt for all their misdoing. About the Kings goods counsel was taken anew; and the Senate decreed that neither should they be given back, nor should the price of them be brought into the treasury, but rather that the people should spoil them at their will. This having been done, the conspirators were brought to judgment, and being condemned, suffered death, being first beaten with rods and then beheaded. Now the Consuls' office was that, sitting in their seats, they should see sentence executed on evil doers. And this they did, nor did Brutus turn away from his duty, for all that his own sons were done to death before his eyes, but sat in his place, seeing that all things were done according to the law. As for the slave that bare witness against the conspirators, he had freedom and citizenship for his reward.

The end of Brutus was this. The men of Veii and the men of Tarquinii gathered together their armies and marched against Rome, that they might bring back King Tarquin. And the Romans came forth to meet them, Valerius having command of the foot soldiers and Brutus riding before with the horsemen. In the host of the enemy also the horsemen had the first place, their leaders being Aruns son of King Tarquin. And the lictors told Aruns, while they were yet far off, "See there is Brutus the Consul," who himself also, when the armies were now near together, knew the face of the man. Then he cried aloud in great wrath, "Lo, there is the man that hath driven us forth into banishment. See how proudly he goeth, bearing the honours that by good right are ours. Now may the gods that avenge the wrongs of kings be with me that I may slay him." So he struck spurs into his horse, and when Brutus saw that Aruns came against him he made haste to meet him. (In those days they that led armies into battle held it to be to their honour themselves to do battle.) And so full of fury were these two that neither took any thought how he might defend himself, but each smote the other through the body with his spear, so that they fell dying both of them from their horses.

After this there was fought a great battle, neither side having the victory, for when the men of Veii fled before the Romans, the men of Tarquinii prevailed against them that stood over against them. Nevertheless in the night a great panic fell upon the army of the Etrurians, so that they departed and went to their homes. Also they say that there was heard a voice from the grave of the hero Horatius, saying, "There fell in this battle more in number by one of the Etrurians than of the Romans; therefore the Romans are conquerors." When it was now day there was not a man of the Etrurians in his place; so Valerius the consul gathered together the spoil and returned in great triumph to Rome. Also he made a great burial for Brutus; and the people also mourned greatly for him, the women lamenting him for the space of a whole year, even as is the custom for women to lament for a father or a brother. And this they did because he had avenged the wrong done to a woman in so noble a fashion.




Chapter VI. The Story Of Lars Porsenna.

King Tarquin and his son Lucius (for he only remained to him of the three) fled to Lars Porsenna, king of Clusium, and besought him that he would help them. "Suffer not," they said, "that we, who are Tuscans by birth, should remain any more in poverty and exile. And take heed also to thyself and thine own kingdom if thou permit this new fashion of driving forth kings to go unpunished. For surely there is that in freedom which men greatly desire, and if they that be kings defend not their dignity as stoutly as others seek to overthrow it, then shall the highest be made even as the lowest, and there shall be an end of kingship, than which there is nothing more honourable under heaven." With these words they persuaded King Porsenna, who judging it well for the Etrurians that there should be a king at Rome, and that king an Etrurian by birth, gathered together a great army and came up against Rome. But when men heard of his coming, so mighty a city was Clusium in those days, and so great the fame of King Porsenna, there was such fear as had never been before. Nevertheless they were steadfastly purposed to hold out. And first all that were in the country fled into the city, and round about the city they set guards to keep it, part thereof being defended by walls, and part, for so it seemed, being made safe by the river. But here a great peril had well nigh overtaken the city; for there was a wooden bridge on the river by which the enemy had crossed but for the courage of a certain Horatius Cocles. The matter fell out in this wise.

There was a certain hill which men called Janiculum on the side of the river, and this hill King Porsenna took by a sudden attack. Which when Horatius saw (for he chanced to have been set to guard the bridge, and saw also how the enemy were running at full speed to the place, and how the Romans were fleeing in confusion and threw away their arms as they ran), he cried with a loud voice, "Men of Rome, it is to no purpose that ye thus leave your post and flee, for if ye leave this bridge behind you for men to pass over, ye shall soon find that ye have more enemies in your city than in Janiculum. Do ye therefore break it down with axe and fire as best ye can. In the meanwhile I, so far as one man may do, will stay the enemy." And as he spake he ran forward to the further end of the bridge and made ready to keep the way against the enemy. Nevertheless there stood two with him, Lartius and Herminius by name, men of noble birth both of them and of great renown in arms. So these three for a while stayed the first onset of the enemy; and the men of Rome meanwhile brake down the bridge. And when there was but a small part remaining, and they that brake it down called to the three that they should come back, Horatius bade Lartius and Herminius return, but he himself remained on the further side, turning his eyes full of wrath in threatening fashion on the princes of the Etrurians, and crying, "Dare ye now to fight with me? or why are ye thus come at the bidding of your master, King Porsenna, to rob others of the freedom that ye care not to have for yourselves?" For a while they delayed, looking each man to his neighbour, who should first deal with this champion of the Romans. Then, for very shame, they all ran forward, and raising a great shout, threw their javelins at him. These all he took upon his shield, nor stood the the less firmly in his place on the bridge, from which when they would have thrust him by force, of a sudden the men of Rome raised a great shout, for the bridge was now altogether broken down, and fell with a great crash into the river. And as the enemy stayed a while for fear, Horatius turned him to the river and said, "O Father Tiber, I beseech thee this day with all reverence that thou kindly receive this soldier and his arms." And as he spake he leapt with all his arms into the river and swam across to his own people, and though many javelins of the enemy fell about him, he was not one whit hurt.

Nor did such valour fail to receive due honour from the city. For the citizens set up a statue of Horatius in the market-place; and they gave him of the public land so much as he could plough about in one day. Also there was this honour paid him, that each citizen took somewhat of his own store and gave it to him, for food was scarce in the city by reason of the siege.

After these things King Porsenna thought not any more to take the city by assault, but rather to shut it up. To this end he held Janiculum with a garrison, and pitched his own camp on the plain ground by the river; and the river he kept with ships, lest food should be brought into the city by water. Thus it came to pass in no long time that the famine in the city was scarcely to be endured, so that the King had good hopes that the Romans would surrender themselves to him. But being in these straits, they were delivered by the boldness of a noble youth, whose name was Caius Mucius. This man at the first purposed with himself to make his way into the camp of the enemy without the knowledge of any; but fearing lest if he should go without bidding from the Consuls, no man knowing his purpose, he might haply be taken by the sentinels and carried back to the city as one that sought to desert to the enemy -- Rome being in so evil a plight that such an accusation would be readily believed -- he sought audience of the Senate. And being admitted he said, "Fathers, I purpose to cross the Tiber, and to enter, if I shall be able, the camp of the enemy; plunder I seek not, but have some greater purpose in my heart." So the Fathers giving their consent, he hid a dagger under his garment and set forth; and having made his way into the camp, he took his stand where the crowd was thickest, hard by the judgment-seat of the King. Now it chanced that the soldiers were receiving their wages. There sat by the King's side a scribe, and the man wore garments like unto the King's garments. And Mucius, seeing that the man was busy about many things, and that the soldiers for the most part spake with him rather than with the other, and fearing to ask which of the two might be the King, lest he should so show himself to be a stranger, left the matter to chance, and slew the scribe. Then he turned to flee, making a way for himself through the crowd with his bloody sword; but the ministers of the King laid hands on him, and set him before the judgment-seat. Thereupon he cried, "I am a citizen of Rome, and men call me Caius Mucius. Thou art my enemy, O King, and I sought to slay thee; and now, as I feared not to smite, so I fear not to die. We men of Rome have courage both to do and to suffer. Think not that I only have this purpose against thee; there are many coming after me that seek honour in this same fashion by slaying thee. Prepare thee, therefore, to stand in peril of thy life every hour, and know that thou hast an enemy waiting ever at thy door. The youth of Rome declares war against thee, and this war it will wage, not by battle, but by such deeds as I would have done this day."

King Porsenna, when he heard these words, was greatly moved both by wrath and by fear and bade them bring fire, as though he would have burned the young man alive, unless he should speedily reveal what that danger which he threatened against the King might be. Then said Mucius, "See now and learn how cheaply they hold their bodies that set great glory before their eyes," and he thrust his right hand into a fire that had been lighted for sacrifice. And as he stood and seemed to have no feeling of the pain, the King, greatly marvelling at the thing, leapt from his seat and bade them take, away the young man from the altar. "Depart thou hence," he cried, "for I see that thou darest even worse things against thyself than against me. I would bid thee go on and prosper with thy courage wert thou a friend and not an enemy. And now I send thee away free and unharmed." Then said Mucius, as though he would make due return for such favour, "Hearken, O King; seeing that thou canst pay due respect unto courage, I will tell thee freely that which thou couldst never have wrung from me by threats. Three hundred youths of Rome have banded themselves together with an oath that they will slay thee as I would have slain thee. And because the lot fell to me I came first of the three hundred, who all will follow, each in his own time, according as the lot shall fall."

So Mucius departed; and men called him thereafter Scaevola, or the left-handed, because he had thus burned his right hand in the fire. No long time after there came ambassadors from King Porsenna to Rome, for the King was so moved not only by the peril that was past, but also by that which was to come, so long as any of the three hundred yet lived, that of his own accord he offered conditions of peace to the Romans. And in these conditions he made mention of bringing back the Tarquins, knowing indeed that the men of Rome would not allow it, but because he was under promise to make such demand. As to other matters, he required, the Romans consenting, that the land of the men of Veii should be given back to them, and he would have hostages given to him if he should take away his garrison from Janiculum.

To this also the Romans agreed by compulsion. So King Porsenna departed from Rome; and the Senate gave to Mucius certain lands beyond the Tiber that were called in time to come after his name.

And now were the women of Rome also stirred up to do bold deeds for their country. For a certain maiden, Cloelia by name, that was one of the hostages, the camp of the Etrurians having been pitched near unto the Tiber, escaped from them that kept her, and swam across the river, the whole troop of her companions following her. These she brought back to the city and delivered safe to their kinsfolk.

News of this deed being brought to the King he was at the first moved to great wrath, and sent ambassadors to Rome who should demand the hostage Cloelia to be restored; as for the others he cared little for them; but afterwards, his wrath giving place to wonder, he cried, "Surely this deed is greater even than the keeping of the bridge by Horatius, or the burning of his right hand by Scaevola. As for the treaty, I shall hold it to be broken if the Romans give not up the hostage; but if she be given up I will send her back unharmed to her own kindred." And so indeed it was done, both parties keeping faith, for the Romans gave up Cloelia as the treaty commanded, and the King judged valour to be worthy not of safety alone but also of reward. "I will give thee," he said to her, "a certain portion of the hostages: thou shalt choose whom thou wilt." Then she chose such as were of tender age, not only because this best became the modesty of a maiden, but because such would be in the greater peril of harm. To her the Romans set up in the Sacred Road a statue, a maiden sitting on horseback -- a new honour, even as the valour that was so honoured was new also.

So King Porsenna departed from Rome, and departing gave his camp, that was full of all manner of good things, to the men of Rome, there being great scarcity in the city by reason of the length of the siege. In the next year he sent ambassadors yet once again who should deal with the people of Rome about the bringing back of the King. To them was given this answer, "that the Senators would send ambassadors about the matter." These ambassadors, who were the chiefest men in the city, being arrived, spake in this fashion: "We might have answered thy ambassadors, O King, in very few words, saying that we take not back the King. But we are come this day that there may never again be made mention of this matter, lest there come out of it trouble both to thee and to us, if thou shouldst ask that which would be against the liberty of the Roman people, and we should be driven to refuse something to thee who would gladly refuse thee nothing. The men of Rome are free and serve not kings, and verily they would the sooner open their gates to their enemies than to kings. And this is the mind of us all. That day which shall make an end of our freedom shall make an end also of our city. If therefore thou wouldst have us live, suffer us, we pray thee, to be free."

To this the King made answer in these words: "I will weary you no more by asking that which ye may not grant, nor will I deceive the Tarquins by show of help that it is not in me to give. As for them, whether they be minded to have peace or war, let them seek for another place of exile, that there come not anything to make mischief between you and me."

To these words he added much kindness in deeds, for he gave back such of the hostages as yet remained with him; also he restored to the Romans the land of the men of Veii that had been taken from them by the treaty of Janiculum.

After this, King Tarquin took up his abode with Mamilius Octavius, his son-in-law, that dwelt at Tusculum. And Mamilius stirred up the thirty cities of Latium to make war against Rome. For five years he made great preparations, and in the sixth year he set forth. And when the Romans knew of his coming, they made Aulus Postumius Dictator. Now a dictator was one that had the power, as it were, of a king in the city, only he might not remain for a greater space than six months. And Postumius chose AEbutius to be Master of the Horse, for the Master of the Horse is next under the Dictator. These, having gathered together their army, marched forth' and met the Latins hard by the Lake Regillus that is in the land of Tusculum. And so soon as the Romans knew that King Tarquin was in the army of the Latins, they were full of wrath and would fight without more delay. Nor indeed was ever battle harder and fiercer than this; for the chiefs contented themselves not with giving counsel how it might best be ordered, but themselves fought together, so that scarce one of them, save the Dictator only, came out of the battle unhurt. First of all King Tarquin, for all that he was an old man whose force was somewhat abated, when he saw the Dictator in the front ranks setting his men in order and bidding them be of good cheer, set spurs to his horse and rode against him; but some one smote him on the side as he rode. Nevertheless, his own men running about him, he was carried back alive into the host. On the other wing the Master of the Horse made at Mamilius, prince of Tusculum. And when Mamilius saw him coming he also spurred his horse against him, and the two came together with so great force that Mamilius was wounded in the breast, and AEbutius was smitten through the arm. Then the Master of the Horse, because his right arm was wounded, and he could not hold a weapon in it, departed from the battle, but Mamilius, caring nought for his wound, still stirred up the Latins to fight; and because he perceived them to be somewhat troubled with fear, he bade advance the company of exiles that had gone forth from Rome with King Tarquin. Very fiercely did they fight, as men that had been spoiled both of goods and country, and bare back the Romans a space. And when Valerius that was brother to Publicola (than whom none but Brutus only had been more zealous in driving out the King) saw the King's son among the foremost of the exiles, he set spurs to his horse and made at him with his spear. Nor did the young Tarquin abide his coming, but turned his back, hiding himself in the company of the exiles; and as Valerius pursued him and rode, taking no thought of what he did, into the very ranks of the enemy, one smote him upon the side so that he fell from his horse dying. And when the Dictator saw that so brave a champion was dead, and that the exiles were pressing on more fiercely and that the Romans gave place in great fear, he cried to the company that followed him, "See that ye deal with any Roman that ye see fleeing as with an enemy." Then they that fled, seeing this peril behind them, stayed their steps and addressed themselves again to the battle. But when Mamilius saw that the company of exiles was well nigh surrounded by the Dictator and his men (for these were fresh and vigorous), he brought up sundry companies from the reserve, and would have assailed them. But Herminius, the same that kept the bridge over Tiber along with Horatius against the army of King Porsenna, espied him coming, and knew him for the Chief by his garments. He made at him with all his might, and with one blow smote him through the side and slew him. But while he stripped the body of its armour one of the Latins thrust at him with a spear, and hurt him that he fell to the earth. Men carried him back to the camp, but when they would have tended his wound he died. Then the Dictator cried to the horsemen that followed him, "See now how the foot soldiers are wearied out. Leap down therefore from off your horses, and fight on foot." And when the foot soldiers saw them leap down, they took courage again, and made forward against the Latins; and these, after a while, turned their backs and fled. Then the Dictator bade them bring again their horses for the horsemen, that they might the more conveniently pursue the enemy. Also, that no help either from god or man might be wanting, he made a vow to the Twin Brethren that he would build them a temple, and he proclaimed that he would give rewards, one to him who should be first in the camp of the enemy, and another to him who should be second. So great, indeed, was the courage of the soldiers that they took the camp of the Latins that very same hour. Thus did the men of Rome put the Latins to flight at the Lake Regillus, and the Dictator with the Master of the Horse returned in great triumph to Rome.




Chapter VII. The Story Of Coriolanus.

It came to pass about the space of fifty years after the driving out of the kings that there arose great talk in Rome by reason of those that were in debt, their creditors dealing harshly with them. For the law was that if a man was in debt and had not wherewithal to pay, his creditor could cast him into prison and scourge him, dealing with him in all ways as with a slave. And when many of the people were already in this case, and many more feared lest they should be so hereafter, neither was there any hope of relief, because the rich men would not, for the most part, relax a right that was their due, they took counsel how they might best deliver themselves from this bondage. Now it chanced in a certain year that the army, having put to flight all their enemies, and being now returned to Rome, was bidden by the Consuls to set forth yet again to the battle, for the Consuls feared lest the men, being discharged from their service, should seek to make some change in the State. This bidding they were not willing to obey. First they doubted whether they should not slay the Consuls, thinking thus to be free from their oath; but, considering that a man cannot free himself from an oath by such ill-doing, they followed rather the counsel of a certain Sicinius, who bade them depart from Rome as though they would build them a city of their own. So they departed, marching to a certain place that men call the Sacred Hill, that is distant from the city about three miles, and is on the other side of the river Anio. There they made a camp with trench and rampart, and abode in this place many days, doing nothing either for good or evil. But when the nobles saw what had been done, they were in great fear what this thing might mean, but doubted not that Rome must be brought to destruction, unless the rich and the poor should be reconciled the one to the other. Therefore they sent a certain Menenius Agrippa, an eloquent man and dear to the Commons, as belonging to them by birth, who should be their spokesman. So Agrippa, coming to the camp and being admitted thereunto, spoke to the Commons this parable only; for in those days men were not wont to make set speeches. "In old times the members of man lived not together in such harmony as we now see to be among them; but each member had his own counsel and his own speech. All the other members therefore had great wrath against the belly, because that all things were gained for it by their care and labour and service, while it, remaining at rest in the midst of them all, did nought but enjoy the pleasures provided for it Wherefore they conspired that the hands should not carry food to the mouth, that the mouth should not take that which was offered to it, nor the teeth chew it. So it came to pass that while they would have subdued the belly by hunger, they themselves and the whole body were brought to great extremity of weakness. Then did it become manifest that the belly was not idle, but had also an office and service of its own, feeding others, even as itself was fed, seeing that it changed the food into that blood from which we have life and vigour, and so sent it back into all parts of the body. Consider then, and see how this wrath of the Commons against the nobles is as the wrath of the members against the belly." With these words he wrought upon the minds of the people so that they were willing to be reconciled, certain conditions being granted, whereof the chief was this, that the Commons should have officers of their own, tribunes by name, whom no man might harm under pain of death, and who should help the Commons, if need should arise, against the Consuls. Also it was provided that no noble should hold this office forever. Now it fell out not many days after these things that there arose a great famine in this land, so that the slaves and not a few of the Commons also had perished, but that the Consuls diligently gathered wheat from all places where it could be bought. And it came to pass that there was brought much wheat from the island of Sicily, and the Senators debated among themselves on what terms it should be given to the people. Now there were some among the nobles that took it very ill that the Commons should have officers of their own, by whose help they might stand against the Consuls, and the counsel of these was to use the occasion of this famine against them. The chiefest of these was a certain Marcius, that was surnamed Coriolanus.

How Marcius had won for himself this surname must now be told. The army of the Romans besieged Corioli, that was a town of the Volsci; and while they were busy with the siege, and thought only of the townsfolk that were shut in the town, there came upon them of a sudden an army of the Volscians from Antium, and at the same time the townsfolk sallied forth from the city. Now Marcius chanced to be on guard, and he, having a chosen band of soldiers with him, not only drave back them that had sallied forth, but entered into the city by the gate that was opened to receive them, slew them that were near, and set fire to such houses as were near to the walls. And when the townsfolk set up a shout, and the women and children cried out as is their wont in such alarm, the courage of the Romans was greatly increased, and the Volscians were troubled, thinking that the city to whose help they had come was already taken. Thus did Corioli come into possession of the Romans, and men gave to Marcius thereafter the surname of Coriolanus.

This Coriolanus therefore, being ill content that the Commons should have tribunes, spake in the Senate in this manner: "If the people will have such cheapness in corn as they had in old time, let them render back to the Fathers such rights as they also in old times possessed. Why should I see officers chosen from the multitude, and such a fellow as is this Sicinius bearing rule? Should I endure such disgrace longer than I needs must? If I would not endure King Tarquin, should I now endure King Sicinius? Let him call the Commons, if he will, to the Sacred Hill. The way thither -- aye, and to other hills besides -- is open if he would go. They have made this dearth for themselves, suffering their lands to be untilled; let them therefore enjoy what they have made."

This counsel seemed over harsh to the Senate; as for the Commons, it wrought them to madness. "See now," they cried, "how they would subdue us by hunger, even as though we were enemies! See how they would cheat us even of food! Lo! there is come this wheat from the stranger, which fortune has given us beyond all our hopes, and they would snatch it even from our mouths, unless, forsooth, we hand over our tribunes bound hand and foot to this Marcius, when they may work their will on the Commons of Rome with their scourges. What a savage is this that has risen up in our State, bidding us chose whether we will have slavery or death!" And as Coriolanus went forth from the senate-house they would have taken his life, but that the tribune named a day when he should stand his trial before the people. When they heard this their wrath abated, knowing that they had the power of life and death over their enemy.

Now at the first Coriolanus made light of the matter. "Who are these tribunes," he would say, "that they venture on such matters? Succour they may give to them that need it, but whence have they the power to punish? And are they not tribunes of the Commons and not of the nobles?" Notwithstanding, when the wrath of the people increased beyond all measure, the Fathers perceived that they must let one man suffer for all. For a while, indeed, they held their place, using all their power if haply they might prevail. First, they would set their followers about the city, who might prevent the Commons from holding assemblies, and so bring the matter to nought. After they came forth all of them, so that a man might have thought that all the Fathers were on their trial, using prayers and supplications for Coriolanus. "If ye will not acquit him of the charge, count him guilty indeed, but spare him for favour towards us."

When the day of trial was come, Coriolanus appeared not to answer, and the wrath of the people was still fierce against him. Being condemned, he was banished, and was to pass his exile among the Volscians, having even now in his heart the spirit of an enemy against Rome.

The Volscians, indeed, bade him welcome right heartily; and their goodwill towards him increased when they perceived what wrath he bore against his native country. His host was a certain Attius Tullus, than whom there was none among the Volscians either more powerful or more hostile to Rome. So the two held counsel together how they might stir up war. They knew, indeed, that the people could not easily be moved to that which they had tried so often with ill success. For their spirits were broken not only with many defeats which they had suffered in time past from the men of Rome, but also from pestilence, which had of late sorely troubled them. Nevertheless Attius had good hopes that he might yet kindle their anger against the Romans; and this indeed he accomplished, as shall now be told.

It chanced that in that year the great games at Rome were celebrated a second time; and the reason why they were celebrated a second time was this. On the day of the first celebration, early in the morning, a certain householder drave one of his slaves through the marketplace, beating him with rods. Afterwards the games began, and no man thought that aught was amiss. But no long time after a certain Atinius, a man of the people, dreamed a dream. He saw Jupiter, who spake to him saying, "I liked not him that danced the first dance at my Games. Unless they be celebrated again, and that right splendidly, there will be danger to the city. And do thou go and tell this to the Consuls." Now the man was not careless of the Gods, nevertheless because he stood in great fear of the Consuls he went not, lest he should be laughed to scorn for idle words. But this delay cost him dearly, for within a few days his son died. And that he might not doubt what this great trouble might mean, the god appeared to him yet again in a dream. "Hast thou had wages enough for thy neglect of that which I commanded? Verily, thou shalt receive yet more if thou tell not the matter straightway to the Consuls." Nevertheless, though the matter was now more urgent, yet the man delayed, and there fell upon him suddenly a great sickness and weakness. Thereupon he called his kinsfolk together to counsel, and told them all that he had seen and heard, how Jupiter had appeared to him in his dream, and had threatened him with punishment, and what had thereupon ensued When they heard these things, all with one consent agreed that the man should be carried straightway in a litter to the market-place into the presence of the Consuls. The Consuls commanded that he should be taken into the senate-house, where, being set down, he related all that had been told, to the great wonder of the Fathers. And when he had finished speaking, lo! there followed another marvel. His sickness departed from him in a moment, so that he that had been brought into the senate-house without power to move any limb, now, having fulfilled the command of the god, returned upon his feet to his own home.

The Senate, therefore, decreed that the Great Games should be celebrated a second time with great pomp. To this festival there came, at the bidding of Attius, a great company of the Volscians. But before the beginning of the games Attius, having agreed with Coriolanus what should be done, sought audience of the Consuls, saying that he would speak with them of a matter of great moment to the State. To them, none others being present, he said, "I like not to speak ill of my own countrymen. Yet seeing that I have not to accuse them of aught that they have done amiss, but rather to take care that they do it not, I will even speak my mind. The Volscians are of too light and fickle temper. From this cause we have already in time past suffered many things, so that in truth it is of your long-suffering rather than of our well-deserving that we are alive this day. Even now there is a great company of my people in this city; ye, men of Rome, will be wholly occupied with these games. Now I remember what on the like occasion was done in this place by certain young men of the Sabines, and I am in some fear lest the Volscians also should venture on a like misdeed. Of this, therefore, I give you warning, not for your sakes only, but also for ours. As for myself, it is my purpose to return straightway to my own home, lest something of the guilt of my countrymen should fall also upon me."

So Attius departed. And when the Consuls had brought the matter before the Senate, the Fathers, judging that they must take heed to that which had been told on such authority, commanded that all the Volscians should depart forthwith from the city. Thereupon criers were sent into all parts making proclamation, "Let every Volscian depart hence before nightfall." At the first, on the hearing of these words, as they hastened each man to his lodgings, to take up such things as belonged to him, there was great fear; and afterwards, when they were now setting out on their journey, not the less anger. "What is this," said they, "that we are driven forth from the presence of gods and men on a day of festival as if we were polluted with crime?" Now Attius had gone before them to the Fountain of Ferentina; and as each of the chief men of the State came thither he spake with him about this matter, making loud complaints and much display of wrath. And the chiefs gathered the people together to an assembly in the plain ground that is beneath the road. To whom Tullus spake, saying, "Though ye forget, ye Volscians, all the wrong that the Romans have done to us in old times and all that we have suffered at their hands, how will ye bear the scorn that hath been put upon you this day, when they have begun their games by making sport of us? Do ye not perceive that when ye departed in this fashion ye were made a spectacle to citizens and strangers and all the nations round about? What thought they that heard the voice of the crier? or they that saw you depart? or they that met you as ye came hither in such unseemly plight? What but this, that ye had done some great wickedness, wherefore ye must be driven away from the gathering of gods and men lest your presence should be a defilement? Is not this a city of enemies, wherein if ye had tarried but one single day ye would all have suffered death? They have declared war against you, and if ye are men they will suffer no small loss therefrom."

Thus it was brought to pass that all the Volscians joined together to make war against Rome. First they chose for leaders Attius and Coriolanus, in whom indeed they trusted the more of the two. And indeed they trusted rightly, as was proved in the end, so that it became manifest that Rome had prevailed rather through the skilfulness of leaders than the courage of armies. First Coriolanus came to Circeii, that is hard by the sea, and drave out thence the Roman colonists, and gave over the city to the Romans. After this he took many cities of the Latins, and at the last pitched his camp five miles from Rome, sending out thence those who might spoil the lands of the Romans. Only he gave commandment that they should not spoil the lands of the nobles. And this he did, either because he hated the Commons more than the nobles, or that he would sow dissension between the two. This, indeed, he did not, for a common fear bound them together. Yet there was so much of disagreement that the nobles would have had recourse to war to rid them of the enemy, but the Commons were urgent that they should rather seek for conditions of peace. And this opinion prevailed. Ambassadors therefore were sent to Coriolanus, to whom he gave this answer only: "When ye shall have given back all their lands to the Volscians, then may ye talk of peace. But if ye seek to enjoy in peace that which ye took for yourselves by war, ye shall see that I forget neither what wrong I suffered from my own people, nor what kindness I have received from my hosts." And when the ambassadors were sent a second time he would not suffer them to enter the camp. After them came the priests, bearing the emblems of their office; nor did these prevail more than the ambassadors. Then a great company of the women came to Veturia, the mother of Coriolanus, and to Volumnia, that was his wife. But whether they did this by consent of the rulers, or by prompting of their own fear, cannot be affirmed for certain. These women then prevailed with Veturia, though she was now well stricken in years, and with Volumnia, that they should go to the camp to Coriolanus; and Volumnia carried with her the two sons that she had borne to Coriolanus. These having come, it was told the man that a great company of women was arrived. At the first, indeed, he was not minded to yield to their tears that which he had steadfastly refused to the ambassadors. But afterwards, when a certain one of his friends, seeing Veturia stand together with her daughter-inlaw and grandsons, said, "Unless my eyes deceive me, thy mother and wife and children are here." Coriolanus, being greatly troubled, leapt from his seat and would have embraced his mother. But she, turning from supplication to anger, cried, "I would fain know, before I receive thy embrace, whether I see a son or an enemy before me, whether I am thy mother or a prisoner. Has long life been given me for this, that I should see thee first an exile and afterwards an enemy? Couldst thou bear to lay waste this land which gave thee birth and nurture? Didst thou not think to thyself, seeing Rome, 'Within those walls are my home, my mother, my wife, my children'? As for me I cannot suffer more than I have already endured; nor doth there yet remain to me a long space of life or of misery. But consider these thy children. If thou art steadfast to work thy will, they must either die before their time or grow old in bondage."

When she had ended these words, his wife and his children embraced him; and at the same time the whole company of women set up a great wailing. Thus was the purpose of Coriolanus against his country changed, and, breaking up his camp, he led his army away. Some say that the Volscians slew him for wrath that he let slip this occasion against Rome; but others relate that he lived to old age, being wont to say, "There is no man so unhappy as he that is old and also an exile."




Chapter VIII. The Story Of The Fabii.

Of the chief houses in Rome there was none greater than the house of the Fabii; nor in this house any man of more valour and renown than a certain Kaeso. Good service had he done, more particularly against the Etrurians, and thrice was he chosen consul. Now the third time that he was so chosen he was urgent with the Fathers that they divide the land that had been taken from the enemy as fairly as might be among the Commons. For the tribunes of the Commons were wont, year after year, to demand such division, and the counsel of Kaeso was that the nobles should be beforehand with them, giving them this boon of their own accord. "Verily," he said, "it is well that they should have the land who have won it by their own toil and by the shedding of their blood." Nevertheless this counsel pleased not the nobles. "This Kaeso," they said, "was wise, but too great glory has turned his wisdom into folly." For this cause Kaeso was ill content, and was the more willing to take such occasion as offered of serving his country elsewhere than at Rome.

Now the city of Veii, being ten miles only distant from Rome, was ever at variance with it. Never was there peace between these two, neither was there open war. When the Roman legions marched forth, the men of Veii would flee before them and seek refuge in their city; but so soon as they perceived that the legions had departed, then they would sally forth and spoil the land of the Romans. These had other enemies also with whom to deal; for the AEquians and the Volscians were content to be quiet only till they should have recovered themselves from the loss they had of late suffered, and the Sabines were always enemies, and all the cities of Etruria were manifestly making ready for war.

These things being so, Kaeso Fabius, the Consul, on behalf of the whole house of the Fabii, spake thus to the Senate: "This war with the men of Veii, as ye well know, Fathers, needeth not a great army, yet needeth one that shall be ever at hand. With this, therefore, we that are of the house of Fabius will deal; the others we leave to you. This will we wage of our own strength and at our own cost, with some saving, we trust, of men and money to the State." The Senate receiving these words with much thankfulness, the Consul departed to his own house; the Fabii, who had stood in the porch of the senate-house till the matter should be settled, following him. Straightway the fame of the thing spread throughout the city, and all men extolled the Fabii. "See now," they said, "how this one family has undertaken the burden of the State. Had we but two such houses besides who might undertake, this to do battle with the AEquians and that with the Volscians, the city might remain at peace and do its business quietly, while all the nations round about should be subdued unto it." The next day the Fabii arm themselves for battle, and assemble as Kaeso had commanded. Then the Consul, coming from his house with his soldiers cloak, upon his shoulders, saw all his kindred drawn up in array before the porch. And when these had received him into their midst, he bade them lift the standards. Never had there passed through the city a smaller army, or one more renowned and admired among men. Three hundred and six soldiers there were, nobles all of them, all of one house, not one but might well have been a leader of men. And after them followed a great crowd, first of kinsfolk and friends, then of the other citizens, bidding them God speed in this their enterprise. "Be bold." they cried, "and fortunate. Let the issue of this undertaking be even as the beginning, and ye shall have from us consulships and triumph, yea, and all honours that ye can desire." And as the army passed by the Capitol they prayed to all the Gods that they would guide it safely on its way and bring it back safely home. They prayed to no purpose. Passing by that which men call the Unlucky Way, through the right archway of the Gate of Carmenta, the Fabii went on their way till they came to the river Cremera, thinking that to be a fit place for building a fort.

For a while all things prospered with the Fabii in their dealings with the men of Veii. And not only did they make incursions upon their lands and carry off much booty, but fought set battles, not once or twice, but many times; a single Roman house so winning victory over that which was the wealthiest of all the cities of Etruria. Now this seemed to the men of Veii a shameful thing, and one that was not to be endured. So they began to take counsel how they might take this enemy by subtlety, and perceived, not without joy, that the Fabii grew daily bolder by success.

So when the men went to gather booty they would cause that herds of cattle came in their way, as though it had been by chance, and that companies of soldiers, sent to hinder them from their plundering, fled before them, making pretence of fear. And now the Fabii had such contempt for the enemy that they thought themselves such as could never be conquered at any place or time. In which confidence, seeing on a certain day herds of cattle on the plain, they ran forth to drive them, heeding not that they were distant from the fort a great space of plain. And so, scattering themselves in thoughtless fashion, they passed a place where the enemy had set an ambush, and busied themselves with the cattle. Then all of a sudden the Etrurians rose up from the ambush, and lo! there were enemies both before them and on all sides. These set up a great shout and threw their javelins, still closing in upon them, so that the Fabii also were compelled to gather themselves more and more closely together, so making it the more evident how few they were in comparison of them that were against them. After this they fought not as before, turning every way against them that pressed upon them, but set themselves with all their strength to gain one certain point -- a hill of no great height that stood hard by the road. And to this, by dint of strength and plying their swords, they won their way, and made there a stand for a while; nay more, because the higher ground gave them breathing space and advantage, they drave back them that assailed them from below. But after a time the men of Veii, climbing the ridge from behind, took them in the rear, so that the enemy was again above them. Thus all the Fabii were slain that day; and indeed the whole house had perished, but that there had been left behind at Rome a youth not fully grown to manhood. From him there sprang anew a race of Fabii that did good service to Rome in perilous times, both at home and abroad.




Chapter IX.~ The Story Of Cincinnatus.

In the seventy and third year after the driving out of the kings the strife between the nobles and the Commons grew to be fierce beyond measure; for on the one hand the Consuls would have levied an army to make war with the Volscians, and this the tribunes hindered; and on the other hand the tribunes sought to establish a law that should set bounds to the power of the Consuls, and this law the nobles hindered that it should not be passed. Now among the nobles (who were mostly of the younger sort, for the elders held aloof from the matter) the chief mover was one Kaeso Quinctius, a youth of singular strength and courage, and that had won for himself great renown in war. This man was wont to drive the tribunes from the market-place and scatter the people, and when Virginius, that was one of the tribunes, named a day on which he should be brought to judgment for his misdeeds, he was not one whit dismayed, but bare himself as haughtily as before. Meanwhile Virginius stirred up the people, saying, "See ye not, men of Rome, that if ye suffer this Kaeso to dwell in this city, it cannot be that this law which ye desire should be established? But why speak I of laws? This man is the enemy of liberty itself; not King Tarquin himself was so haughty and violent. He is a very king already; what think ye will he be if he be made consul or dictator?" To these words many gave assent, complaining that Kaeso had beaten them, and were urgent with the tribune that he should carry the matter to an end. Then it came to pass that, when the day of trial was come, the people were of one mind that Kaeso should be condemned. Then, indeed, the young man and his kinsfolk and friends turned to supplications and prayers. Titus Quinctius, that had been three times consul, affirmed, "Never in the home of Quinctius, never verily in this city of Rome, has there been a soldier of so ripe a courage. When I was captain of the host, he was ever the first; with these eyes have I seen him fighting against the enemy." Also Lucretius, that had been consul the year before, winning great glory from the Volscians and AEquians, testified that Kaeso had helped him to conquer as none other had done; and one Furius that he had delivered him and his army from great peril of defeat As for Lucius Quinctius, his father, whose surname was Cincinnatus, he sought not to magnify the valour and brave deeds of his son, lest haply he should so stir up the more jealousy against him, but sought to make excuse for him, as one who had erred for want of discretion, beseeching men that, if he himself had wronged no man by word or deed, so they would grant him for a favour the pardon of his son. But nothing availed with the people, some fearing the wrath of their fellows if they should give ear to such words, and some making complaint that they had suffered violence from the hands of Kaeso, and affirming that they would be avenged of him for his misdeeds. Now of all things that were alleged against him the most grievous was the accusation brought by a certain Volscius that had once been tribune of the Commons; for Volscius bare this witness against him: "Not many days after the plague had ceased from the city, I, with others in my company, fell in with certain young men, of whom this Kaeso was one, disporting themselves in the street. These fell out with us, and Kaeso smote my elder brother with the fist, so that he fell fainting to the ground, being then not wholly recovered from the plague. And being carried home, he died by noon, as I doubt not, of this blow. But when I would have brought Kaeso to judgment for this offence, the Consuls would not suffer it." At the hearing of this tale the wrath of the Commons waxed so hot that they could scarcely be kept from falling on Kaeso and slaying him. At the last, after much debate between the nobles and the tribunes, it was agreed that the young man should appear the next day to make his answer to these accusations, giving sureties in the meanwhile lest he should fail to do so. Ten sureties he gave, and each was bound in three thousand pounds of copper. So being suffered to depart from the market-place, he departed that same night from Rome, going into banishment among the Etrurians. As for his sureties, the money was exacted from his father to the uttermost farthing, so that he was compelled to sell all his goods, and to dwell in a mean cottage on the other side of the Tiber.

It came to pass in the third year after these things that the AEquians brake the treaty of peace which they had made with Rome, and, taking one Gracchus Cloelius for their leader, marched into the land of Tusculum; and when they had plundered the country thereabouts, and had gathered together much booty, they pitched their camp on Mount AEgidus. To them the Romans sent three ambassadors, who should complain of the wrong done, and seek redress. But when they would have fulfilled their errand, Gracchus the AEquian spake, saying, "If ye have any message from the Senate of Rome, tell it to this oak, for I have other business to do;" for it chanced that there was a great oak that stood hard by, and made a shadow over the general's tent. Then one of the ambassadors, as he turned to depart, made reply, "Yes, let this sacred oak and all the gods that are in heaven hear how ye have wrongfully broken the treaty of peace; and let them that hear help us also in the day of battle, when we shall avenge on you the laws both of gods and of men that ye have set at nought."

When the ambassadors had returned to Rome the Senate commanded that there should be levied two armies; and that Minucius the consul should march with the one against the AEquians on Mount AEgidus, and that the other should hinder the enemy from their plundering. This levying the tribunes of the Commons sought to hinder; and perchance had done so, but there also came well-nigh to the walls of the city a great host of the Sabines plundering all the country. Thereupon the people willingly offered themselves, and there were levied forthwith two great armies. Nevertheless when the consul Minucius had marched to Mount AEgidus, and had pitched his camp not far from the AEquians, he did nought for fear of the enemy, but kept himself within his entrenchments. And when the enemy perceived that he was afraid, growing the bolder for his lack of courage, they drew lines about him, keeping him in on every side. Yet before that he was altogether shut up there escaped from his camp five horsemen, that bare tidings to Rome how that the Consul, together with his army, was besieged. The people were sorely dismayed to hear such tidings; nor, when they cast about for help, saw they any man that might be sufficient for such peril, save only Cincinnatus. By common consent, therefore, he was made Dictator for six months, a thing that may well be noted by those who hold that nothing is to be accounted of in comparison of riches, and that no man may win great honour or show forth singular virtue unless he be well furnished with wealth. For here in this great peril of the Roman people there was no hope of safety but in one who was cultivating with his own hand a little plot of scarcely three acres of ground. For when the messengers of the people came to him they found him ploughing, or, as some say, digging a ditch. When they had greeted each the other, the messengers said, "May the Gods prosper this thing to the Roman people and to thee. Put on thy robe and hear the words of the people."

[Illustation: Cincinnatus called to be Dictator 180]

Then said Cincinnatus, being not a little astonished, "Is all well?" and at the same time he called to his wife Racilia that she should bring forth his robe from the cottage. So she brought it forth, and the man wiped from him the dust and the sweat, and clad himself in his robe, and stood before the messengers. These said to him, "The people of Rome make thee Dictator, and bid thee come forthwith to the city." And at the same time they told how the Consul and his army were besieged by the AEquians. So Cincinnatus departed to Rome; and when he came to the other side of the Tiber there met him first his three sons, and next many of his kinsfolk and friends, and after them a numerous company of the nobles. These all conducted him to his house, the lictors, four and twenty in number, marching before him. There was also assembled a very great concourse of the people, fearing much how the Dictator might deal with them, for they knew what manner of man he was, and that there was no limit to his power, nor any appeal from him.

The next day before dawn the Dictator came into the market-place, and appointed one Lucius Tarquinius to be Master of the Horse. This Tarquinius was held by common consent to excel all other men in exercises of war; only, though, being a noble by birth, he should have been among the horsemen, he had served, for lack of means, as a foot soldier. This done he called an assembly of the people and commanded that all the shops in the city should be shut; that no man should concern himself with any private business, but all that were of an age to go to the war should be present before sunset in the Field of Mars, each man having with him provisions of cooked food for five days, and twelve stakes. As for them that were past the age, they should prepare the food while the young men made ready their arms and sought for the stakes. These last they took as they found them, no man hindering them; and when the time appointed by the Dictator was come, all were assembled, ready, as occasion might serve, either to march or to give battle. Forthwith they set out, the Dictator leading the foot soldiers by their legions, and Tarquinius the horsemen, and each bidding them that followed make all haste. "We must needs come," they said, "to our journey's end while it is yet night. Remember that the Consul and his army have been besieged now for three days, and that no man knows what a day or a night may bring forth." The soldiers themselves also were zealous to obey, crying out to the standard-bearers that they should quicken their steps, and to their fellows that they should not lag behind. Thus they came at midnight to Mount AEgidus, and when they perceived that the enemy was at hand they halted the standards. Then the Consul rode forward to see, so far as the darkness would suffer him, how great was the camp of the AEquians and after what fashion it was pitched. This done he commanded that the baggage should be gathered together into a heap, and that the soldiers should stand every man in his own place. After this he compassed about the whole army of the enemy with his own army, and commanded that at a set signal every man should shout, and when they had shouted should dig a trench and set up therein the stakes. This the soldiers did, and the noise of the shouting passed over the camp of the enemy and came into the city, causing therein great joy, even as it caused great fear in the camp. For the Romans cried, "These be our countrymen, and they bring us help." Then said the Consul, "We must make no delay. By that shout is signified, not that they are come only, but that they are already dealing with the enemy. Doubtless the camp of the AEquians is even now assailed from without. Take ye your arms and follow me." So the legion went forth, it being yet night, to the battle, and as they went they shouted, that the Dictator might be aware. Now the AEquians had set themselves to hinder the making of a ditch and rampart which should shut them in; but when the Romans from the camp fell upon them, fearing lest these should make their way through the midst of their camp, they left them that were with Cincinnatus to finish their entrenching, and fought with the Consul. And when it was now light, lo! they were already shut in, and the Romans, having finished their entrenching, began to trouble them. And when the AEquians perceived that the battle was now on either side of them, they could withstand no longer, but sent ambassadors praying for peace, and saying, "Ye have prevailed; slay us not, but rather permit us to depart, leaving our arms behind us." Then said the Dictator, "I care not to have the blood of the AEquians. Ye may depart, but ye shall depart passing under the yoke, that ye may thus acknowledge to all men that ye are indeed vanquished." Now the yoke is thus made. There are set up in the ground two spears, and over them is bound by ropes a third spear. So the AEquians passed under the yoke.

In the camp of the enemy there was found abundance of spoil. This the Dictator gave wholly to his own soldiers. "Ye were well-nigh a spoil to the enemy," said he to the army of the Consul, "therefore ye shall have no share in the spoiling of them. As for thee, Minucius, be thou a lieutenant only till thou hast learnt how to bear thyself as a consul." Meanwhile at Rome there was held a meeting of the Senate, at which it was commanded that Cincinnatus should enter the city in triumph, his soldiers following him in order of march.

Before his chariot there were led the generals of the enemy; also the standards were carried in the front; and after these came the army, every man laden with spoil. That day there was great rejoicing in the city, every man setting forth a banquet before his doors in the street.

After this, Volscius, that had borne false witness against Kaeso, was found guilty of perjury, and went into exile. And when Cincinnatus saw that justice had been done to this evil-doer, he resigned his dictatorship, having held it for sixteen days only.




Chapter X. The Story Of The Decemvirs And Of Virginia.

It was agreed between the nobles and the Commons that, to make an end of disputing about the laws, ambassadors should be sent into Greece, and especially to Athens (which city and its lawgiver, Solon, were held in high repute in those days), to learn what manner of laws and customs they had, and to bring back a report of them. And when the ambassadors had brought back their report, it seemed good to the people that in the following year there should be appointed neither consuls nor any other magistrate, but decemvirs only; that is to say, ten men, who should set in order the laws of Rome. Thus it came to pass in the ninety and first year from the driving out of the kings, that decemvirs were appointed in the stead of consuls, Appius Claudius being the chief of the ten.

For a while these pleased the people well, doing justice equally between man and man. And the custom was that each day one of the ten sat as judge with the twelve lictors about him, the nine others sitting with one minister only. Also they busied themselves with the ordering of the laws; and at last set forth ten tables on which these were written. At the same time they called the people together to an assembly, and spake to them thus: "The Gods grant that this undertaking may turn to the credit of the State, and of you, and of your children. Go, therefore, and read these laws which we have set forth; for though we have done what ten men could do to provide laws that should be just to all, whether they be high or low, yet the understandings of many men may yet change many things for the better. Consider therefore all these matters in your own minds, and debate them among yourselves. For we will that the Roman people should be bound by such laws only as they shall have agreed together to establish."

The ten tables were therefore set forth, and when these had been sufficiently considered, and such corrections made therein as seemed good, a regular assembly of the people was called, and the laws were duly established. But now there was spread abroad a report that two tables were yet wanting, and that when these should have been added the whole would be complete; and thence there arose a desire that the Ten should be appointed to hold office a second year. This indeed was done; but Appius Claudius so ordered matters that there were elected together with him none of the chief men of the State, but only such as were of an inferior condition and fortune.

After this the Ten began more and more to set aside all law and right. Thus whereas at the first one only on each day was followed by the twelve lictors, each of the ten came daily into the market-place so attended; and whereas before the lictors carried bundles of rods only, now there was bound up with the rods an axe, whereby was signified the power of life and death. Their actions also agreed with this show, for they and their ministers plundered the goods and chattels of the people. Some also they scourged, and some they beheaded. And when they had so put a man to death, they would divide his substance among those that waited upon them to do their pleasure.

Among their misdeeds two were especially notable. There was a certain Sicinius in the host, a man of singular strength and courage, who took it ill that the Ten should thus set themselves above all law, and was wont to say to his comrades that the Commons should depart from the city as they had done in time past, or should at the least make them tribunes to be their champions as of old. This Sicinius the Ten sent on before the army, there being then war with the Sabines, to search out a place for a camp; and with him they sent certain others, bidding them slay him when they should have come to some convenient place. This they did, but not without suffering much loss; for the man fought for his life and defended himself, slaying many of his enemies. Then they that escaped ran into the camp, saying that Sicinius had fallen into an ambuscade, and had died along with certain others of the soldiers. At the first, indeed, this story was believed; but afterwards, when, by permission of the Ten, there went some to bury the dead, they found that none of the dead bodies had been spoiled, and that Sicinius lay with his arms in the midst, the others having their faces towards him; also that there was no dead body of an enemy in the place, nor any track as of them that had gone from the place; for which reasons they brought back tidings that Sicinius had certainly been slain by his own comrades. At this there was great wrath in the camp; and the soldiers were ready to carry the body of Sicinius to Rome, but that the Ten made a military funeral for him at the public cost. So they buried Sicinius with great lamentation; but the Ten were thereafter in very ill repute among the soldiers.

Again, there was a certain centurion, Lucius Virginius by name, an upright man and of good credit both at home and abroad. This Virginius had a daughter, Virginia, a very fair and virtuous maiden, whom he had espoused to a certain Icilius that had once been a tribune of the Commons. On this maiden Appius Claudius, the chief of the Ten, sought to lay hands, and for this end gave commandment to one Marcus Claudius, who was one of the clients of his house, that he should claim the girl for a slave. On the morrow therefore as Virginia passed across the market-place, being on her way to school (for the schools in those days were held in the market-place), this Claudius seized her, affirming that she was born of a woman that was a slave, and was therefore by right a slave herself. The maiden standing still for fear, the nurse that attended her set up a great cry and called the citizens to help. Straightway there was a great concourse, for many knew the maiden's father Virginius, and Icilius to whom she was betrothed. Then said Claudius, seeing that he could not take her by force, "There is no need of tumult or of gathering a crowd. I would proceed by law, not by force." Thereupon he summoned the girl before the judge. When they came to the judgment-seat of Appius the man told a tale that had already been agreed upon between the two. "This girl," he said, "was born in my house, and was thence secretly taken to the house of Virginius, and passed off on the man as his daughter. Of this I will bring proof sufficient, such as will convince Virginius himself, who doubtless has received the chief wrong in this matter. But in the meanwhile it is reasonable that the slave should remain in the house of her master." To this the friends of the girl made answer, "Virginius is absent on the service of the State, and will be here within the space of two days, if tidings of this matter be sent to him. Now it is manifestly wrong that judgment concerning a man's children should be given while he is himself absent. Let the cause, therefore, be postponed till he come. Meanwhile let the maiden have her freedom according to the law which Appius and his fellows have themselves established."

Appius gave sentence in these words: "That I am a favourer of freedom is manifest from this law of which ye make mention. Yet this law must be observed in all cases and without respect of persons; and as to this girl, there is none but her father only to whom her owner may yield the custody of her. Let her father therefore be sent for; but in the meanwhile Claudius must have custody of her, as is his right, only giving security that he will produce her on the morrow."

At this decree, so manifestly unrighteous was it, there was much murmuring, yet none dared to oppose it, till Numitorius, the girl's uncle, and Icilius came forth from the crowd. The lictor cried, "Sentence has been given," and bade Icilius give place. Then Icilius turned to Appius, saying, "Appius, thou must drive me hence with the sword before thou canst have thy will in this matter. This maiden is my espoused wife; and verily, though thou call hither all thy lictors and the lictors of thy colleagues, she shall not remain in any house save the house of her father."

To this Appius, seeing that the multitude was greatly moved and were ready to break forth into open violence, made this reply: "Icilius cares not for Virginia, but being a lover of sedition and tumult, seeks an occasion for strife. Such occasion I will not give him to-day. But that he may know that I yield not to his insolence, but have regard to the rights of a father, I pronounce no sentence. I ask of Marcus Claudius that he will concede something of his right, and suffer surety to be given for the girl against the morrow. But if on the morrow the father be not present here, then I tell Icilius and his fellows that he who is the author of this law will not fail to execute it. Neither will I call in the lictors of my colleagues to put down them that raise a tumult. For this my own lictors shall suffice."

So much time being thus gained, it seemed good to the friends of the maiden that the son of Numitorius and the brother of Icilius, young men both of them and active, should hasten with all speed to the camp, and bring Virginius thence as quickly as might be. So the two set out, and putting their horses to their full speed, carried tidings of the matter to the father. As for Appius, he sat awhile on the judgment-seat, waiting for other business to be brought before him, for he would not have it seem that he had come for this cause only; but finding that there was none, and indeed the people were wholly intent on the matter of Virginia, he departed to his own house. Thence he sent an epistle to his colleagues that were at the camp, saying, "Grant no leave of absence to Virginius, but keep him in safe custody with you." But this availed nothing, for already, before ever the epistle was brought to the camp, at the very first watch of the night, Virginius had set forth.

When Virginius was come to the city, it being then early dawn, he put on mean apparel, as was the custom with such as were in danger of life or liberty, and carried about his daughter, who was clad in like manner, praying all that he met to help and succour him. "Remember," said he, "that day by day I stand fighting for you and for your children against your enemies. But what shall this profit you or me if, this city being safe, nevertheless our children stand in peril of slavery and shame?" Icilius spake in like manner, and the women (for a company of matrons followed Virginia) wept silently, stirring greatly the hearts of all that looked upon them. But Appius, so set was his heart on evil, heeded none of these things; but so soon as he had sat him down on the seat of judgment, and he that claimed the girl had said a few words complaining that right had not been done to him, he gave his sentence; suffering not Virginius to speak. What pretence of reason he gave can scarce be imagined, but the sentence (for this only is certain) was that the girl should be in the custody of Claudius till the matter should be decided by law. But when Claudius came to take the maiden, her friends and all the women that bare her company thrust him back. Then said Appius, "I have sure proof, and this not from the violence only of Icilius, but from what is told to me of gatherings by night in the city, that there is a purpose in certain men to stir up sedition. Knowing this I have come hither with armed men; not to trouble quiet citizens, but to punish such as would break the peace of the State. Such as be wise, therefore, will keep themselves quiet. Lictor, remove this crowd, and make room for the master that he may take his slave." These words he thundered forth in great anger; and the people, when they heard them, fell back in fear, so that the maiden stood without defence. Then Virginius, seeing that there were none to help him, said to Appius, "I pray thee, Appius, if I have said aught that was harsh to thee, that thou wilt pardon it, knowing how a father must needs suffer in such a case. But now suffer me to enquire somewhat of this woman that is the girl's nurse, that I may know what is the truth of the matter. For if I have been deceived in the matter, and am not in truth father to the girl, I shall be more content." Then, Appius giving permission, he led his daughter and her nurse a little space aside, to the shops that are by the temple of Cloacina, and snatching a knife from a butcher's, said, "My daughter, there is but this one way that I can make thee free," and he drave the knife into her breast.

Then he looked back to the judgment-seat and cried, "With this blood, Appius, I devote thee and thy life to perdition." There went up a great cry from all that stood there when they saw so dreadful a deed, and Appius commanded that they should seize him. But no man laid hands on him, for he made a way for himself with the knife that he carried in his hand, and they that followed defended him, till he came to the gate of the city.

Then Icilius and Numitorius took up the dead body of the maiden and showed it to the people, saying much of the wickedness of him who had driven a father to do such a deed, and much also of the liberty which had been taken from them, and which, if they would only use this occasion, they might now recover. As for Appius, he cried out to his lictors that they should lay hands on Icilius, and when the crowd suffered not the lictors to approach, would himself have made a way to him, by the help of the young nobles that stood by him. But now the crowd had leaders, themselves also nobles, Valerius and Horatius. These said, "If Appius would deal with Icilius according to law we will be securities for him; if he mean to use violence, we are ready to meet him." And when the lictor would have laid hands on these two the multitude brake his rods to pieces. Then Appius would have spoken to the people, but they clamoured against him, so that at last, losing all courage and fearing for his life, he covered his head and fled secretly to his own house.

Meanwhile Virginius had made his way to the camp, which was now on Mount Vecilius, and stirred up the army yet more than he had stirred the city. "Lay not to my charge," he said, "that which is in truth the wickedness of Appius; neither turn from me as from the murderer of my daughter. Her indeed I slew, thinking that death was better than slavery and shame; nor indeed had I survived her but that I hoped to avenge her death by the help of my comrades." Others also that had come from the city persuaded the soldiers; some saying that the power of the Ten was overthrown, and others that Appius had gone of his own accord into banishment. These words so prevailed with the soldiers that, without any bidding from their generals, they took up their arms, and, with their standards carried before them, came to Rome and pitched their camp on the Aventine.

Nevertheless, the Ten were still obstinate, affirming that they would not resign their authority till they had finished the work for which they had been appointed, namely, the drawing up of the twelve tables of the laws. And when the army perceived this they marched from the Aventine and took up their abode on the Sacred Hill, all the Commons following them, so that there was not left in the city a single man that had ability to move; nor did the women and children stay behind, but all, as many as could move, bare them company; for Duilius, that had been tribune, said, "Unless the Senate see the city deserted, they will take no heed of your complaints." And indeed, when these perceived what had taken place, they were more urgent than before that the Ten should resign their office. And these at last consented; "Only," said they, "do not suffer us to perish from the rage of the Commons. It will be an ill day for the nobles when the people shall learn to take vengeance on them." And the Senate so wrought that though at the first the Commons in their great fury demanded that the Ten should be burned alive, yet they were persuaded to yield, it being agreed that each man should be judged by the law according to his deserts. Appius, therefore, was accused by Virginius, and being cast into prison, slew himself before the day appointed for the trial. Oppius also, another of the Ten, whom the Commons hated for his misdeeds next after Appius, was accused and died in like manner. As for Claudius, that had claimed Virginia for his slave, he was condemned to be banished. And thus at the last, the guilty having been punished, the spirit of Virginia had rest.




Chapter XI. The Story Of Veii.

In the three hundred and forty-eighth year after the building of the city, the truce that had been for now nearly twenty years with the men of Veii being ended, ambassadors and heralds were sent thither to demand satisfaction for injuries received. So coming to the border of the land they encountered an embassy from Veii journeying to Rome. These made request that the Romans should not go to Veii before that they themselves had had audience of the Senate. Such audience they had, and obtained their petition; to wit, that satisfaction should not be demanded that year, because they were much troubled by strife among themselves. But in the year following there was war. For when the ambassadors came from Rome making the same demand for restitution as before, the men of Veii made answer to them in these words: "Make haste and depart from the land, else we will give you such answer as Lars Tolumnius gave to your fellows."

Now the story of Lars Tolumnius is this. Fidenae, that was a colony of Rome, revolted to Veii, of which city Lars Tolumnius was king in those days. And when the Romans sent ambassadors enquiring of the men of the city why they had done this thing, the ambassadors were put to death; and this was done, it was said, at the bidding of Tolumnius. But some have sought to excuse Tolumnius in this fashion. They say that he was playing at dice, and that when the men of Fidenae came to him asking, "Shall we do well to slay these ambassadors of Rome?" he said, "Excellently," not hearing what they said, but thinking only of the dice and of his game, for he had at the very moment thrown most fortunately. But it cannot be believed that in so great a matter he should have been so careless. This Lars Tolumnius was slain afterwards by Cornelius Cossus in single combat, and his spoils were dedicated in the temple of Jupiter, hard by the spoils which King Romulus won from the King of Caere.

When this answer was brought back to Rome, the Senate would have war declared against Veii without delay; but the people murmured, saying, "We have enough to do already with the Volscians, and why will ye have another war with the men of Veii, who will stir up all the Etrurians against you?" The tribunes took occasion by this to hinder the matter, and the war was delayed.

The next year there was war with the Volscians, and Anxur, one of their chief cities, was taken, and the spoil was given to the soldiers. They were greatly pleased with this bounty, and yet more when it was ordained that thereafter the soldiers should have pay from the public treasury. And now it was resolved, none opposing, that war should be declared against Veii, for which war a great army was levied forthwith, the greater part of the soldiers offering themselves of their own free will. Thus it came to pass that in the three hundred and fiftieth year after the building of the city, Veii was shut in.

In the third year of the siege the men of Veii, being weary of the strife which troubled them year by year in the choosing of their magistrates, made for themselves a king. But this thing was a grievous offence to the other Etrurians, who hated not so much kingship as the man who had been chosen to be king. The cause of which hatred was this, that the man, being angry because, by the vote of the twelve nations of the Etrurians, another had been preferred before him to be high priest, had caused their yearly festival to be broken off in the midst, a thing which the Etrurians, than whom was never a people more scrupulous in matters of religion, judged to be most impious. This thing he did by taking away the actors of plays, who were for the most part his own slaves. And now the whole nation, being assembled in council, decreed that no help should be given to the men of Veii so long as they should be under the rule of a king. But of this decree no mention was made in Veii, for the King gave out that if any man talked of such matters he should be held guilty of sedition. Nevertheless the Romans, fearing lest the purpose of the Etrurians might suffer a change, made the fortifications wherewith they had shut in the city to be double, having one face against such sallies as the townsmen might make, and the other turned towards Etruria, if perchance help should come thence to the city.

In this year also, because the Romans hoped to take the city by siege rather than by assault, winter quarters, a wholly new thing in those days, were begun to be built; and it was decreed that the army should abide before the city continually, not departing, as the custom had been, at the beginning of the winter. About this there was great debate at Rome, the tribunes protesting that the nobles had invented this device against liberty, contriving that the better part of the Commons should thus be kept away perpetually from the city; while the nobles on the other hand protested by the mouth of Appius Claudius, son of the decemvir, that in no other way could this war be brought to an end, for that it was a grievous waste of time and labour that the works which had been made with so much toil in the summer should be destroyed or suffered to perish in the winter. "The love of sport," said he, "takes them that hunt to the mountains, where they suffer frost and rain without complaint, and shall our soldiers be less enduring when they fight for their country? And if the Greeks were content, for the sake of a woman, to besiege the city of Troy for ten years without ceasing, and that far from their country and beyond the sea, shall we refuse to remain for the space of a year before a city which is not so much as twenty miles distant?"

While this matter was debated at Rome, the people inclining, for the most part, to Appius rather than to the tribunes, there came such tidings from Veii as made all men agree that the city must be attacked with all steadfastness and energy. The works of the besiegers were now pushed forward well-nigh to the walls, and the minds of all being wholly given to the finishing of them, it followed, that though they were diligently advanced in the day, they were the less carefully watched by night. The townsfolk perceiving this, a great multitude of men issued forth from the gates carrying torches in their hands, and set fire to the works, consuming in a very brief space of time that which had been finished after many months. Not a few also of them that would have stayed the burning perished either by fire or by the sword. When these tidings were brought to them the city was greatly disturbed. Nevertheless the matter turned to the public good. First they that had the dignity of horsemen in the State, but were not called to serve, came forward saying that they would serve, finding horses at their own cost; likewise a great multitude of the people offered themselves to serve as foot soldiers. Thus was there raised a great army, which, marching to Veii, not only restored that which had been destroyed by fire, but also made works that were larger and stronger by far.

In the fourth year of the siege the Romans suffered no small loss. First Anxur was lost, the garrison being surprised by the Volscians, and afterwards there followed great reverses at Veii. The men of Capena and Falerii came to the help of Veii, judging that if this city should be taken they themselves would be the next to perish. These fought against a certain part of the Romans, and at the same time the townsfolk sallied from the gates. And when help should have been given to them from the other part of the camp, because there was a strife between the generals, none such was sent; for the one said, "If my colleague be in need of help he will ask for it," and the other, for pride and jealousy, had rather be conquered by the enemy than conquer by aid of one whom he loved not. So it came to pass that Sergius (for he it was whom the men of Capena and Falerii had attacked) with his soldiers left the works and fled, some escaping to the other camp, but the greater part making escape to Rome.

In the seventh year of the siege there happened many marvels. Of these, for the most part? men took little count; but one seemed especially noteworthy, to wit, that the water of the lake of Alba rose to such a height as had never been seen before, and this without great rains or any other cause which might make the thing less to be wondered at. Messengers therefore were sent to the oracle of Delphi to enquire of the god what this might portend. But the Romans found, for so fate would have it, an interpreter of the marvel that was nearer at hand than the oracle of Apollo. As the Roman soldiers and the soldiers of Veii talked together at the outposts, a certain old man, an Etrurian, chanted in the fashion that prophets use this verse -- 

"Ne'er till the depths of Alba's lake be drained Shall Veii's walls by Roman arms be gained."

Of these words none at first took any heed, but afterwards some began to doubt what they might mean. A certain Roman therefore enquired of the townsfolk (for the siege having now endured for many years there had grown up acquaintance between them) who the man might be that had chanted this prophecy. And when he heard he was a soothsayer, he spake to him, saying that he would fain have some talk with him, for that there had happened to himself a certain marvel, and he desired to know how he might rightly deal with it. So the two went to a certain place by themselves, neither of them carrying arms. Then the Roman (for he was a young man and of great strength) caught up the Etrurian in his arms and carried him away to the camp, the Etrurians not being able to hinder him. So they brought the soothsayer to the general, and the general sent him to the Senate; and when the Senate enquired of him what it was that he had prophesied concerning the lake of Alba, the old man answered, "Surely the Gods were wroth with Veii that day when they put it into my mind to betray the thing which by the ordering of fate must bring about the destruction of the city. Nevertheless I cannot recall that which I once uttered by divine inspiration so that it should be as if it were unsaid; and perchance there is no less wickedness in concealing that which the immortal Gods would have revealed than in uttering that which they would have concealed. Know therefore that in the books of fate and in the lore of the Etrurians it is written that if ever the water of the lake of Alba shall increase, the Romans, draining it off in due manner, shall prevail over the men of Veii, but that before that shall have been done, the Gods will not desert the walls of the city." And when he had said this he expounded to them what the due manner of draining off the water might be. Nevertheless because the man seemed to be of small authority, upon whom it would not be well to trust in so great a matter, the Senate determined that messengers should be sent to enquire of the god at Delphi. In the ninth year of the war these messengers returned, bringing back this answer from the god.

"Let not imprisoned chafe the Alban Lake, Nor yet to sea its wilful passage take; Draw high its gates, but in the boundless plain Disperse its power, its pride of speed refrain; Then mount the breach, for then by Heaven's decree Long-leaguered Veii, Roman, yields to thee. Thy warfare done, throng thankful to the shrine, Repair thy great default, and pay me that is mine."

When this answer was had the Etrurian soothsayer was held in great honour, and the magistrates sought his help that all things might be done duly and in order. Especially they desired to know what rites had been neglected, and what solemnity left unperformed. As to this they discovered that magistrates not appointed according to due order had kept profanely the yearly festival of the Latins on the hills of Alba. It was commanded therefore that these should resign their office and that all things should be done afresh.

In the meanwhile there was held a council of the tribes of the Etrurians at the temple of Voltumna, and when the men of Capena and of Falerii demanded that the whole nation should join their forces with one consent, and deliver Veii from being besieged, they were thus answered: "Before we denied our aid to the men of Veii because they had not asked our counsel in a matter wherein such counsel was most needed. But now it is not we but our necessities that deny it, and especially in this part of Etruria, for there is come hither among us a strange people even the Gauls, with whom we have neither sure peace nor open war."

And now in the tenth year the games and the great festival of the Latins had been celebrated anew, and the water had been drained off from the lake of Alba, and the day was drawing near when Veii should perish. And because there seemed but one man whom the Gods were keeping to do this work for Rome, Furius Camillus was chosen Dictator, and Camillus chose Cornelius Scipio to be Master of the Horse. And now the general being changed, all things beside seemed to be changed also. First Camillus went to the camp that he might encourage the soldiers; and afterwards he raised a new army in the city, neither did any man draw back from the service. The warriors also of the Latins and of the Hernici came offering help, to whom the Senate gave public thanks. Then the Dictator vowed that he would celebrate the Great Games when Veii should have been taken; also he vowed to build anew and dedicate the temple of Mother Matuta, which temple King Servius Tullius dedicated at the first. And so setting forth, and putting to flight on his way the men of Falerii and of Capena, he came to Veii. There he strengthened the works, shutting up the enemy more closely than before. Also he commanded that a mine should be driven under the very citadel of the town. And that this might not be interrupted on the one hand, nor they that did it spent with labour on the other, he divided them that made the mine into six companies, and commanded that each company should labour for six hours. So the work was carried on without ceasing both by night and by day, till the mine was driven into the citadel.

After this, seeing that victory was now in his hands, and considering also that he was about to capture a very wealthy city, wherein was such spoil as had never before been taken in all the wars of the Roman people, he feared lest the soldiers should be provoked to anger if he should seem to grudge them the booty, or the Senate blame him if he should be too bountiful. Whereupon he wrote a letter in these words: "The favour of the Gods and my own counsels and the valour of the soldiers have brought it to pass that Veii will soon be in the possession of the Roman people. What then, think ye, should be done with the spoil?" On this matter there was great debate in the Senate; but at the last it seemed good that proclamation should be made to the people: "Whosoever will have a share in the spoil of Veii, let him go to the camp to the Dictator."

This proclamation having been made, a vast multitude set forth, so that the camp was filled from the one end to the other. Then the Dictator, after duly performing sacrifice, commanded the soldiers that they should arm themselves. Afterwards he prayed, speaking these words, "Apollo, God of Delphi, by whose guidance and bidding I have come to destroy this city of Veii, to thee I vow a tenth part of the spoil. And do thou also, Queen Juno, that now dwellest in Veii, follow us, I pray thee, to Rome, that is now our city and shall soon be thine, where also thou shalt have a temple worthy of thy magnificence."

When he had thus prayed, seeing that he had an exceedingly great multitude of men, he attacked the city on all sides at the same time, because the inhabitants would be thus at less leisure to observe the peril that was threatening them from the mine. As to the men of Veii, they knew not that the oracles of the stranger, yea, that their own prophets, had betrayed them, that the gods of their land were even now looking to dwell in the temples of Rome, and that even now their last day had come; neither did they think that their walls had been undermined, and that their very citadel was full of enemies. With good heart, therefore, they took up their arms and ran to the walls, marvelling what strange fury was this that drave the Romans to attack them thus suddenly, seeing that now for many days none had moved in the outposts. And some tell this story: that as the king of Veii was doing sacrifice, an augur that stood by cried aloud, "To him that shall cut in pieces the inwards of this victim shall be given the victory;" and that the Roman soldiers, being in the mine below, heard the words, and breaking open the mine, laid hands on the victim, and carried it to the Dictator. But whether this be true or no, no man can say; nevertheless it is certain that at the time appointed a great company of men, chosen for this end, suddenly came forth from the mine, in the temple of Juno, which was in the citadel. Of these some took the enemy in the rereward as they stood upon the walls, and some drew back the bolts of the gates; and others, seeing that the women and slaves were casting stones and tiles from the roofs of the houses, began to set fire to the city. And now, the armed men being driven from off the wall and the gates being thrown open, there ran in many from the host that was without. And now there was fighting in all the streets and squares of the city, and many were slain; till, the men of Veii growing feeble, the Dictator proclaimed that all such as did not bear arms should be spared. After this there was no more bloodshed; the inhabitants threw down their arms and surrendered themselves; and the soldiers, the Dictator permitting them, scattered to gather spoil. And when the Dictator saw how great was the spoil and of how precious things, being far beyond all hope and expectation, he lifted up his hands to heaven and prayed, saying, "If the good fortune of the Roman people seem over great to any god or man, I pray that such jealousy may be appeased by my own loss rather than by the damage of the State." But as he turned him after making this prayer he stumbled and fell. And this omen was judged by them that interpreted it by the things that followed, to look first to the condemnation of Camillus by the people, and second to the great overthrow of the city at the hands of the Gauls; both of which things will be related hereafter.

This day, therefore, was spent in the subduing of the enemy and in the plundering of the city; and never indeed was city more wealthy. The next day the Dictator sold by public auction all the inhabitants that were of free condition; the money from which sale was brought into the public treasury; and though none other was so brought the Commons took it ill. And indeed for such spoil as each man bare home with him, they thought themselves to be in debt not indeed to Camillus, that had referred to the Senate a matter that lay within his own power, but to him that had prevailed with the Senate that it should be given to the people.

All the possessions of the men of Veii having been now carried away, the Romans began to remove the offerings of the gods and the gods themselves; but this they did after the manner of worshippers rather than of plunderers. For certain young men, chosen out of the whole host, having first washed their bodies in pure water and clothed themselves in white garments, came into the temple, having made due obeisance; and so, with much awe, laid their hands on the goddess. It was the custom among the Etrurians that none should touch that image save the priests only. This having been done, one of the youths, whether speaking by inspiration from heaven, or in boisterous jest, cried, "Wilt thou away to Rome, Juno?" and the others cried that the image nodded her head. In after time it was said that the image even spake the words, "I will." Certainly it is related that it was moved from its place with small trouble, and that when it was carried to Rome it passed lightly and easily, as one that followed freely; and so was brought unhurt to its dwelling on Mount Aventine, where was built a temple, according to the vow of the Dictator, which temple he himself in due time dedicated.

Thus perished the city of Veii, than which there was none among the Etrurians more wealthy. For ten years was it besieged, both summer and winter; and now it fell not so much by force as by the art of the engineer.

The tidings of this thing being brought to Rome there was great rejoicing; because, for all the prophecies of the soothsayers and the answers of the oracle, and the greatness of Camillus, men had scarce believed that so strong a city, from which so much loss had been suffered in time past, would indeed be conquered, Straightway the temples were crowded with women that gave thanks to the gods. And the Senate decreed a thanksgiving of four days, such as never had been decreed before.

As for the Dictator, when he came back to the city, there went out to meet him men of all ranks and conditions. Such honour was rendered to him as had never before been rendered to any man. But when he rode through the city in a chariot drawn by white horses, men said, "This becometh not a citizen, nor indeed a man, how great soever he be. He maketh himself equal to Jupiter or Apollo." Afterwards, having contracted for the building of a temple to Queen Juno on Mount Aventine, and dedicated the temple to Mother Matuta, he resigned the dictatorship. And now came the paying of the tenth of the spoil to Apollo, according to the vow which Camillus had vowed. For the priests affirmed that the people were bound by the vow. It was commanded, therefore, that every man should set a price on the spoil which he had carried away from Veii, and should pay a tenth part to the god. This also turned away the hearts of the Commons from Camillus.




Chapter XII. The Story Of Camillus.

In the next year the Senate would have sent a colony into the country of the Volscians, giving to each man two acres of land and more. But the thing pleased not the Commons, who said, "Why do ye send us into exile in the land of the Volscians while this fair city of Veii lieth within view, having lands both wider and more fertile than are the lands of Rome?" The city also they preferred to their own, both for its situation and for the magnificence of its buildings both public and private. Their counsel, therefore, was that the State should be divided, and that the nobles should dwell at Rome and the Commons at Veii. But the nobles steadfastly withstood it, saying, "We will die rather than that such a thing be done. If there be such trouble in one city, how much more, think ye, will there be in two? Will ye prefer a city that is vanquished to that which is victorious? Will ye leave Romulus, your founder, a god and the son of a god, and follow Sicinius?" (This Sicinius was tribune of the Commons and had brought this matter forward.)

None was more urgent against this counsel than Camillus. "Verily," he would say, "there is nothing at which to marvel in these troubles. The whole state is mad, for, though it is bound by a vow, it careth for every matter rather than how this vow may best be paid. Of that which was paid for the tenth, verily a small part in place of the whole, I say nothing. This toucheth the consciences of all, but the state is free. But there is another matter of which I dare not be silent any more. We have set apart a tenth of those things which were moveable. Of the city and of the lands ye make no mention, yet were these comprehended in the vow." This matter the Senate referred to the priests, and the priests, having called Camillus into council, gave this sentence: "There is due to Apollo a tenth of all that before the uttering of the vow belonged to the men of Veii, and afterwards came into the power of the Roman people." Thus the city and the lands thereof were included. The money, therefore, was paid out of the public treasury; and the magistrates were commanded to purchase gold therewith. And when there was not found a sufficient quantity of this metal, the matrons, having first met and deliberated on the matter, promised that they would themselves supply the magistrates with gold, and carried all their ornaments to the treasury.

Never was anything done that more pleased the Senate than this liberality of the women; and, by way of recompense, it was ordered that they should thereafter enjoy this privilege, that they should use covered chariots whensoever they went to public worship or to the games, and other carriages on any day, whether festival or common. Notwithstanding, the tribunes of the Commons were still bitter against Camillus. "Verily," they said, "by his confiscations and consecrations he hath brought the spoil of Veii to nothing."

The next year there was war with the men of Falerii. These at the first, for fear of the Romans, kept themselves within their walls; but afterwards, not enduring to see the plundering of their lands, came forth, and pitched their camp about the space of a mile from the town, in a steep and difficult place. But Camillus, for he was the captain of the host, taking for his guide a man of those parts that had been made prisoner, left his place by night, and showed himself in the morning on ground higher by far. And when the enemy assailed him, as he was fortifying his camp, he put them to flight, putting them into such fear that they left their camp and fled to the city, but suffered much loss of slain and wounded before they could arrive at the gates.

The town was now shut up; but because they that were besieged had better supply of corn and other things needful than they that besieged, the matter might have been delayed no less than was the taking of Veii, but for the good fortune and virtue of Camillus.

It was the custom among the men of Falerii to use the same person for teachers of their children and also for their companions. Also, according to the Greek fashion, many boys would be taught by the same man. Now the children of the chief citizens of the place were in the charge of a certain teacher, that had the repute of excelling all others in knowledge. This man had been wont in time of peace to lead the boys out of the city for the sake of exercise and sport; and this custom he had not ceased even after the beginning of the war, but would take them away from the gates at one time in longer at another in shorter journeys. At length he took occasion to lead them farther than before, and to bring them, occupying them meanwhile with sport and talk, as far as the camp of the Romans. Taking them therefore to the tent of Camillus, he said, "I have delivered Falerii into your hands, for these boys that ye see are the children of the chief men of the city." To this Camillus made answer, "Neither the general nor the people to whom thou comest bringing this wicked gift is like unto thyself. With the men of Falerii we have not indeed friendship, yet we have with them as with all men a natural fellowship. War also has laws even as peace, and to these laws we have learnt obedience, even as we have learned courage. Our arms we carry not against lads of tender age, who are not harmed even in the storming of cities, but against men that carry arms in their hands. These I shall conquer, even as I conquered Veii, in Roman fashion, even by valour, by labour, and by arms."

When he had so spoken he commanded that the man should be stripped of his clothing, and that his hands should be tied behind his back. In this plight he delivered him to the lads to be taken back to the city, giving them rods wherewith to scourge the traitor, and drive him back to Falerii. There was a great concourse of people to see this sight; and the Senate was summoned by the magistrates to consider the matter. So great a change was wrought in the minds of men that they who a little before had been obstinate to perish like the men of Veii, now with one voice desired peace. Ambassadors therefore were sent to Camillus, who, having been bidden by him to go to Rome, had audience of the Senate, to whom they spake thus: "Fathers, ye and your generals have overcome us in such a fashion as neither gods nor men can blame. We therefore surrender ourselves to you, making no doubt that we shall live more happily under your government than under our own laws." Peace was granted to them on the condition that they should bring the tax for that year, that the burden of the Commons might be eased.

After this the Senate sent three messengers to Delphi bearing with them the offering of the Roman people to the god, namely, a mixing-bowl of gold. These messsengers were taken by pirates of Lipara and carried to that town. Now the custom at Lipara was that plunder so taken was divided among the people. But the chief magistrate of Lipara for that year, having a reverence for the character of ambassadors, and considering also that they were carrying an offering to the god, and knowing for what cause this offering was made, persuaded the multitude also. The messengers, therefore, were entertained at the public expense, and having been sent with a convoy of ships to Greece, were so brought back safe to the city of Rome.

In the fourth year after these things, one Marcus Caedicius, a man of the Commons, gave information to the magistrates that in the new street above the temple of Vesta he had heard a voice louder than the voice of man, that said these words, "The Gauls are coming." No heed was taken of this thing, both because the man that told it was of little account, and because the nation of the Gauls, dwelling far off, was little known.

Not only did the people of Rome despise the warnings of the gods, but also they deprived themselves, as far as in them lay, of all human help, driving away Camillus from their city. For, having been summoned to stand his trial by one of the tribunes of the Commons in the matter of the spoil of Veii (and it had chanced also that in those same days he had suffered the loss of a son that was almost grown to years of manhood), he called together to his house the members of his tribe and his dependants, being themselves no small part of the Commons, and laid the matter before them. And when they had answered him that they would contribute among themselves whatsoever fine he might be condemned to pay, but that they could not bring it about that he should be acquitted, he went into exile, first putting up to the immortal gods this prayer. "If I am not deserving of this wrong, cause, I beseech you, that this people may repent them that they have driven me forth." Being absent on the day of trial he was condemned to pay fifteen thousand pounds' weight of copper.




Chapter XIII. The Story Of Rome And The Gauls.

In this same year, being the three hundred and sixty and fourth from the building of the City, came ambassadors from Clusium asking help of the Romans against the Gauls. Now some men say that these Gauls crossed the Alps and took to themselves the lands which the Etrurians had before possessed, being drawn by the delightsomeness of the things grown therein, especially of wine, a pleasure before unknown to them. And they say also that wine was brought into Gaul by one Aruns of Clusium for the sake of avenging himself upon a certain Lucumo who had taken from him his wife, this Lucumo being a prince in his country, whom there was no hope that he could punish unless he should get help in some such way from foreigners. However this may be, it is certain that the Gauls crossed the Alps before this time by many years, and that they fought many battles with the Etrurians. First, in the days of King Tarquinius the Elder, one Ambigatus that was king of the Celts, who inhabited the third part of Gaul, sent his sister's sons to seek out for themselves new kingdoms, of whom one was directed by the oracle to go towards Germany, and the other by a far more pleasant way to Italy. These then having come to the Alps wondered how they might pass them, the top of them seeming to be joined to the sky. And while they doubted there came tidings how certain others, strangers like to themselves, and that had come seeking lands wherein to dwell, were attacked by the natives of the Salyi. (These strangers were the inhabitants of Phocaea, that had fled from their town when it was besieged by Cyrus king of Persia.) Having helped the Phocaeans to build a city, they themselves climbed over the Alps, and, descending on the other side, put to flight the Etrurians near the river Ticinus, and formed a city called Mediolanum.

After these came many companies of Gauls by the same way into Italy, those that were now fighting against Clusium being the nations of the Senones. And the men of Clusium, seeing how great was the multitude of this people, and what manner of men they were, being unlike to any that they had seen before, and of very great stature, and also what arms they carried, were in great fear. Knowing also that the armies of the Etrurians had often been put to flight by them, they determined to send ambassadors to Rome, asking help from the Senate, though, indeed, they had no claim either for friendship or alliance' sake, save only that they had not given succour to their kinsmen of Veii. Help the Senate was not willing to give; but they sent three ambassadors, brothers and sons of Fabius Ambustus, who should say to the Gauls, "In the name of the Senate and Commons of Rome we bid you do no harm to them who are allies and friends of the Roman people, and from whom ye have suffered no wrong. For them, if occasion demand, we must support even by force of arms. Nevertheless it will please us well to be friends rather than enemies of the Gauls, of whom we have now for the first time knowledge."

The message, indeed, was sufficiently gentle, but it was entrusted to men of too fierce a temper, that were, indeed, like to Gauls rather than to Romans. When the Fabii had set forth the commission in an assembly of the Gauls, there was made to them this answer: "We have not, indeed, before heard the name of the Romans, but we believe you to be brave men, seeing that the men of Clusium have sought to you for help. Seeing that ye would stand between us and your allies, and would deal by persuasion rather than by force of arms, we accept your conditions; only let the men of Clusium, seeing that they possess more land than they need, give up that which is over and above to the Gauls. On these terms only will we give peace. Let them answer now in your presence. And if they will not give the land, let them fight with us also in your presence, that ye may tell your countrymen how far we excel all other men in valour." "Nay," said the Romans, "by what right do ye ask land from them that possess it, and threaten war to them that refuse? And what concern have ye, being Gauls, with the men of Etruria?" To this the Gauls made reply in haughty words: "Our right we carry on the points of our swords, for to the brave all things belong."

Thus there was great anger stirred up on both sides; and they made ready for battle. And now (for so the destiny of the city of Rome would have it) the ambassadors, setting the law of nations at nought, went into the battle. Nor was this hidden from the Gauls, for not only were the three conspicuous for strength and courage, but one of them, Quintus by name, spurring out before the line, slew a chieftain of the Gauls that had fallen upon the standards of the Etrurians, running him through with his spear. And the Gauls knew him for one of the ambassadors, while he spoiled the body of the arms. Straightway the report of this thing was spread through the whole army, and the signal was given to retreat, for they thought no more of the Clusines, but would have vengeance on the Romans. Some indeed would have had the host march straightway; but the elders prevailed, advising that ambassadors should be sent complaining of the wrong done, and demanding that the Fabii should be given up to them for punishment. So ambassadors were sent, and when these had set forth the matter, the Senate was much displeased with the Fabii, and confessed that the Gauls demanded only that which was within their right. Nevertheless, because the Fabii were men of high degree, favour prevailed against justice. But lest they should be blamed if any misfortune followed, the Senators referred the decision of the matter to an assembly of the people; in which assembly favour and wealth availed so much that the Fabii were not only let go unpunished, but were even chosen with three others to be tribunes of the soldiers for the year to come. When the ambassadors of the Gauls knew what had been done, they were greatly wroth, and returned to their countrymen, having first proclaimed war against Rome. And now, though so great a peril was at hand, none at Rome thought or cared. And indeed it is always thus that they that are doomed to perish have their eyes blinded against that which is coming upon them. For though the Romans had been wont to use all means of help against enemies near at hand, and to appoint a dictator in times of need, yet now, having to deal with an enemy of whom they had had before no experience or knowledge, they neglected all these things. They whose rashness had brought about the war, having the charge of the thing committed to them, used no more diligence in the levying of an army than if they were dealing with one of the nations round about, but made light of the matter. In the meanwhile the Gauls, when they heard that the very men that had set at nought the law of nations had been promoted to great honour, were filled with fury, and forthwith snatching up their standards, marched towards Rome with all speed. And when the inhabitants of the country were terrified at their coming, the dwellers in the cities running to arms, and the countryfolk leaving their homes, the Gauls cried out to them that they were bound for Rome. Nevertheless the report of their coming went before them, messengers from Clusium and from other states hastening to Rome, from whose reports, as also from the great speed of the enemy, there arose great fear among the Romans. These levied an army with all haste and marched forth, meeting the Gauls at the river Allia, where, flowing down from the mountains of Crustumeria in a very deep channel, it is joined to the Tiber, about eleven miles from Rome. There they found the whole country, both in front and on either side, occupied by great multitudes of Gauls, and in an uproar with the loud singing and shouting with which this nation is wont to terrify its enemies.

And now the tribunes of the soldiers, having neither pitched a camp nor made a rampart to be a defence if they should be driven back, nor taken any account of omens, nor offered sacrifice (for they were careless alike of gods and of men), drew up their army in array, extending their line lest they should be surrounded by the multitude of the enemy. But even then, though they so weakened the middle part that their ranks scarce held together, they could not make their front equal to the front of the enemy. There was a little hill on the right hand, and this they occupied with a reserve. Against this reserve Brennus, the king of the Gauls, made his first attack; for seeing that the Romans were few in number, he judged that they must excel in skill, and that the hill had been thus occupied to the end that the Gauls might be assailed from behind while they were fighting with the legions in front. He judged, therefore, that if he could thrust down them that were on this hill his army might easily deal with the Romans on the plain, seeing that they far exceeded them in number. So true is it that on this day the barbarians were superior not in fortune only but also in judgment and skill. As for the Romans, neither the captains nor the soldiers were in anywise worthy of their name. Their souls were wholly possessed with terror, so that, forgetting everything, they fled to Veii, that had belonged to their enemies, and this though the Tiber was in their way, rather than to Rome, to their wives and children. The reserves were defended for a while by the ground whereon they stood, but the rest of the army turned their backs forthwith and fled so soon as they heard the battle shout of the Gauls. For they sought not to come to blows with them, nor even set up a shout in answer; but without making trial of the enemy, nor so much as daring to look at him, fled with all haste. In the battle, indeed, none were slain; but there was great slaughter among the rereward when these were crowded together in such haste and confusion that they hindered one another. Many also were slain on the bank of the Tiber, whither the whole of the left wing of the host had fled, first throwing away their arms; and many also were swallowed up by the river, either not knowing how to swim or from lack of strength, being overburdened by the weight of their coats of mail and other armour. Nevertheless the greater part of the men escaped safe to Veii; but none went from this place to the help of Rome, nor did they so much as send tidings of the battle. As for them that had been set on the right wing, these all went to Rome; and when they were come thither, delayed not even to shut the gate of the city, but fled straightway into the citadel. This battle was fought on the eighteenth day of the month Quintilis; nor was it ever lawful in Rome thereafter to do any public business on that day.

The Gauls were beyond measure astonished that they had vanquished their enemy so easily and in so short a space of time. At the first they stood still in fear, not knowing what had taken place; afterwards they began to fear some stratagem; at last they buried the dead bodies of the slain, and piled together the arms in heaps according to their custom. And now, not perceiving in any place the sign of an enemy, they began to march forward, and came to Rome a little before sunset. But when the horsemen whom they had sent on before brought back tidings that the gates were open, with none to defend them and no soldiers upon the walls, they were not less astonished than before, and came to a halt, fearing lest, in the darkness of the night and in a place whereof they knew nothing, they might fall into some peril. They took up a station, therefore, between Rome and the river Anio, sending scouts about the walls and the gates of the city who should learn what the enemy purposed to do in the great extremity whereunto they had been brought.




CHAPTER XIV. THE STORY OF ROME AND THE GAULS (continued).

Meanwhile the city was full of weeping and wailing, for none thought that they who had fled to Veii were yet alive, or that any had been saved from the battle, save such as were already come back to Rome. But when tidings were brought that the Gauls were close at hand, sorrow gave place to fear. And now the Gauls were seen to move backwards and forwards before the walls, and there was heard the sound of shouting and of the barbarous music that this people use. And still the inhabitants expected till an attack should be made upon the city. At first they thought that this would be done at the first coming of the enemy; but afterwards believed that it would be delayed until nightfall, that the terror might be increased by the darkness. Nevertheless all men bore themselves bravely, and altogether unlike to them who had turned their backs in such shameful fashion at the river Allia. For since there was no hope that the city should be defended by the small number that yet remained, it was resolved that all the young men that could bear arms, together with such of the Senators as had strength sufficient for war, should go up with their wives and children to the Citadel and the Capitol, where stores of arms and corn having been collected, they might defend the gods of Rome and the honour of the State. Also it was determined that the priests of Quirinus, and the virgins of Vesta with him, should carry away far from peril of fire and sword all that appertained to the gods, that their worship might not be interrupted so long as any should be left to perform it. For they said, "If the citadel and the Capitol, wherein are the dwellings of the Gods, and the Senate, which is the council of the State, and the youth that are of an age to carry arms, survive the destruction that hangs over the city, it is but a small matter that the aged should perish." And that the common people might bear their fate with the more willingness, the old men of the nobles that had been honoured in former days with triumphs and consulships affirmed that they would meet death together with the rest; neither would they burden the scanty stores of the fighting men with bodies that had no longer the strength to carry arms.

When the old men had thus comforted one another they addressed themselves to encourage the young. These they accompanied to the Capitol, commending to their valour and strength all that now was left of the greatness of Rome. And now when they who were resolved that they would not survive the capture and destruction of the city had departed, the women ran to and fro asking of their husbands and of their sons what they should do. But of these many were suffered to follow their husbands and kinsfolk into the Capitol, none forbidding, though none called them, for that which would have profited the besieged, by diminishing the number of the useless, seemed to be barbarous and cruel. As for the rest of the people, for whom there was neither room in so small a hill nor food in so scanty a provision of corn, these went forth from the city, as it were in a great host, towards the hill Janiculum.

Thence some scattered themselves over the country, and some made their way to the neighbouring cities; but there was no leader or common purpose, and each concerned himself with his own affairs only, for of the State all despaired. Meanwhile the priests of Quirinus and the virgins of Vesta, taking no thought for their own affairs, took counsel together which of the sacred things they should carry away with them and which they should leave behind, for they had not strength sufficient for the carrying of all; also in what place they might most safely leave them. It seemed good to them to put such things as it was needful to leave behind in a cask and to bury them in the ground within the chapel that was hard by the dwelling-house of the priests of Quirinus. The rest they, carried, dividing the burden of them among themselves, and went by the way that leads to the mount Janiculum, over the wooden bridge. And while they were mounting the hill, one Lucius Albinius, a man of the Commons, saw them, who was carrying his wife and children in a cart amongst the crowd that was leaving the city as having no strength for arms. This Albinius forgot not even in such peril the reverence due to religion, and thinking it shame that the priests with the holy things should go afoot while he and his were carried, bade his wife and children come down from the cart, and putting therein the virgins, with the sacred things, carried them to Caere, whither it had been their purpose to go.

Meanwhile at Rome all things had been set in order, as far as might be, for the defending of the Citadel; and the old men, going back to their homes, sat awaiting the coming of the Gauls with minds wholly fixed on death. And such among them as had borne the more honourable magistracies, because they would die having on them the emblems of their old glory, put on them the splendid robes which they wear who draw the ropes of the chariots of the gods, or ride in triumph, and so sat down in their ivory chairs before their houses. Some say that, following a form of words which Marcus Folius the chief priest repeated, they devoted themselves to death for their country and for the citizens of Rome.

The next day the Gauls entered the city by the Colline Gate without any anger or fury, for such as had been stirred by the battle had abated during the night; and indeed they had met with no peril in the field, nor did they now take the city by storm. So they came to the marketplace and thence looked about them on the Citadel, which alone in the city still preserved some semblance of war, and on the temples of the Gods. Here they left a guard of no great strength, lest haply some attack should be made upon them from the Capitol, while they were scattered; and the rest scattered themselves to gather spoil, some seeking it in the dwellings that were nigh at hand, and some in such as were more distant, thinking that they would find these rather untouched and abounding with riches. Thence again, terrified by the silence of the place, and fearing lest some stratagem of the enemy might be concealed thereby, they returned to the market-place and to the parts adjacent thereto. Here finding that the palaces of the nobles were open, and the houses of the common folk barred, they were slower to enter the open than the shut, for they beheld with no small reverence the men that sat each in the porch of his house, noting how great was the splendour of their apparel and their ornaments, and that the majesty of their countenances was rather that of gods than of men. So they stood marvelling at them as though they had been images of the gods, till a certain Marcus Papirius, one of the priests, smote a Gaul on the head with his ivory staff, the man having stroked his beard, which it was then the custom to wear of a great length. The barbarian in a rage slew him, and all the others also were slain where they sat. The nobles having thus perished, all others that were found in the city were slaughtered in like manner, the houses were plundered, and being emptied of their goods were set on fire.

For a while no small part of the city was spared, for the leaders of the Gauls said, "It may be that the hearts of them that keep the Citadel will be turned to surrender by the loss of their own homes." These indeed were full of grief and anger, seeing the streets of the city full of the enemy, and beholding new destructions every hour. Never indeed were men besieged in such evil plight, for they were shut out from their country, and saw all their possessions in the power of the enemy. For all this their courage failed not for one hour, though all about them was laid even with the ground by fire and sword, but were obstinate to keep the hill which was now the sole abiding-place of freedom. As for their troubles they took no account of them, nor had any hope save only in the swords which they carried in their hands.

The Gauls having spent their fury on the dwellings in the city, seeing that the spirit of the Romans was in no wise subdued, but was steadfastly set against surrender, resolved to make an assault on the Citadel. Therefore, at dawn of day, after signal had been given, they drew up their whole army in the marketplace; and then, setting up a shout and locking shields over their heads in the fashion that is called the "tortoise," they began to climb the hill. On the other hand the Romans did nothing rashly or in a hurry; but strengthening the guards at every point of attack, set their main body where the Gauls were coming; and these they suffered to climb the slope, judging that the higher they should have mounted the more easily would they be driven down. But when they were come to the middle of the hill, then the Romans ran down upon them, and made a great slaughter among them, driving them over the steep, so that never again, either with a part of their force or with the whole thereof, did they make trial of this manner of fighting. They set themselves, therefore, to take the Citadel by blockade. But for this they had made no preparation, having burned all the provision of food that was in the houses of the city, while that which was in the field had by this time been carried into Veii; wherefore, dividing their forces, they set some to keep watch on the Citadel, and some they sent to gather spoil in the country round about.

Now they that were sent to gather spoil came by chance to Ardea, in which city Camillus dwelt, grieving for his country rather than for himself, and marvelling what had befallen the men who with him had conquered Veii and Falerii. And now, hearing that the Gauls were near at hand, and that the men of Ardea, being in no small fear, were taking counsel about the matter, he came forward in the assembly and spake thus: "Men of Ardea, ye have now opportunity to repay the benefits which ye have received from the Roman people, concerning which benefits, how many and how great they be, there is no need that I remind you. And ye have opportunity also to win for yourselves great renown. These Gauls that are coming against you are great in stature rather than in strength, and make a terrible show in battle, but yet are not hard to withstand. For consider what has befallen Rome, They took the city when all the gates lay open; but now the Citadel, though it is kept by a small company, they are not able to take. Wearied already of besieging it, they are scattering themselves over the face of the land to gather spoil. Their manner is to gorge themselves with meat and great draughts of wine, and at nightfall to throw themselves on the ground like beasts, without defence or outposts or guards. And now by reason of their late victory they are careless even beyond their wont. If then ye would keep your city safe, and would not have this whole land become a part of Gaul, take all of you your arms at the first watch of the night. Follow me, and if I deliver them not in your hands, fast bound with sleep, to be slaughtered as cattle, then banish me even as the Romans banished me."

Now all that heard him knew that there was no man so great in war as he. Therefore, when the assembly was dismissed, they refreshed themselves and waited eagerly till he should give the signal. And when they heard it, they hastened to the gate of the city to meet Camillus; nor had they gone far from the city when they found the camp of Gauls was, as Camillus foretold, altogether without guards; and setting up a shout they fell upon it. No fighting was there, but only a great slaughter, for the men were naked and overpowered with sleep. Some also that were in the furthest part of the camp, being awakened by the uproar, and not knowing what had happened, fell into the hands of the enemy; and many going forth to plunder the lands of the men of Antium fell upon a company of the townsfolk, and were surrounded and slain.

Meanwhile the Gauls watched the Citadel at Rome, that none should go forth between the posts. And now there was done by a Roman youth a thing which both friends and foes greatly admired. The house of the Fabii had a yearly sacrifice on the Hill of Quirinus. A certain Quintus Fabius Dorso, therefore, that he might duly perform this sacrifice, came down from the Capitol, clad in the vestment that is used for such purpose, and carrying the holy things in his hands, and so came to the Hill of Quirinus, passing through the midst of the guards of the enemy, and heeding not their speech or threatening. There he duly performed all the ceremony, and, coming back by the same way, with look and step composed as before, returned to his friends in the Capitol, having a good hope that the gods, whose service he had not neglected for any extremity of fear, looked upon him with favour. As for the Gauls, they did him no harm, either for wonder at his boldness, or for religion's sake, for which indeed this people had no small regard.

Meanwhile they that were at Veii gathered daily both courage and strength, for not only did the Romans that had escaped from the battle or fled from the city assemble themselves there, but volunteers also from Latium flocked thither, hoping to share in the spoil of the enemy. And now it seemed high time that they should deliver their country out of the hand of the Gauls; only, though the body was strong, there yet lacked a head. Then, because the place wherein they were reminded them of Camillus, and because many of the soldiers had had him for their captain in time past, they all agreed that he should be sent for from Ardea. But first they would consult the Senate at Rome, so careful were they of law, not forgetting for all their extremity of peril that which was right to be done. Now there was no small danger in passing through the posts of the enemy. This a certain Cominius, a young man and of great activity, undertook to do; and he, supporting himself on corks, was carried down the Tiber as far as the city. There, climbing the side that was nearest to the river, where the rock was steep, and for that cause left unguarded by the Gauls, he climbed into the Capitol; and then, being brought before the magistrates, delivered to them the message of the army. Then the Senate passed a decree that Camillus, having been first in due form released from exile, should be Dictator, so that the soldiers might have him for captain whom they desired. With this decree the messenger returned to Veii by the same way by which he came, and messengers went to fetch Camillus from Ardea.

While these things were being done at Veii, the Citadel of Rome had been in great peril, for the Gauls either had seen the footmarks where the messenger from Veii had climbed into the Capitol, or had observed for themselves that there was an easy ascent by the rock of Carmentis. On a moonlight night, therefore, having first sent a man unarmed to make trial of the ascent, they set out. Their arms they handed one to the other, and when there was any hindrance in the way they supported or drew up each other, and so climbed to the top, and this so silently that they did not even wake the dogs, though these animals are very watchful for any noise that may take place in the night. But they escaped not the notice of the geese, for there were geese in the Capitol, and these, being sacred to Juno, they had not eaten, though being sorely in need of food. And this regard for holy things was their salvation. For a certain Marcus Manlius, being awoke by their cries and by the flapping of their wings, hasted forth, catching up his arms, and calling all the rest to do likewise. And they indeed were at first in great confusion, but Manlius drave the boss of his shield against a Gaul, for one was now standing on the very top of the hill. And the man fell and overthrew them that stood close at hand; and when the others in great fear dropped their arms and laid hold of the rocks, he fell upon them and slew them. By this time others also had rallied to him, and these, throwing javelins and stones upon the Gauls, beat them down, so that the whole company were overthrown and fell headlong down the steep. The rest of that night they slept, so far as they could for remembrance of the great peril from which they had been delivered; and at dawn all the soldiers were summoned to an assembly by sound of the bugle, it being needful to give due recompense both to that which had been well and that which had been ill done. First Manlius received both praises and gifts for his valour, and this not only from the captains, but from the common consent of the soldiers, every man carrying to his house, which was in the Capitol, half a pound of corn and half a pint of wine, a gift which seems indeed very small in the telling, but yet was a great proof of affection, the great scarcity of all things which prevailed at the time being considered, since all subtracted something from their necessary food to give it to this one man. After this the guards that had been set to watch the place by which the enemy had climbed up the hill were summoned to the assembly. Of these, though Sulpicius, tribune of the soldiers, had affirmed that he would deal with all of them according to military custom, only one was punished, all agreeing to throw the chief blame on him, and he, being beyond all doubt guilty in the matter, was by common consent cast down from the rock. After this the watch was kept more diligently on both sides, for the Gauls knew that messengers had gone to and fro between Veii and Rome, and the Romans remembered from how great a peril they had escaped.

Beyond all other evils of war famine troubled both armies. The Gauls were vexed with pestilence also, having their camp in low ground that lay among hills, and was scorched with the burning of the houses. If there was anything of wind also, this brought with it not dust only but ashes. All these things and the heat of the year the Gauls, who are accustomed to wet and cold, were little able to endure, so that they died, as it were, in herds; so that their fellows, wearied of burying the dead one by one, made great heaps of their carcases and burned them with fire. And now a truce was made with the Romans, and conferences held. In this the Gauls spake much of the famine as being good cause of surrender; whereupon, it is said, the Romans threw loaves of bread among their posts, as if to show them that there was no scarcity among them. Nevertheless their hunger was such that now it could neither be hidden nor endured. Wherefore, while Camillus levied an army at Ardea, the garrison of the Capitol, worn out with watching, and yet able to endure all other ills save hunger only, seeing that the help they looked for came not, and that when the guards went forth to their watch they could scarce for weakness stand up under their arms, were resolute that they should either surrender or ransom themselves on such terms as might be had. And this they did the more readily because the Gauls had made it plain that they might be persuaded by no great sum of money to give up the siege. The Senate, therefore, was called together, and the matter was entrusted to the tribunes of the soldiers. After this a conference was held between Sulpicius and Brennus, king of the Gauls, by whom it was agreed that a thousand pounds' weight of gold should be the ransom of a people that was thereafter to rule the world; a shameful thing, made yet more shameful by insult. For the Gauls bringing false weights which the tribune refused, King Brennus threw his sword into the scale that held the weights, saying at the same time words that no Roman could endure: "Woe to the vanquished!"

But both gods and men forbad that Rome should be ransomed in this fashion. For before the payment was made, the whole quantity of gold not having been weighed by reason of this dispute, the Dictator coming up commanded that the gold should be taken away, and bade the Gauls depart. These indeed made opposition, affirming that the covenant had been made and must be performed; to which Camillus made answer that it had been made without his permission by a lower magistrate he being at the time Dictator, and he warned the Gauls to make them ready forthwith to battle. To his own men he gave command that they should throw their baggage into a heap and gird on their arms. "Ransom your country," said he, "with steel rather than with gold, having before your eyes the temples of the Gods, your wives, your children, and all which ye most desire." After this he drew up in line of battle, as well as the place permitted, being covered with the ruins of the city. The Gauls, troubled by these things, which had happened beyond all their expectations, took up their arms and ran upon the Romans with much rage but little skill. And now (such change was there in fortune) they were put to flight no less easily than they had put the Romans to flight at Allia. There was yet another battle between the Gauls and the Romans; and this was fought at the eighth milestone on the road to Gabii, for to this place they had fled from Rome. Here there was slaughter without end. The camp of the Gauls was taken, and all perished, so that not so much as one was left to carry home the tidings. Then Camillus returned in triumph to Rome, being greeted by the soldiers in their rude fashion as a second Romulus, the true father and founder of his country.

Having now saved Rome by war, he saved it beyond all doubt in peace also, for he forbade the people to depart from the city and take up their dwelling at Veii, which counsel was urged more diligently by the tribunes now that the city had been burned by fire, the commons being not a little inclined thereto. But Camillus, that he might the more effectually hinder it, resigned not his office of dictator, according to custom, after his triumph, but still kept it till all these things were brought to an end.

First, being always careful of things that concerned the gods, he proposed that all the temples should be duly restored and purified; that the people of Caere should be admitted to the friendship of the Roman people, because they had given shelter to the priests and the virgins and the sacred things, and that games should be held in honour of Jupiter of the Capitol as having delivered the city from the enemy. The gold that had been taken from the Gauls, with that which had been taken from the temples, no one knowing to whom or to what place it appertained, was to be laid beneath the throne of Jupiter. To the matrons public thanks were given, with this honour, that they should be praised with funeral orations in like manner with men. Then he spake about the counsel of departing to Veii, showing them many causes why they should refuse it, and this above all others, that it was not lawful to worship the gods of their country in any other place but only in Rome. But that which prevailed with them more than all the speech of Camillus was a word spoken by chance. While the Senate debated the matter in the Hall of Hostilius, certain cohorts that were returning from keeping the guards passed through the market-place, whereupon a centurion cried out, "Standard-bearer, set up thy standard. We shall best remain in this place." And when the Senate heard these words they exclaimed with one voice, "We accept the omen;" and the multitude of the people that stood around approved.




Chapter XV. The Story Of Manlius Of The Twisted Chain.

There dwelt in Rome a certain Lucius Manlius, of the kindred of that Manlius that thrust down the Gauls from the Capitol, and men gave him the surname of Imperious by reason of the haughtiness of his temper. This Manlius was made dictator for this one purpose, that he might drive a nail into the wall of the temple of Jupiter. For it had been a custom in old time that whoever was chief magistrate at Rome should drive a nail in this place on the fifteenth day of the month September, to the end that the number of the year might thus be marked, there being in those days but small use of letters and figures; and this nail was driven into the wall that looks towards the temple of Minerva, because Minerva is the goddess of numbers. But in the days of Manlius this custom had been long since forgotten; and when it chanced that a pestilence came upon the city and nothing else availed to stay it (for besides other things stage players were brought from Etruria to make a show that might appease the anger of the gods), certain old men remembered that in former years such plagues had been stayed by the appointing of a dictator to drive in a nail. This Manlius then was thus appointed; but when he had done his office he conceived the purpose of carrying on war against the Hernici, and would have levied an army but that the tribunes of the Commons hindered him.

In the beginning of the next year one of the tribunes, Pomponius by name, brought Manlius to trial, bringing sundry accusations against him. For in the levy that he sought to make he had dealt cruelly with them that answered not to their names, causing some to be beaten with rods and casting others into prison. His surname also was proof sufficient that he was of such a temper as could not be endured in a free state. "And this temper," said the tribune, "he had shown not to strangers only, but even to those that are of his own blood. His own son, a young man uncondemned of any crime, he has banished from the city and from his home, forbidding him to have any converse with his fellows, and compelling him to work after the fashion of a slave. And for what fault in the young man, think ye, that he hath done this thing? Because he is not eloquent or ready of speech. But should not a father, if there be any natural kindness in him, seek to apply remedies to such defects rather than to punish them? Even the brute beasts, if their offspring chance to be ill-shaped, are the more careful to nourish and cherish it. But this Manlius has rather increased the affliction of his son, and made his wits yet slower than they were, extinguishing such natural power as he may have by causing him to dwell among the beasts of the field."

This accusation stirred great anger against the father in all men save only in the son himself. For when the young man knew that an accusation had been made against his father on his account he was much troubled. And that both gods and men might know that he desired to give help to his father rather than to the enemies of his father, he conceived a plan which indeed ill became a citizen and one who would be obedient to the laws, yet still was to be commended for its piety. Girding himself with a knife he came, none knowing his purpose, early in the morning to the city, and went straightway from the gate to the house of Pomponius the tribune. Then he said to the porter, "I must needs speak forthwith with your master. Tell him that Titus Manlius, son of Lucius Manlius, seeks him." The tribune, thinking that the young man had come full of anger against his father, to bring, it might be, some new accusation, commanded that he should be brought into his chamber. When they had greeted one another Manlius said, "I have somewhat to say to thee which thou must hear alone." So the tribune bade all that were present withdraw themselves. This being done Manlius drew his dagger, and standing over the bed, threatened that he would run him through therewith unless he should swear in words that he would himself dictate that he would never hold a meeting of the Commons before which to bring his father to judgment. The tribune, fearing the steel which glittered before his eyes, and knowing that the young man was not only of exceeding strength but also of a very fierce and savage temper, and being himself without arms, sware as he was bidden, and afterwards told what had taken place, showing that he had given up his purpose under compulsion. The people took it ill that they could not sit in judgment on a man of so cruel a temper; nevertheless they commended the son for his piety; and all the more because the harshness of his father had not extinguished in him his natural affection. The father indeed escaped not, being brought to trial, and the son reaped from the matter this reward, that in the following year, when the people for the first time, for so it chanced to happen, chose their tribune in the army, he was so chosen, having the second place among six; and this though he had done nothing either at home or abroad which might commend him to their favour.

In the year following there was a war with the Gauls, who had pitched their camp three miles only from Rome on the other side of the river Anio. A certain Quinctius Pennus, being made dictator, gathered a great army and encamped on the near side of the river. Now between the two armies there was a bridge, which neither the one nor the other would break down, lest they should seem to fear the enemy. For this bridge many battles were fought; and it could not be told, so equal was the strength on either side, to whom it belonged. At a certain day there came forth a Gaul of exceeding great stature and stood upon the bridge, crying with a loud voice, "Hear now, ye men of Rome, let the bravest man that ye have among you come forth, and let him fight with me; and according as I shall prevail over him, or he prevail over me, so shall we know whether Gauls or Romans are the better in war."

For a long time there was silence among the Roman people, for they were ashamed to refuse the battle, yet were loath to take the very first place in this great peril. Then Titus Manlius, the son of Lucius, came forth, and said to the Dictator, "I would never fight out of my due place in the host without thy bidding, not even though I should see victory clearly assured. But now, if thou wilt suffer me, I would gladly show to that brute beast that shows himself so confidently before the standards of the enemy that I am of the name of Manlius and of the kindred of him that drave down the Gauls from the Capitol." To him the Dictator made answer, "Thou doest well, Manlius, with thy valour and thy piety, both towards thy country and thy father. Go thou and show, the Gods helping thee, that a Roman cannot be conquered." Then his comrades armed the youth, giving him the long shield of a foot soldier and a Spanish sword, which, for its shortness, was well suited for fighting in close combat. Then they led him forward against the Gaul; and even noted how, for scorn of his enemy, the barbarian thrust out his tongue. So the two stood together between the armies, being ill matched, if one would judge by the appearance. The Gaul, indeed, was of exceedingly great stature, and was clad in a garment of many colours, and his arms were painted and inlaid with gold. As for the Roman, he was of the middle stature, such as is commonly to be seen among soldiers, his bearing being without pride, and his arms fitted for use rather than for show. He used no song of defiance, nor leaping from the ground, nor idle shaking of his arms; but kept his courage and wrath silent within his heart, nor showed his fierceness till the combat itself should need it. So they stood, and the two armies regarded them with hope and fear. First the Gaul, being like to some great mass that was ready to crush everything under it, thrusting forward his shield on his left arm, dealt a great blow on the armour of Manlius with his sword, striking with the edge (for the swords of the Gauls had no points), but harming him not, though the sound of it was great. But the Roman, first thrusting aside the shield of the enemy with his own shield, ran in close upon him, so that the man could not strike him -- his sword being over long -- and so driving his sword pointwise from beneath, smote him twice in the belly and in the groin, so that he fell his whole length upon the ground. And as he lay, he stripped from his body, to which he did no other harm, a chain of twisted gold that the man wore, and threw it, covered with blood as it was, about his own neck. Meanwhile the Gauls stood still for fear and wonder; but the Romans running forth with joy from their ranks to meet their champion, so led him to the Dictator. From this deed Titus Manlius was called "Manlius of the Twisted Chain;" and this name he handed down to his descendants after him.

About twenty years after this deed there was a great war between the Romans and the Latins (for the Latins demanded that one consul should always be of their nation, and, this being denied to them, made war against Rome) and this same Manlius was consul. Now it was needful that there should be discipline of the strictest sort in the army; and also, because the Latins spake the same tongue as did the Romans, and had their arms and all other things that appertained to war the same, the Consuls issued a decree that no man should fight with the enemy, save only at his post in the army.

Now it chanced that Titus Manlius, son of the Consul, being captain of a squadron of horsemen, rode so far with his squadron (the horsemen being sent out in all directions to spy out the country) that he was scarce the length of a spear's throw from the camp of the enemy, at a certain part where the horsemen of Tusculum had their station. The leader of these horsemen was Metius, a certain man of noble birth and renowned among his countrymen for his valour. This Metius, seeing the Roman horsemen, and Manlius the Consul's son riding in the front, and knowing him who he was (for indeed all the men of note in the two armies were known to each other), cried out, "Are ye minded, ye men of Rome, being but one squadron, to do battle with the Latins and their allies? What are the Consuls doing, and their two armies?" To this Manlius made answer, "They will come in due time; aye, one that is mightier than they, even Jupiter, will come also: Jupiter, who is witness to the treaties which ye have broken. If at the Lake Regillus we fought with you till ye were weary, so here also we will give you such entertainment as ye shall little like." Then said Metius, "Art thou willing, then, in the meanwhile, while the day on which ye will make so mighty a stir is yet coming, to fight here with me, that from the issue of our meeting all men may know by how much a Latin horseman is better than a horseman of the Romans?" Thereupon anger, or shame that he should seem to shrink from such combat, or, it may be, the will of fate, that none may escape, stirred the young man's haughty spirit, so that, taking no account of his father's commands or of the decree of the Consuls, he thrust himself headlong into a combat in which it mattered but little whether he was vanquished or no. The other horsemen removed themselves far off to look at the combat, leaving a space of clear ground for the two, who, driving their horses over the plain, met in the midst with their spears levelled. The spear of Metius crossed the horse's neck of Manlius, and the spear of Manlius passed above the head of the Latin. After this they wheeled their horses about, and Manlius, rising first to deal a second blow, smote the horse of the Latin between the ears; and when the horse felt the wound he reared himself upon his hind legs and shook off his rider; and when the man, sorely shaken by so grievous a fall, would have raised himself by help of his shield and spear, the Roman smote him with his spear in the throat, so that the point came out through his ribs, making him fast to the earth. Then Manlius gathered the spoils from the dead man, and rode back to the camp, his squadron following him with great joy. Being come to the camp, he went to the general's tent, knowing not what fate awaited him or whether he had earned praise or punishment. Then he said to his father, "I desired that all men should know that I am truly thy son; and therefore, having been challenged to combat, I fought, and now bring back these spoils from the enemy whom I slew." But the Consul, so soon as he heard these words, turning his face from his son, commanded that the bugle should be sounded and the soldiers called to an assembly. And when the men had come together in great numbers, he said, "Titus Manlius, thou hast had no respect to the authority of the Consuls or to the dignity of thy father, and, disobeying our decree, hast fought with the enemy elsewhere than in thy place, loosening thereby, so far as in thee lay, that military discipline by which up to this time the commonwealth of Rome hath stood and been established. And me thou hast brought into these straits, that I must forget either the commonwealth or myself and my own kindred. Rather, therefore, will we suffer ourselves for our own fault than suffer the commonwealth to suffer for us at so great a loss to itself. Truly we two shall be a warning, sad indeed yet wholesome, to our youth in time to come. As for myself, I am truly troubled, not only by that love for my children which is natural to all men, but also by the valour which, led astray by a false appearance of glory, thou hast shown this day. Nevertheless, seeing that the Consuls' power must either be established for ever by thy death or abolished for ever by thy escape, I judge that thou thyself also, if there is aught of my blood in thee, wilt not refuse to die, and so establish again that military discipline which thou hast weakened by thy misdoing. Go, lictor, bind him to the stake."

All that were present in the assembly stood stricken with terror at so cruel a command, and stood silent, but rather from fear than from obedience, each seeming to see the axe made ready against himself. Thus were they overwhelmed with astonishment, and stood holding their peace. But when the young man's head was smitten off and the blood was seen to pour forth, then, recovering themselves, they cried aloud and spared neither lamentations nor curses. Afterwards for the young man they made a soldiers funeral with all the zeal that they could show, covering his body with the spoils of war and burning it on a pile in a place without the rampart of the camp. From that day, when men would speak of some savage command or exercising of power, they are wont to call it a "Manlian rule." As for Titus Manlius the father, when he came back in triumph to Rome (for the Romans were victorious in the war, as will be told hereafter) the elders only went forth to meet him; the young men, both then and ever afterwards, so long as he lived, turned from him with hatred and curses.




Chapter XVI. Stories Of Certain Great Romans.

In the three hundred and ninety-third year after the building of the city there was seen suddenly to open in the market-place a great gulf of a deepness that no man could measure. And this gulf could not be filled up though all the people brought earth and stones and the like to cast into it. But at the last there was sent a message from the gods that the Romans must enquire what was that by which more than all things the State was made strong. "For," said the soothsayer, "this thing must be dedicated to the Gods in this place if the commonwealth of Rome is to stand fast for ever." And while they doubted, one Marcus Curtius, a youth that had won great renown in war, rebuked them saying, "Can ye doubt that Rome hath nothing better than arms and valour?" Then all the people stood silent; and Curtius, first beholding the temples of the immortal gods that hung over the market-place and the Capitol, and afterwards stretching forth his hands both to heaven above and to this gulf that opened its mouth to the very pit, as it were, of hell, devoted himself for his country; and so, being clothed in armour and with arms in his hand, and having his horse arrayed as sumptuously as might be, he leapt into the gulf; and the multitude, both of men and women, threw in gifts and offerings of the fruits of the earth, and afterwards the earth closed together.

About the space of thirteen years after these things there was again war with the Gauls; and when the Romans had levied a great army of ten legions of men, Camillus the Consul (being son to that Camillus that the city in time past) marched therewith into the Latin plain, and pitched his camp near to the marshes by the sea, over against the camp of the Gauls.

And while the two armies lay quiet, a Gaul of great stature, and having splendid arms, came forth, who, striking his shield with his spear, by way of token that he would have silence, challenged by the mouth of an interpreter any one that would of the men of Rome to do battle with him. Thereupon a certain Marcus Valerius, thinking that he might win for himself like renown with Manlius, that was surnamed of the Twisted Chain, came forth fully armed into the space between the two armies, having first obtained permission of the Consul. When these two were about to join battle, a crow lighted suddenly upon the helmet of Valerius, with his face towards the Gaul. And Valerius received it with joy as an augury sent from heaven, crying out, "May the god or goddess that hath sent this bird of good omen to me be favourable to me and succour me." Then, marvellous to relate, the bird not only remained steadfast in the place whereupon it had lighted, but as soon as the two began to fight together, raised itself upon its wings, and wounded with its beak and claws the face and eyes of the enemy, so that, terrified by so marvellous a thing, he was easily slain by Valerius. Now, up to this time the foremost lines of both armies had remained quiet; but when Valerius began to strip the spoils from the body of the dead man, the Gauls ran forward to hinder him. Then with yet greater speed ran the Romans to his help; and there was a great fight about the dead body. And Camillus seeing that the men were confident by reason not only of the valour of Valerius, but also of the manifest favour of the Gods, he cried aloud, "Soldiers, do as Valerius hath done, and slay multitudes of Gauls as he hath slain their champion." Thus was there won a great victory over the Gauls, for though some of them fought valiantly, the greater part fled before even the Romans had come within a spear's cast of them. As for Valerius, he was made Consul in the year following, though he was but twenty and three years of age (It was not lawful in those days that a man should be Consul till he was forty and two years of age); and he and his posterity after him had for themselves the surname of Corvus, which is, being interpreted, a crow. In the four hundred and twelfth year after the building of the city there was war between the Romans and the Samnites, in which war, when the one Consul, Valerius, had won a great victory, the other, Cornelius, was well-nigh destroyed together with his army. For, leading his soldiers into a certain narrow pass, he did not perceive that it was surrounded on all sides by the enemy, and that these were also on the higher ground above him. And while he doubted what he should do (for it was no longer possible that he should return by the same way by which he came), a certain Decius Mus, being a tribune of the soldiers, perceived a hill above the camp of the enemy, and that this hill might easily be climbed by soldiers lightly armed. Thereupon he said to the Consul, "Cornelius, seest thou that hill? Thereby we may save ourselves if we only make haste and occupy it; for the Samnites are blind that they have not occupied it before. Give me only the front rank and the spearmen of one legion; and when with these I shall have climbed to the top, do thou move forward with the legions, fearing nothing, for the Samnites cannot follow thee, having to pass this hill. As for us, the fortune of the Roman people or our own valour will deliver us." And when he had said this, leading his men by secret paths, he climbed to the top of the hill, the Samnites not perceiving what he did. And while these doubted what they should do for wonder and fear, the Consul escaped with his army. As to Decius also, they knew not whether they should surround the hill on all sides, and so shut him in, or, leaving a way open, should attack him when he should have come down to the plain. And while they doubted, darkness came upon them.

At the first Decius thought that the enemy would come up the hill against him, and that he should fight against them with advantage from the higher ground, but when they neither came nor yet began to build a rampart round the hill, he called his centurions to him and said, "What ignorance or indolence is this in these men, that they sit still and do nothing when they might by this time have shut us in? Surely we shall be as bad as they if we stop longer in this place than shall be convenient to us. Come then with me, and while there is yet some light, let us see where they have set their guards, and where we may find a way of departing from this place." So the centurions, having clad themselves in the garb of common soldiers, lest the enemy should know them, spied out the nature of the place. Afterwards, when he had posted the sentinels, he commanded that the rest of the soldiers should assemble at the second watch. To them he said, "Ye must hear my words in silence, not signifying your assent by a shout in soldiers' fashion. Such as shall approve my counsel let them come over to the right side; and if the greater part of you shall so come, we will abide by it. The enemy having neglected to occupy this place at the first, have neglected also to to shut us in with a rampart. Stay we cannot, lest we perish with hunger and thirst. Sally forth we must, if we are to be delivered. And if we wait for day, can we doubt that the enemy will do that which he should have done long since, and make a ditch and a rampart about the place? Night therefore is the better time, and if the night, then also this hour of the night is better than all others; for at this second watch the sleep of men is commonly the deepest. Follow me therefore even as ye have followed me hitherto. Let them to whom this counsel seems good come over to the right side." They came over all of them, and followed Decius as he led the way by a place which the enemy had left without guards. But when they were now come to the middle of the camp, one of the Romans, as he would have stepped over a sleeping man, stumbled upon his shield and so woke him. The man roused his neighbour, and he again others; and Decius, perceiving that he was discovered, commanded his men to shout; and the Samnites, being confused and scarcely yet awake, nor able to bestir themselves, could not hinder him and his men from escaping. The next day, after he had entered the camp of the Consul (for though he reached it before the night was spent, he would not enter till it was day, thinking that they came back to their countrymen with such glory as should not be concealed by darkness), Cornelius summoned the soldiers to assembly and began to set forth the praises of Decius. But Decius said, "I would counsel, Cornelius, that you postpone everything to the occasion of victory that is now given you. Attack the enemy while they are in confusion and scattered, for doubtless many have been sent to pursue me." This the Consul did, and won a great victory over the Samnites, and took their camp, wherein were slain, it is said, thirty thousand men.

As for Decius, the Consul gave him a golden crown and a hundred oxen, whereof one was white and of surpassing beauty, having gilded horns. And to each of the soldiers that had followed him he gave a double portion of corn for ever and an ox and two garments. And the legion set on the head of Decius a crown of grass, by which was signified deliverance from siege; his own men also gave him another such crown. Then Decius sacrificed the white ox to Mars, and gave the other oxen to his soldiers. To these men the rest of the legions made a contribution, a pound of corn and a pint of wine for each.

In the third year after these things, Decius being then Consul together with Manlius, there was a great war with the Latins. And while the armies lay over against each other in a place near to the city of Capua, there appeared to both Consuls, as they slept, the same figure of a man, only of greater stature and of more dignity than belongs to man, which figure spake to each the same words: "There is due to the Gods that dwell below, and to Mother Earth, from the one side a general, and from the other an army. And on which side soever of these two a general shall devote himself, together with the army of the enemy, to the Gods below and to Mother Earth, that side shall have the victory." When the Consuls had told their dreams one to the other, they ordered that sacrifices should be offered to avert the wrath of the gods; and that if the soothsayers examining the entrails of the beasts should find the signs therein to agree with the dreams that they had dreamed, one or other of the Consuls should fulfil the decree of fate. So they sacrificed the beasts, and hearing from the soothsayers that such signs had been found, they called the officers together and told them how they agreed that if either side began to give way the consul then commanding should devote himself for the Roman people and for his country.

On the morning of the day when the battle was fought (the place being near to Mount Vesuvius) the Consuls offered sacrifice each for himself. Then the soothsayer showed the Consul Decius how, the signs being in other respects altogether favourable, the head of the liver was wounded on that side that regarded himself. Manlius, on the other hand, found all things altogether favourable. Then said Decius, "It is well if the offering of my colleague has been accepted." After these things they marched forth to the battle, Manlius commanding the right wing and Decius the left.

For a while both armies fought with equal courage and strength. Then the Roman spearmen, being the front rank, gave way before the Latins, and fell back upon the rank behind them. Thereupon Decius cried with a loud voice to Valerius, "Valerius, we have need of the help of the Gods. Come therefore, and, as high priest of the Roman people, dictate to me the words in which I may devote myself for the legions." Then the high priest bad him put on the robe that is called Praetexta -- that is to say, having a stripe of purple about it-and to cover his head, and, thrusting his hand under his gown up to his chin, to say after him these words: "O Janus, Jupiter, Father Mars, Quirinus, Bellona, Gods of the households, Gods of the land, Gods of the dwellings below, I beseech you that ye grant strength and victory to the Roman people, and send upon the enemies of the Roman people terror, and panic, and death. And now I devote myself, and with me the legions of our enemies, to the infernal Gods, on behalf of the commonwealth of Rome and the legions of the Roman people."

Then girding himself after the manner of Gabii, and taking his sword, he leapt upon his horse and hastened into the midst of the enemy. To both armies he seemed to be more than man, being sent, as it were, from heaven, to avert the anger of the gods, to avert destruction from his countrymen, and to bring it upon his enemies; and the Latins were overwhelmed with terror, giving way before him wherever his horse carried him, and when at last he fell slain by a shower of javelins, flying from the place where he lay. As for the Romans, they fought with greater hope and courage, as knowing that they had been delivered from the anger of the gods.

When the battle had now lasted many hours, and the Latins had no fresh soldiers to bring up, the consul Manlius cried to the veterans whom he had kept behind, kneeling on one knee, till they should be needed, "Rise, and deal with the enemy as men that are fresh to the battle should deal with the weary. Remember your wives and children; remember also your Consul that has died that ye may have, victory." So the veterans rose and advanced, bringing up a fresh line against the enemy; nor could these withstand them, but turned and fled. Many were slain in the field, and many also in the camp, which was taken that same day. The day following the body of Decius was found, covered with javelins, with many dead corpses of the enemy about it; and the consul Manlius made for this a great funeral.

In the forty-second year after these things, Publius Decius Mus, being son to that Decius who devoted himself for the army in the battle of Mount Vesuvius, was made consul together with Quintus Fabius, having been consul three times before. In that year the Gauls had leagued together with the Etrurians against the Romans, having also upon their side the Umbrians and the Samnites. And the armies pitched their camps near to Sentinum, having a space of about four miles between them. Now it had been agreed among the enemy that on the day of battle the Gauls with the Samnites should fight with the army, and that the Etrurians with the men of Umbria should attack the camp. But this counsel certain deserters from Clusium declared to the Consuls. Thereupon the Consuls sent word by letter to their lieutenants that they should lay waste the country of the Etrurians. And this they did, working such destruction that the Etrurians with the men of Umbria straightway departed, that they might defend their own possessions. Then the Consuls made haste that they might fight before these should come back. For two days, therefore, they challenged the enemy to battle; but though a few were killed on either side, nothing worthy of note was done. But on the third day both the armies came down into the plain ready to do battle, and, while they stood, a hind that fled from a wolf ran down from the mountains across the plain that lay between the two hosts, and the two beasts went different ways, the hind among the Gauls and the wolf among the Romans. The hind, indeed, the Gauls slew, but the Romans gave place to the wolf to pass through their lines. Then a soldier that stood in the front rank cried aloud, "Look ye, flight and slaughter go that way where ye see the hind, a beast that is sacred to the goddess Diana, lie dead; but to us the wolf of Mars, whom we have left unharmed, is a pledge of victory, reminding us of him of whose race we come."

On the right wing of the enemy were the Gauls, and on the left the Samnites, Quintus Fabius being set to fight against these, and Decius Mus against the Gauls. At the first when the battle was begun the strength on either side was so equal that, if only the Etrurians or the men of Umbria had been there, the Romans had doubtless suffered some great loss either in the field or in the camp. Nevertheless the fashion of the battle was not the same in both wings. For Fabius and his legions defended themselves rather than attacked; Fabius judging that the Gauls and Samnites were most to be feared at their first charge, and that if only this could be sustained the day would go well with the Romans; the Samnites growing slack in valour, and the Gauls being unaccustomed to endure toil and heat for a long space of time, so that at the first they would fight with more than the strength of men, and at the last with less than the strength of women. Wherefore he kept the best strength of his soldiers till such time as the enemy were accustomed to be worsted. But Decius, being vigorous in body and of a high spirit, used his whole strength to the utmost in the very beginning of the battle. And because the foot soldiers seemed to him to fight with a certain slackness, he brought up the horsemen to their help. Then riding into the midst of one of the squadrons in which were many youths of noble birth, he cried to them, saying, "Follow me against the enemy. Ye shall win for yourselves a double share of glory if the victory shall be first won on this side." Twice did they put to flight the horsemen of the Gauls; but when they charged now for a third time, riding far on among the enemy, they were thrown into confusion by a certain new and strange manner of fighting. For suddenly there came upon them a number, of the enemy that stood upon chariots, and who, advancing against them with a great noise both of horses' hoofs and of wheels, affrighted their horses. Thus there came a sudden panic upon them in the very hour of their victory, and turning their backs they fled headlong. Then the legions also were disordered, many that stood in the front rank being cast to the ground and crushed, both by their horsemen and by the chariots of the enemy. And when the Gauls saw how the Romans gave way they pressed on, giving them no breathing space nor time of recovery. Then cried the Consul Decius, "Whither do ye fly? what hope have ye in flight?" And he strove to stay them as they fled, and call them back into the battle. But when he saw that he could avail nothing, so overwhelmed were they with fear, he called aloud on the name of Publius Decius, his father, and said, "Why do I delay any longer the fate that belongs to my race? This is the privilege of my house, to be victims whereby the dangers of the commonwealth may be expiated. Therefore I give myself, and together with me the army of the enemy, to Mother Earth, and to the Gods of the dead." When he had so spoken, he bade Marcus Livius, the high priest (on whom, when he went into the battle, he had laid his commands that he should never depart from his side), dictate the words by which he might devote himself and the army of the enemy for the army of the Roman people. Then he arrayed himself in the same manner and prayed the same words as his father had done in the battle by Mount Vesuvius. To this he added these words, "Lo! I carry before me terror and flight, slaughter and blood, and the wrath of the Gods of heaven and of hell; with the curses of death will I smite the standards, weapons, and armour of the enemy, accomplishing in one and the same place my own destruction and the destruction of the Gauls and of the Samnites." And when he had thus cursed both himself and the enemy he spurred his horse into the lines of the Gauls, where he saw them to be thickest, and so fell pierced through with many spears.

After the death of Decius the Romans fought with such strength and courage as seemed beyond the nature of men. For the Romans, when their leader was dead (a thing that commonly is wont to be the cause of much fear), stayed from their flight and took heart to begin the battle afresh. But as for the Gauls, and those especially that stood about the dead body of the Consul, they cast their javelins at random and to no purpose, as though they were beside themselves; and some were so stupefied with fear that they could neither fight nor fly. Then Livius the high priest, to whom the Consul Decius had given over his lictors, bidding him take upon himself the command, cried aloud, "The Romans have conquered, being delivered from peril by the death of the Consul. The Gauls and the Samnites are the possession of Mother Earth and of the Gods of the dead. Decius is calling and drawing to him the army that he devoted to death together with himself; and the whole host of the enemy is full of madness and fear." And while he set the battle in order again on this side of the field there came up two lieutenants whom Fabius the Consul had sent from the rereward to the help of his colleague. And when they heard that Decius was dead, and in what manner, they all addressed themselves to the battle with fresh courage. So when the Gauls stood in close array, with their shields set up before them, and it seemed no easy thing to come to close combat with them, the lieutenants commanded that they should gather together the javelins which lay on the ground in the space between the two armies, and cast them against the shields of the enemy. And when most of these pierced their shelter, and some that had the longer points were even driven into their bodies, the army was overthrown, not a few falling to the ground though their bodies were unhurt. Such changes of fortune were there in the left wing of the Romans.

Meanwhile, in the right wing, when Fabius perceived that the enemy shouted not as loudly as before, nor cast their javelins with as much strength, he commanded the captains of the horsemen to take a compass with their squadrons and fall upon the Samnites in the rear when he should give the signal. This done he bade the legions advance their standards. And when he saw that the enemy were beyond all doubt wearied with fighting, he called to him all the reserves that he had kept back for this end, and gave the signal, so that the legions fell upon the enemy from before and the horsemen fell upon them from behind at one and the same time. Thereupon the Samnites turned their backs and fled with all speed to their camp; but the Gauls, locking their shields in close array, stood fast. And now there came tidings to Fabius how that his colleague was dead; and when he heard them he bade the Companion Knights, being a company of about five hundred horsemen, leave the line and fall upon the Gauls in the rear; with whom went also a part of the third legion, to fall upon the enemy wherever their line should be broken by the horsemen. And he himself, having first vowed a temple and all the spoils of victory to Jupiter the Conqueror, marched to the camp of the Samnites. Then again was there a battle, for the multitude of them that fled was so great that they could not enter by the gates, so that they fought perforce. Then Egnatius, captain of the host of the Samnites, was slain. And in no great space of time the Samnites were driven within the ramparts and the camp also was taken. The Gauls also, being surrounded on all sides, could withstand the Romans no more. That day there fell five and twenty thousand of the enemy, and eight thousand were taken alive. Nor did the Romans escape without damage, for in the army of Decius were slain seven thousand and in the army of Fabius one thousand seven hundred. Fabius, having first sent men to search for the body of his colleague, gathered together in a great heap all the spoils of the enemy, and offered them for a burnt offering to Jupiter the Conqueror. On the morrow they found the body of Decius, covered with dead bodies of the Gauls, and brought it back to the camp amidst much weeping of the soldiers. And Fabius made for him as great a funeral as he could prepare.




Chapter XVII. The Story Of The Passes Of Caudium.

In the four hundred and thirty-third year after the building of the city there was war between the Romans and the Samnites. Now there is in the land of the Samnites a certain pass which men call the Pass of Caudium. Near to this the captain of the host of the Samnites, a man very skilful in war, Caius Pontius by name, pitched his camp, hiding it from sight as much as might be. This done he sent twelve soldiers, clad as shepherds, to Calatia, in which place he knew the Consuls to be with the army of the Romans. He commanded these men that they should feed their flocks not far from the camp of the Romans, one in one place and another in another, and that when the plunderers should fall upon them and take them they should tell all of them the same tale, that the legions of the Samnites were in Apulia, laying siege to the town of Luceria with all their might, and were on the point to take it. Now this same report had been spread abroad before of set purpose, and had come to the ears of the Romans; and now when these prisoners said the same words, agreeing all of them one with another, the Romans must needs believe it to be true. Now that the Romans would help the men of Luceria was manifest, because they were good allies and faithful, and because also, if it should be taken, all Apulia would fall away from them from present fear of the enemy. But by which way they would go men doubted much: for there were two ways, the one broad and easy, along the coast of the Upper Sea; but this way, as it was safe, so also was long. The other way, and this the shorter by far, lay through the Passes of Caudium. Now the nature of these passes is this. There are two deep glens, narrow and grown with woods, having mountains on either side of them; and between these there is a plain, of no small extent, grassy and well watered, and the road passes through the midst of it. But before a man can come to this plain he must needs go through the first pass; and when he would leave, if he will not return by the way by which he came, he must needs go through the second, and this is yet more narrow and difficult than the first. Into this plain, therefore, the Romans marched with their whole army through a cleft in the rocks -- that is to say, through the first pass; but when they came to the second, they found it shut with the trunks of trees and great stones. And now the stratagem of the enemy became manifest, and at the same time also there was seen on the mountains above them a great army of the Samnites. And when they went back in all haste to the pass by which they had entered, they found this also shut by a fence of the like sort, kept by armed men. Thereupon they halted, though no man had given the word, for they were utterly confounded, neither was there any strength left in their limbs; and they stood speechless, looking upon each other as men that sought for help. Nevertheless, the tents of the Consuls were set up, and the tools for fortifying the camp got ready, though it seemed an idle thing for men that were in such plight to fortify a camp; but because they would not make their trouble worse by neglect they addressed themselves to work, and, without bidding or command from any man, fortified a camp; but not the less they knew their labour to be in vain; nor did the enemy cease to mock at them. This being done, the lieutenants and the tribunes came together without any bidding, for the Consuls called no council, as knowing that there was no device or knowledge that could avail them. The soldiers also ran together to the Consuls' tent, asking from their leaders such help as the gods themselves could scarce have given. And while they doubted what might be done darkness came upon them. Some said, "Let us make our way through these things that bar the way," and others, "Why should mountains and wood hinder us while we have swords in our hands? Suffer us only to come at the enemy, whom we have conquered now for thirty years; there is no place whereon the Romans cannot prevail over the Samnites, how many soever they may be."

But others said, "Whither shall we go? and by what way? Shall we move these mountains from their place? for while they yet hang over us how can we come at our enemies? Truly we are given into their hands bound hand and foot, and they will conquer us without so much as moving from their place." Thus did they talk one to the other; and that night they thought neither of food nor of sleep.

The Samnites also doubted much what they should best do now that their counsels had so greatly prospered. With one consent, therefore, they wrote letters to Herennius Pontius, father to Pontius their general, seeking for his advice. Now Pontius was a very old man, and had long since withdrawn himself not from war only, but also from all affairs of state. Nevertheless, though his body was weak, the power of his mind was not abated. When he heard that the Roman army had been shut in between the Passes of Caudium, and that his son would fain have his counsel, he said, "Let the men go, and harm them not." And when, despising this counsel, they sent the messenger again, asking the same question, he answered, "Slay them all; spare not one." When they heard these two answers, being so different the one from the other, it seemed to Pontius that his father's mind had failed him, even as his body had failed him. Nevertheless, when all would have it that the old man himself should be sent for, he yielded to their desire. And Pontius the elder agreeing was carried to the camp, they say, in a waggon; and when he was come they brought him into the council. There he spoke, changing indeed nothing of that which he had said, but adding his reasons. "My first counsel I yet judge to be the best, for thus by a great benefit ye will make peace and friendship for ever with a very powerful nation. If ye follow my second counsel ye will put off war with Rome for many generations; since, losing two great armies, they will not readily recover their strength. But counsel other than these two there is none." And when his son and others of the captains asked him whether there were not some middle way, so that the prisoners should be sent away unhurt but with conditions according to the right of war, "That," said he, "is a counsel which will neither get friends for you nor rid you of enemies. For think who they are that ye will provoke by such disgrace. The Romans cannot endure to sit quiet under defeat, nor will they rest till they have got manifold vengeance for that which present necessity shall have compelled them to suffer." Then, the Samnites not approving either counsel, Pontius departed to his home.

And now the Romans, having sought many times in vain to break forth, and being now destitute of everything, sent ambassadors to the Samnites to seek peace, and, if peace were not given, to challenge the enemy to battle. To these Pontius made answer, "Since ye will not confess your plight, prisoners though ye be, I will send you under the yoke without arms, each having one garment only. As to the conditions of peace, they shall be equal and right. Ye shall depart from the land of the Samnites, and take away your colonies; and hereafter both Romans and Samnites shall live under their own laws. If these conditions please the Consuls, I will make a treaty with them; if they please them not, return not hither again." When this message was brought back there arose a general lamentation; for it seemed better to die than to suffer such disgrace. And when the Consuls knew not what to say, Lucius Lentulus, being first of the lieutenants, both in respect of valour and of the honours which he had received, then spake: "Consuls, I have often heard from my father that he only gave counsel to the Senate that they should not ransom their country for gold, and that he did this because the Gauls had not enclosed the capital, and that therefore they might sally forth, not indeed without danger, yet without certainty of destruction. I also would give like advice this day if we could come near our enemies to fight with them. But seeing this may not be, and that if this army be destroyed, Rome is destroyed with it (for how can an unarmed multitude defend it?) my counsel is that we accept these conditions. So shall we deliver our country, not indeed by our death, yet by our disgrace."

Thereupon the Consuls going to Pontius made with him, not indeed, a treaty, for such could not be made without the consent of the people and the ministry of the heralds, but a covenant, for which the Consuls, lieutenants, quaestors, and tribunes were made sureties. And because peace could not be confirmed forthwith it was agreed that six hundred horsemen should be given as hostages, who should suffer death if the covenant should not be fulfilled. But when the Consuls came back to the camp the grief in the camp broke out afresh, and the soldiers could scarcely be kept from doing them violence. "Your rashness," they cried, "brought us into this place, and through your cowardice we come out of it with disgrace. No guide had ye, nor sent scouts to explore, but went blindly, even as beasts fall into a pit. As for us, we have been overcome and yet have not suffered a wound or struck a blow." While they thus murmured the time came when they must endure this great disgrace. First they were bidden to come without the rampart, having no arms and one garment only for each man. Afterwards the hostages were given up and led away to prison. Then the lictors were commanded to leave the Consuls; and these had their soldiers cloaks taken from them, so that they who had just cursed them, crying out that they should be delivered to the torturers, now pitied them, turning their eyes away, and thinking not of their own condition for shame that the majesty of so high an office should be so brought low. First the Consuls were sent under the yoke, half naked, and after them the other officers, according to their rank, and lastly the soldiers according to their legions. The enemy stood about, mocking and reviling them; some they threatened with their swords, and others that seemed to bear themselves too proudly they wounded and even slew.

Then, going on their way, the Romans came near to Capua, but for shame and for fear lest their allies should desert them, entered not the city, but cast themselves down upon the road. But the men of Capua had compassion on them, and sent to them all that they needed, and entertained them both publicly and privately with all hospitality. But the Romans answered not a word, nor so much as lifted up their eyes, so overwhelmed were they with shame and grief. The next day certain young noblemen of Capua, going with them to the borders of their country, made this answer to some that questioned them in the Senate concerning the behaviour of the Romans: "These men are wholly sunk in grief and despair, and have lost not their arms only but also their courage. Verily they seem to have yet on their necks the yoke under which they were made to pass; and as for the Samnites, they have won a victory to which there will be no end. The Gauls took the city of Rome, but these men have taken the very courage of the Roman people." Then said a certain Calavius, a man of renown and venerable for his age, "This silence, this shame, this refusing of all comfort are signs of a wrath that is both great and deep. If I know aught of the Roman people from this silence will come loud lamentation to the Samnites."

Meanwhile these ill tidings had been carried to Rome. First they heard that the army was besieged; after that there had been made this shameful peace. Thereupon the soldiers, whom the magistrates had begun to levy on news of the siege, were dismissed, and a public mourning made by common consent. The shops were shut round the market-place, and also the courts of the judges; and the magistrates laid aside their ornaments and gold rings. At the first there was great wrath, not against the generals alone, but also against the soldiers, whom they counted unworthy to be admitted into the city; but when the army came in pitiable plight wrath was changed to compassion.

So soon as the Consuls of the next year were appointed they called the Senate to consider what should be done concerning the peace of Caudium. And first they bade Postumius, that was one of the Consuls, speak his mind. Then said Postumius (and as he spake he bare the same look that he had borne under the yoke), "I hold that by this peace the Roman people is not bound, seeing that it was made without their authority, but only they that made themselves surety for it. Let us therefore be delivered up to the Samnites naked and in chains by the heralds; so shall we set free the people if they be in any wise bound. I hold also that the Consuls should forthwith levy an army and march forth therewith, but that they should not cross the border of the enemy till all these things be duly finished. And I pray to the Gods of heaven that they be satisfied with our disgrace, and that they prosper the arms of Rome even as they have prospered them in time past."

To these words two tribunes of the Commons, having been among the sureties, made objection, saying, "Ye cannot set the Roman people free by giving up the sureties, but only by restoring all things as they were at Caudium. Neither do we deserve punishment because we saved the army; and seeing that we are sacred we may not be surrendered to the enemy."

To this Postumius made answer, "If this be so, men of Rome, give up us that are common persons; and as for these sacred tribunes, touch them not till their time of office be ended. Only, if ye will listen to me, afterwards, before ye give them up, beat them with rods in the market-place, and so take usury for the delay of payment. That the Roman people are bound by this peace I deny. Think ye that they had been bound if we had promised to surrender their city, their temples, their land, their rivers, so that all that now belongs to the Romans should belong to the Samnites? And if ye ask me why I made such a peace having no authority, I answer this only. Nothing at Caudium was done wisely, but all things foolishly. The Gods smote not us only, but also the enemy with madness. We went blindly into the peril, and they cast away the victory which they had won. For why did they not send ambassadors to Rome, seeing that it was but a three days' journey, that peace might be made in due form? Surely neither Fathers nor Commons are bound to that in which they had no part. We that were sureties are bound, and we will give ourselves up that they may work their will on us."

Even the tribunes of the Commons were persuaded by these words, so that they abdicated their office, and were given to the heralds to be led to Caudium together with the consuls and the other sureties. Thereupon the heralds, going before, when they came to the gate, commanded that their garments should be stripped from them that had been sureties for the peace, and that their hands should be bound behind their backs. And when the lictor, for reverence' sake, would have tied the cord loosely about the hands of Postumius, Postumius said, "Nay, but bind tight the cord that the matter may be done rightly." Afterwards, when they were come to the judgment-seat of Pontius, the herald thus spake: "Forasmuch as these men here present without bidding of the Roman people gave themselves as sureties that a treaty should be made, and so did great wrong, I now give up these men to you, that the Roman people may be set free from guiltiness in this matter." While the herald was thus speaking, Postumius with his knee smote him on the thigh with all his might, saying, with a loud voice, "I am a citizen of Samnium, and thou art an ambassador; I have smitten a herald contrary to the law of nations, so that ye will wage war not without good cause."

Then said Pontius, "I accept not this surrender, neither I nor the Samnites. If thou believest, Postumius, that there are gods, why dost thou not either undo all that has been done or stand by thy covenant? But I ask not this of thee, I ask it of the Roman people. If this peace please them not, let them send back the legions to their place. Let all that hath been done be undone. They shall have the arms which they gave up. Then, if ye will, refuse this peace. Will ye never lack a cause for going back from your word? Ye gave hostages to Porsenna and got them back by stealth. Ye ransomed your State from the Gauls for gold, and slew them even while ye paid it. Ye made peace with us that ye might get back your legions that were taken, and now ye would disannul it. Is this the law of nations, thou herald, as thou takest it to be? As for these men, I accept them not. They may go back to their own country and carry with them the wrath of the Gods whom they have despised. Ye will wage war forsooth with us because Portumius hath struck the herald with his knee. Ye will persuade the Gods that he is not a Roman but a Samnite, and that therefore ye have just cause of war against us. Shame that old men that have borne office should not be ashamed to work such mockeries in the light of day, excusing themselves for their falsehood by such tricks as verily children would count to be unworthy of them. Go, lictor, loosen the bonds of the Romans; let no one hinder them from going whither they will." So the Romans, having acquitted certainly their own faith, and it may be the faith of the State, departed to their own homes.

<eob>

The Motor Maids In Fair Japan

By

Katherine Stokes



Chapter I.

Off For Japan.


"The Motor Maids are off again," announced the West Haven Courier one morning, as if every citizen in the gray old town on the coast was not already well aware of it.

The four famous travelers and their chaperone, Miss Helen Campbell, were always off somewhere in the red motor car. If they were not making a voyage to England with the "Comet" stored in the hold of the ship for immediate use on arrival, or taking perilous journeys across the American continent in the faithful car, they were making excursions to Shell Island or Seven League Island, or down the coast to the Sailors' Inn.

"Where is it to be this time, Nancy-Bell?" Captain Brown had asked his daughter when she had broken the news to him that she must give up the spring term at High School for something far more educational than mere books. Perhaps the sea captain had intended to be stern when he asked that question; but Nancy had her own peculiar methods of dispelling sternness. A beaming anticipatory smile irradiated her face and scattered parental disapproval even as the warm rays of the sun scatter the morning mists.

"Japan!" she announced solemnly; and Captain Brown, who himself had made voyages to Japan in his youth, pricked up his ears like an old hunting dog when he hears the call of the pack. The name of High School faded from his memory. It was the high seas he was thinking of -- the great desert of waters, the fresh salt breeze and the foam track left by the little ship as it cut through the waves.

Without a word, he opened an old sea chest and drew out an atlas and chart. Nancy blinked her eyes and smiled happily. She wondered if the other girls were having as easy a time in breaking the amazing news to their parents. Would Elinor Butler's father and mother consent to her taking this long journey? Would Mrs. Price be willing to part with Mary for many, many months while that young person journeyed to the other side of the world? Captain Brown settled himself on a settee in front of the crackling driftwood fire and Nancy seated herself beside him.

"You see, it's this way, father," she began, while Captain Brown turned the leaves of the atlas with reverent fingers. "Billie Campbell's father is a great engineer -- "

"I've known him since he was a boy, child," interrupted the Captain.

"He's been invited by the Japanese government to go to Japan on some consulting work, and he says he can't live without Billie another summer, and Billie says she can't exist without us; so Mr. Campbell is to take a house in Tokyo and we are all to go. Mr. Ignatius Donahue is going to take us across to San Francisco in his private car. He says it's a very small return for something we did for him once, and the end of the story is that we are to sail for Japan in two weeks. Isn't that delightful, Captain Brown?" she added, giving her father a tight hug and kissing him on the end of his nose. "And aren't you overjoyed for your little daughter to have such an opportunity to see the other side of the world?"

The Captain returned the kiss with good measure and resumed his study of the maps and charts.

"You'll be a member of the Royal Geographical Society next," he observed.

"It's all happened because Billie Campbell has a mole on the sole of her left foot and a Gypsy once told her that was the mark of the wanderer."

"But you and Elinor and Mary haven't any moles on the soles of your feet, have you?"

"No, and neither has Miss Campbell."

"It's just as well," commented the Captain. "One is enough in the party if it's going to take my little daughter away from her home most of the time."

"Not most of the time, father," protested Nancy. "Only to Palm Beach and across the Continent and to England -- "

At this dangerous turn in the conversation, the door was pushed open and Billie Campbell rushed in, followed by Elinor Butler and Mary Price.

"It's all settled, Nancy-Bell," she cried. "Cousin Helen has consented and the girls can go. Everything depends on you, now -- "

"We are just studying the map," answered Nancy quickly, with a demure smile.

Immediately the other girls seated themselves in a circle about the sea captain and his charts, and Mrs. Brown, whose consent had already been gained, presently appeared with a large platter of cookies.

So it was that the Motor Maids and Miss Campbell sailed through the Golden Gate of San Francisco harbor one morning en route for the island empire of Japan. On the long and sometimes tedious voyage we will not dwell; nor shall we pause until we have left them on the piazza of their new home in Tokyo, while seven Japanese servants are making profound obeisances at the entrance and their attendant families, including three grandmothers and five funny little children, bob and bow in the rear of this formidable company.

Billie, who had scarcely left her father's side since the joyful moment of their reunion, hung on his arm and smiled up into his face inquiringly; while Miss Helen Campbell, his cousin, exclaimed:

"Dear me, Duncan; I thought we were to stay at a private house -- not a hotel."

Mr. Campbell, from his mysterious dwelling places in far distant lands, had made so many things possible for the Motor Maids that Billie's three friends had come to regard him as a kind of powerful spirit who had only to will things to happen and they happened. At first they were rather shy of the real Mr. Campbell, big and strong and splendid, the very image of his daughter, Billie, if she had grown half a foot and cropped her light brown hair closely all over her head.

"But, Cousin Helen, this is a private house," answered this human presentment of the good spirit, a subdued humor lighting his gray eyes, exactly as they had seen Billie's eyes kindle hundreds of times. "This is your very own villa and this is your staff of domestics," he added, indicating the regiment of servants who again bowed low like the chorus in a comic opera. "You are to regard yourself as queen of this little realm," he went on, pointing to the charming grounds and garden surrounding the house, "and you are to be in absolute command. Nellie and Nannie and Mollie and Billie are to be your maids of honor and I'll be general factotum and protector. As for the staff," he continued in a whisper, "their combined wages for one month amount to about one good servant's hire at home."

The maid in the front of the cohort now stepped forth. She was much older than the others; her hair was short and her blue cotton robe seemed severe and plain in comparison to the gay colored kimonos of the younger maids.

"This is our housekeeper and cook, O'Haru San," announced Mr. Campbell. "I shall leave you in her charge now and keep an appointment."

So saying, Mr. Duncan Campbell kissed his daughter, smiled delightfully on the company in general and hastened down the walk to the road, for the villa was in the suburbs of Tokyo.

"Will honorable ladies enter humble, small house," said O'Haru making an obeisance.

But before they could move an inch, the maids were at their feet deftly unfastening their shoes.

"What in the world are they doing?" demanded Miss Campbell.

"One never wears shoes in the house, Cousin, don't you remember? Papa told us so this morning," answered Billie slipping her feet into the straw sandals provided.

"Perfect nonsense!" exclaimed Miss Campbell, shuffling into the hall in her loose footgear. "I suppose I shall be expected to sit on the floor and eat my meals on a door mat," she complained, "and that I positively will not do. My old joints are far too stiff to be doubled up like a pair of nut crackers."

The girls giggled and the four little Japanese maids giggled, too; not that they understood a word of the language, but good humor is the keynote of the Japanese character and strangers are treated with a sympathetic courtesy and hospitality unequaled in any other country.

However, Miss Campbell's fears were immediately set at rest, for the long, low-ceiled drawing-room of the villa was furnished in European fashion with plenty of comfortable arm-chairs and sofas made of bamboo. The floors were covered with thick soft mats and the front walls facing the piazza were really sliding panels covered with opaque paper through which the light cast a soft mellow luster. As a matter of fact, Dr. and Mrs. Spears, the owners of the villa, had kept it as Japanese as possible without interfering with their foreign ideas of comfort. The only ornaments were several beautiful scrolls and screens and a few vases.

Instead of sitting down quietly and being served to tea, which was evidently the next duty expected of them by these formal domestics, Billie and her friends rushed from one room to another in a state of eager curiosity. They poked their inquisitive little noses into the charming bedrooms and even peeped into the mysterious kitchen quarters where O'Haru reigned supreme,

"It's Japanese enough to be pretty and American enough to be comfortable," observed Nancy, arranging her curls at one of the bedroom mirrors.

"I don't know why you call it 'American,'" objected Billie. "I think you should say 'international,' since beds may be imported from Turkey, Russia, Prussia, England, or France, to say nothing of Germany and Italy."

"Well, no matter what nationality it is, I'm glad I'm going to sleep on a bed instead of on the floor as Japanese girls do, with a little bench for a pillow to keep from rumpling my hair."

Just then a Japanese girl appeared in the doorway. She was quite young, perhaps seventeen, perhaps older, and enchantingly pretty.

"Her eyes are like stewed prunes," wrote Nancy to her mother that night, "rich and black and luscious. Her hair is as black as father's ebony box and quite as shiny; her skin smooth and creamy. She has a little rosebud mouth and a small straight nose and she wore the most beautiful kimono, all blue with a cerise sash or obi, as it is called. Her name is 'Onoye' and she's the daughter of the cook, O'Haru. She is just one of the maids in the house, I suppose, but she seems better class and she speaks a little English. Her mother adores her and I suppose Onoye is being spoiled Japanese fashion, which is very different from American fashion. Japanese girls are the most unselfish, uncomplaining, considerate, everything-that-I'm-not little souls I ever saw."

Nancy's description of O'Haru's daughter was not exaggerated in the least. Little Onoye, pausing timidly at the entrance to their bedroom, was a vision to charm the eye. She blushed, smiled deprecatingly and hung her head.

"Will honorable ladies be pleased to employ humble refreshment?" she announced in a funny high voice with a prim, precise accent.

The girls would have laughed if it had not been impolite. All their impulsive actions must be checked in this land of perfect manners, or they would certainly appear rude and rough.

"We should be most pleased and happy, I am sure," answered Billie, feeling that she must not be outdone in lofty expression, "But what excellent English you speak. Do you live here, too?"

Onoye looked up and her face brightened.

"I make studying of American language one time," she said.

"And are we to have tea now?" asked Nancy as the Japanese girl backed out of the room.

"If pleasingly to gracious ladies," she answered.

With bobs and bows, she led the way to a summer house in the garden where the others were already installed in comfortable chairs.

"These are certainly the most hospitable servants I ever saw," Miss Campbell was saying to Mary and Elinor. "They make one feel like a guest in one's own house. I am sure if I lived here long, I should learn to meet myself at the front door and invite myself to take refreshments in the garden."

The girls smiled lazily. They seemed somehow to have entered into a land of unrealities and dream pictures. The bamboo and rice paper villa was a doll's house, the lovely garden, a stage setting and the picturesque band of Japanese servants gliding noiselessly about, the chorus.

And while they talked and sipped their tea, a fat, decrepit pug dog came slowly toward them down the walk on spindle legs. As the aged creature approached, O'Haru paused and made it a profound bow. The girls choked and sputtered in their tea and Miss Campbell laughed outright. They learned afterwards that this venerable animal was "Nedda," the Spears' pet pug, eighteen years old, and that every servant attached to the household regarded her with great respect because they believed that she was really Mr. Spears' grandmother.

Old Nedda was very pleased to meet with a little human company of her own social status. She wagged her twisted tail cordially and when she heard American voices speaking the language of her youth, she gave a little expressive whine of pleasure.

"You poor old lonesome thing," exclaimed the compassionate Billie.

Just then a maid hurried up with a cushion. She had evidently been detailed to look after Nedda in the absence of the mistress of the house; to feed and bathe her; to see that she was covered up at night; to guard against her sleeping in damp places. Nedda stepped gingerly on the mat, moved round and round in a circle several times, even as the most primitive dog might do, and settled herself in a round heap for her late afternoon siesta. Then O'Sudzu, the little maid, spread a wadded silk cover over the pampered old Nedda and departed, bowing again.

They were still laughing over this absurd incident when Mr. Campbell appeared on the walk with two companions. One was a good looking young man about twenty-one and the other a Japanese in European clothes, and very handsome, the girls thought him, in spite of his Oriental features and dark complexion.



Chapter II.

Tea In The Garden.


Nancy Brown instinctively put her hand to her curls when she saw the three approach. Elinor patted her coronet braids. Mary blushed and shrank timidly into the depths of her chair, for she was very shy; and Billie, whose candid nature had no coquetry, looked calmly interested and remarked:

"Dear old Papa, there he is with two visitors."

"I'm not at all surprised," said Miss Campbell smiling, "your Papa is one of the most general inviters I ever knew. He always loved to entertain."

"How do my five beautiful American ladies feel?" called her jovial relation as he entered the summer house. "Rested with humble refreshment in poor modest little house?"

"Yes, indeed, honorable father," answered Billie laughing.

"I want you to meet my two friends, Nicholas Grimm and Yoritomo Ito," went on Mr. Campbell.

Nicholas Grimm was apparently a young Dutchman. His figure was well set up and stocky, his features regular, his mouth firm with a good square chin, and his clear dark eyes under bushy brows gazed on the world with a frank, good-humored expression.

Yoritomo Ito was the best type of Japanese, lithe and straight, rather tall, with shrewd brown eyes and a smile that always hovered about his shapely mouth. He was immaculately neat and his skin looked as if it might have been scrubbed and then polished. Not a speck of dust marred his spotless linen or his dark blue suit.

"Mr. Ito, will you sit on a mat on the floor or in a chair?" asked Miss Campbell when the introductions were over.

"Oh, he can be Japanese or American, whichever suits him," interrupted Mr. Campbell, "though I'll wager you didn't do much floor sitting when you went to Harvard, did you, Yoritomo?"

The Japanese's smile broadened somewhat when he answered with a slight accent:

"American floors are not intended to be used as chairs."

"Meaning, Mr. Ito, that the American floors are not as entirely free from dust as the Japanese floors?" inquired Miss Campbell.

"Oh, no, Madam," protested the Japanese, horrified at this implication of rudeness but unable to dispel the impression nevertheless.

"I grant you that our houses are not as clean as yours," went on Miss Campbell, "but you see we haven't time to remove our shoes whenever we enter the house, and then we have so much furniture and so many hangings to catch the dust. I don't see how you Japanese can resist the collecting habit in a country where there are so many beautiful things to collect."

"My dear Cousin, they are as great collectors as anybody, only they keep their valuables stored in a fire-proof house -- what is it you call it, Yoritomo?" asked Mr. Campbell.

"It is called in English language a 'go-down.'"

"So it is, a 'go-down.' It always reminds me of a steep grade down the side of a mountain. Here they keep all their best clothes and vases and ornaments and only bring out one vase and one scroll at a time. When they grow tired of those things, they are stored and something else is brought out, so that there is perpetual variety in the Japanese home."

"I should hate to have my best clothes locked in a fire-proof house," announced Nancy. "Suppose one wanted to make a quick change and the key was mislaid."

"Ah, Miss Nancy," laughed Mr. Campbell, "it is not difficult to see where your heart lies."

Yoritomo looked at Nancy with polite though evident interest which gradually developed into a cautiously veiled admiration. He was about to speak, when he was interrupted by the troop of little maids headed by Onoye with tea and refreshments. It was Onoye who served the young Japanese. First she bowed before him until her forehead almost touched the ground. Then she placed a mat for him to sit upon and a low lacquer tray containing tea and rice cakes. But Yoritomo, ignoring these humble services, sat himself in a chair next to Nancy and little Onoye hastened to rectify her mistake.

In the meantime, Nicholas Grimm was talking to Billie and Elinor.

"Are you from Holland?" they asked him.

"Several hundreds of years ago I was. Kinterhook, New York, has been my home for the last generation."

"Good," exclaimed Billie, "I thought you were a Dutchman and it's lots nicer to be an American, don't you think so?"

"I wouldn't care to change," answered Nicholas solemnly. "America's good enough for me."

"Are you one of the engineers on the new railroad they are building?" asked Billie.

"I'm going to lay a few ties," he answered.

"Are you going to build those little funny openwork bridges over all the streams?" demanded Elinor.

"Something like it. Everything is picturesque in this country from beggars to railroad bridges, and, speaking of bridges, have you explored the garden yet? There's a ripping little bridge down there. When Mrs. Spears gave garden parties that was one of the strolling places."

"Why, we didn't know we had such a pretentious garden!" exclaimed Billie. "Papa wrote that he had sublet a suburban villa near Tokyo with an acre or so of ground around it."

"An acre or so?" repeated Nicholas. "That's an estate to them. They can put as much into an acre without crowding it as other people put into ten. Perhaps you would like to explore the garden if you have had enough honorable refreshment?"

"Oh, yes," they answered eagerly, and drawing shy little Mary from the depths of her chair, Billie followed Elinor and the new friend down the garden path.

"Would you be interested in seeing the garden?" asked Yoritomo of Nancy.

"I might be induced," she answered drooping her long eyelashes, to the great amusement of Mr. Campbell, and they also wandered off, leaving the two older people for a cousinly chat.

The girls were amazed at the beauty of the garden back of the house. Against the high wall surrounding the small estate clustered masses of flowers. Everywhere were little winding paths and an occasional grove of stunted pines that gave the impression of great age. It was in exquisite order, the green turf clipped to the smoothness of a velvet carpet. In all the garden there was not a leaf nor twig out of place. Back of the house the land sloped slightly and at the foot of this gentle depression trickled a musical little stream. Here was a stone lantern five feet high, also the miniature curved bridge; and to make the picture complete in every Japanese detail, leaning pensively on the railing of the bridge, stood Onoye. She herself might have been a bright colored flower in her gay kimono and sash.

Only Mary noticed that the little Japanese was weeping softly. When she saw the Americans coming, she hastily withdrew down one of the paths and in another moment had disappeared entirely.

"Poor little thing," thought Mary, "perhaps her mother has been scolding her."

Perhaps she had, indeed, for O'Haru, the housekeeper, presently appeared looking for her daughter. Shading her eyes with one hand, she scanned the vistas of the garden.

Mary left the group of friends and hastened down the path.

"Are you looking for Onoye?" she asked the old woman.

"Yes, honorable lady," answered O'Haru, trying to replace her uneasy and troubled expression with a pleasant smile.

"She was on the bridge a moment ago. Is she unhappy? I think she was crying."

"Have greatly kindness to forgive humble Japanese girl," answered O'Haru in a low voice.

Mary thought the housekeeper was going to say more and no doubt, if she had poured out her confidences at that time, many later misunderstandings might have been averted. As it was, they were interrupted by Nancy and her Japanese cavalier who turned the curve of the path and came full upon them quite suddenly.

Instead of hastening away as quietly as possible, O'Haru immediately fell on her knees and began speaking in a low voice in her own language.

There was nothing unusual in this. All the servants seemed to be in a continual state of "nervous prostration," as Billie expressed it, and Nancy, smiling and dimpling, followed Yoritomo down the path without thinking any more about O'Haru.

"What was she saying, Mr. Ito?" she asked.

"You might accuse me of being a flatterer if I told you," he answered.

"But I don't understand."

"I mean she was speaking of you. 'The honorable young American lady,'" she said, "'is very beautiful.'"

Nancy was flattered, as who would not have been over this frank compliment. A rosy flush spread over her face and the dimple deepened in her cheek.

"You see, you are an unusual type in this country, Miss Brown," continued the Japanese. "You must expect to arouse comment wherever you go. Hair with so much color to it, like polished copper and curling, too, causes much admiration. You are very different from the Japanese."

Again Nancy felt flattered.

"I really believe I am rather pretty," she thought. What she said was: "You are very kind, Mr. Ito, but I am sure I think the Japanese girls are just as pretty as American girls. Little Onoye, our maid, is charming. She is a perfect picture."

For the rest of the day, however, vain Nancy was enveloped in a rosy cloud of self-satisfaction. It was pleasing to be admired and still more pleasing to feel that the admiration was justified.

The truth is, that admiration was quite as stimulating to Nancy as it is to the rest of us, and when she realized that the young Japanese had fallen an instant victim to her charms, she felt some pardonable pride in the power of her blue eyes and bright curls.

By this time the others had returned to the pagoda-like summer house.

"Come, Nancy, dear," floated Miss Campbell's voice across the garden. She was too careful a chaperone to permit one of her girls to wander at dusk with a strange young Japanese.

Nancy quickened her pace. Nevertheless, she felt a little impatient with all these restrictions.

"I am almost eighteen. I suppose I might be trusted to look after myself occasionally," she thought with some irritation.

"May I not see you again to-morrow, Miss Brown?" Yoritomo was asking.

"I am afraid you'll have to ask Miss Campbell."

"It is now almost the American dinner hour," he went on thoughtfully, looking at his watch. "If I should be strolling to-morrow at this time down by the bridge, it would be very pleasant. We could have a few words together."

"But -- " began Nancy, and the voices of her friends interrupted her.

They had paused near a great bush of azaleas in full bloom. Almost over their heads the silver crescent of the new moon hung poised like a fairy scimitar. It was exquisite and unreal. Nancy felt somehow out of place in the lovely picture, while the young Japanese, standing intense and rigid beside her, was as much a part of the Oriental garden as the stone lantern and the fragrant spice bush near the path. Even his blue serge European suit seemed to have lost its values in the deepening shadows.

"If I come every day to see you, there would be great comment," he said in a low voice. "But often I shall wait on the bridge about this time."

It was only a little time ago that Nancy's mother had lengthened her little daughter's skirts from shoe tops to ankles. The line of the old hem was still noticeable in some of her summer frocks. Just six months since, Nancy had tucked up the bunch of curls into a Psyche knot and transformed the ribbon bow into a velvet bandeau. Since she had been old enough to go to parties she had had boy admirers who had said sweet things to her. But this was quite different, and Nancy, almost eighteen, and capable of looking after herself, felt suddenly frightened.

"I -- I must hurry," she said, and turning she ran as fast as she could up the garden path nearly colliding with Billie and Mary who had come to look for her.

"Why, Nancy, you are chasing along like a scared rabbit," cried Billie. "Has anything happened to you?"

"Oh, no. I thought we had better run because it was so late," she answered breathlessly, while Yoritomo, following close behind, calm and collected, bade them a formal good night and hurried over to the summer house to pay his respects to Miss Campbell and her cousin.

Nancy decided that night not to tell Billie, her intimate confidante, what the Japanese had said to her. The walls were too thin, she thought. Besides, she was curious to know if Yoritomo would be on the bridge the next afternoon. Just how she intended to find this out, she had not then decided.



Chapter III.

Shopping In Jinrikshas.


"I feel very much like a baby in a baby carriage," observed Miss Helen Campbell as Mr. Campbell almost lifted her into the graceful little two-wheeled vehicle. "And is that poor soul going to turn into a horse and pull me?" she demanded.

"You aren't such a heavy load," replied her cousin. "I doubt if the S. P. C. A. would get excited over it. I am only sorry you have to be alone, but I suppose those four inseparables are paired off as usual. Billie with Nancy and Mary with Elinor."

"Indeed, I much prefer to be alone," said Miss Campbell. "Then I can hold on with both hands in case I am upset backwards."

"You never will be. They will treat you like spun glass. You will take good care of the ladies, Komatsu," he said to the 'riksha man who, leaning against the garden wall, resembled a bronze figure, brown and muscular.

"Gracious lady of fearing not need," answered Komatsu with an ingratiating smile as he stepped between the shafts of the 'riksha.

"It is impossible to tell how much English they know and how much they don't know," Mr. Campbell confided to his relative in a low voice. "They never ask twice and they always make some kind of an out at a reply. But I think, until I can go with you, it is safer for you to go in the 'rikshas. The common people here aren't used to motor cars and there are still some fanatics in Japan, you know, who are opposed to every sort of progress and the invasion of foreign customs."

"Good-by, Papa," called Billie, "I do wish you were not a working man so that you could go with us."

"I am sorry I must be a laborer in the vineyards, Miss Wilhelmina," he answered, "but it's only that you may ride in a fine carriage and wear a silk robe."

"Silk robe?" repeated Miss Campbell. "That's just what I want. Komatsu, we wish to go to a silk shop," she ordered the man-servant, speaking very loud and distinctly as if she were addressing a deaf person.

Komatsu grinned amiably.

"I bring honorable lady to fine shop with quickness."

The next moment the three vehicles were flying along the road drawn by three tireless individuals, whose good nature, like the widow's cruse, knew no diminishing.

It would be difficult to find in all the world a more beautiful city than Tokyo at this season of the year. It is really a city of gardens and everywhere are palms and pines and waving willow trees, magnificent arbors of wisteria not yet in bloom and splendid azalea bushes bursting into masses of white and pink blossoms. Even the humblest brown cottage has its bit of garden, for the love of flowers is innate in every Japanese nature: it is a national trait.

"There is no prospect that isn't graceful and picturesque," thought Mary watching an old fruit and vegetable man in front of them. He wore a dull blue cotton tunic much faded but still a heavenly color, and on either end of a pole resting on his shoulders was a flat brown basket filled with small oranges and vegetables of an unknown variety. Behind him walked an old woman in a dull brown and purple dress with an orange sash around her waist. Her back was burdened with a great bundle of bark. The sun was hot and many of the wayfarers carried paper umbrellas. Most of the women had babies swung on their backs and sometimes shiny little black eyes peeped out from the front of a kimono, the mother's arms being engaged in supporting another burden on her back.

"It seems to me the women work very hard in this country," remarked Elinor severely, pointing to a cart filled with charcoal propelled by two women and a man. One of the women had a baby on her back and another child holding to her skirts.

"They do," said Mary. "Even the women in the upper classes have to work hard. Don't you remember what the missionary on the steamer told us? The wife is always the first one up in the household no matter how many servants she has. She has to bring her mean old mother-in-law a cup of tea and get out her husband's clothes. The mother-in-law has had to work so hard when she was a daughter-in-law that she takes it out on her son's wife later."

"I'd like to see an American wife ridden by her mother-in-law that way," broke in Elinor indignantly.

"But then the Japanese daughter-in-law's turn comes later," said Mary laughing, "when she gets to be a mother-in-law. So it's all nicely balanced."

But the streets were too interesting to pursue the subject of mother-in-law any further. They were passing a row of open-fronted shops on the edges of which customers were squatted looking at materials while the proprietor bobbed and smiled and dickered over his bargains. Red and yellow banners hung in a row from the roof of the shop, the gay colored hieroglyphics on them indicating what manner of goods were displayed within.

"Here's a nice little silk shop, Komatsu. Let us stop here," called Miss Campbell.

But Komatsu only grinned over his shoulder and called:

"Too littleness for gracious big lady."

"But I like the looks of this place, Komatsu," said the gracious big lady helplessly.

However Komatsu had his own ideas of obedience and he trotted on, never pausing until he reached a large silk store thronged with clerks and customers.

Here all the 'rikshas drew up and the girls alighted with Miss Campbell, who was a little red in the face but determined to overlook the annoyance of orders disregarded.

The front of the store was screened from the street by dark blue cotton curtains behind which was a roofed platform carpeted with matting. Here sat a group of clerks, each with his soroban or adding machine at his side. Little Japanese boys, their shoulders loaded with bales of rich materials, staggered about, and through the open doors of the fire-proof warehouse they caught glimpses of costly stuffs stored away. An obsequious clerk who spoke excellent English came forward and presently, when their eyes became accustomed to the busy, brilliantly colored scene, they began to examine silk materials on their own account. Miss Campbell made each of her charges a present of crępe de chine and still was not very much out of pocket. As they were about to leave, they were followed by a chorus of shouts.

"What in the world is the matter?" demanded Miss Campbell uneasily. "Has the place caught fire, or didn't we give the right amount of change?"

"No, madam," answered the polite English-speaking clerk, who had accompanied her to the sidewalk. "They are saying farewell. In English it would mean, 'Thanks for your continued favors.'"

"Don't mention it," said Miss Campbell. "We'll come again."

The clerk smiled and bowed formally and once more they whirled away in their 'rikshas. They visited many shops in Tokyo that morning. It was like a fascinating bazaar and it seemed impossible to tear themselves away, although Komatsu kept always close to their elbows and several times observed:

"Muchly more time. Come again."

At last, just as an ominous mass of black clouds had spread itself over the heavens, against which the brilliant colors of the signs and the people's clothes stood out in bold relief, they started for home. But on the outskirts of the city great drops of rain pelted them in the face, the advance scouts of a tremendous downpour.

"Oh, Komatsu, we will ruin our clothes," cried Miss Campbell in alarm. "You must take us somewhere until the rain is over."

They were passing the high walls of a garden, the gate of which stood open. Without an instant's hesitation Komatsu turned in and the three 'rikshas raced up a broad walk toward a Japanese house at the end. Several smiling hospitable persons whom they took to be servants ran out with large umbrellas made of oiled paper and protected the five ladies, who hurried unceremoniously into the house just as the heavens opened and the rain came down in bucketfuls.

Three Japanese ladies, seated on the floor drinking tea, rose quickly and made low formal bows. The five refugees from the storm returned the bows with some bewilderment.

"I do hope you will pardon this intrusion," Miss Campbell found herself saying. "The storm was so sudden and terrible, we fled to the nearest house."

One of the little Japanese ladies bowed. She was evidently the mistress of the house, but she spoke no English.

Miss Campbell pointed outside to the rain and made expressive signs indicative of haste. It was really like being in a deaf and dumb asylum. Then the little lady smiled again and bowed again, and the others bowed.

"Good heavens, Billie, what am I to do? Must I continue to smile and bob and bow forever? Do come to my rescue!"

But the hospitable hostess now hurried from the room and presently reappeared followed by her maids, each of whom carried a little lacquered table. It was indicated that the American guests would confer a favor if they would seat themselves.

"I've never sat on the floor in my life," complained Miss Campbell in a low voice. "It will kill me. I am certain it will displace a ligament."

"You'll just have to, Cousin. Try sitting on your feet. That's the way they do."

"I think tailor-fashion would be easier," answered the poor lady. "Don't help me. They might take it for rudeness. Everything is bad manners in this country."

Crossing her feet, she slid slowly to the floor. The visitors were promptly served with delicious tea, rice cakes, candied fruits and other confections molded and colored like the flowers in season.

Certainly that was one of the most silent and ceremonious tea parties ever given. It was all dumb show, but the manners of the three Japanese ladies were exquisite. While this excruciatingly polite scene transpired, there raged such a storm of wind and rain that at each moment they feared the fragile bamboo and rice paper abode would be blown from its slight foundations.

"They won't lose much if it's blown away," thought Billie. "There's not a stick of furniture to be seen except a screen."

In one corner of the room was a splendid vase almost as tall as she was, and on the wall hung a scroll showing two women gathering cherry blossoms. On the floor were soft mats fitted closely together.

Suddenly Billie blushed scarlet.

"Oh, Cousin Helen," she exclaimed. "We forgot to take off our shoes."

"Don't speak to me," answered her relation. "My legs have gone to sleep and I have lost the power to move them. I am in an agony of pain."

At this moment a figure darkened the doorway. The three Japanese women rose and bowed low and the servants made obeisances. The five Americans were amazed to recognize their friend of yesterday, Yoritomo Ito. He was quite as amazed as they were, although he did not show it except by the flick of an eyelash, because no well-bred Japanese ever shows surprise.

"How do you do, Mr. Ito?" cried Miss Campbell. "Is it possible that this is your house we have broken into so rudely?"

It was indeed Mr. Ito's home, and, the three ladies were his mother, his aunt and his sister.

"It is a great pleasure, I am sure, that you have found refuge in my home. I trust they have served you well."

Then he spoke rapidly in Japanese to his mother, who smiled and clasped her hands with joy, as if heaven could not have bestowed a greater gift than the privilege to entertain these delightful foreigners.

"And are you the head of the family, Mr. Ito?" asked Miss Campbell.

"No, my father takes first place. He is a tea merchant in Tokyo. I have also a younger brother who works with him. He did not wish to go to America with me."

At this moment a human doll baby toddled into the room. His round little head was bald except for a thick mat of hair on top. His beady black eyes gleamed like polished glass. He wore a dark red kimono and his feet and legs were bare.

"Oh, the darling," cried Mary whose love of children overcame any shyness she might feel before strangers. The three Japanese were pleased at the attention the little person created. The girls gathered around him in a circle while he stood perfectly still regarding them curiously, as if they were some new strange birds which had dropped into his room from the skies.

Yoritomo also was pleased. He took the little fellow's hand in his and led him from one to another while his relatives stood in a beaming row.

Children are called "treasure-flowers" in Japan, and are petted and spoiled quite as much as American children.

"What a cunning little baby brother, Mr. Ito," said Nancy. "What is his name?"

"Kenkyo," answered Yoritomo. Suddenly he turned and spoke to one of the women and the "treasure-flower" was led from the room.

"Oh, don't send him away," objected Miss Campbell. "I haven't had half a chance to see him yet."

"He is not dressed to see distinguished visitors," answered Yoritomo, quickly. "My mother would like to show you some of her embroidery if you would care to see it."

So the subject of little Kenkyo was dropped and Madame Ito, hurrying away, returned in a moment with an armful of linen and silk on which she had worked the most wonderful floral designs.

In the meantime, the faithful 'riksha man, Komatsu, had trotted all the way through floods of rain to the Campbell villa half a mile distant, and now returned in company with O'Haru. Between them they carried a covered basket containing five mackintoshes, five pairs of overshoes and five umbrellas.

Komatsu was very angry with O'Haru. He explained to Miss Campbell:

"I not wish, but she coming without not wish."

He pointed accusingly at the sad old face. O'Haru, dripping and imperturbable, stood on the piazza near the entrance to the villa.

"That was very good of you, O'Haru; we appreciate your devotion," said Miss Campbell, but the housekeeper did not appear to grasp all this fine English. She seemed to be taking in every detail of the room and its occupants. Nobody took any notice of her. All the ladies and the servants were engaged in helping the guests on with their rain coats and overshoes. Mme. Ito insisted on doing up their hats in paper bundles.

In the midst of a great deal of leave-taking and much smiling and bowing, Yoritomo found time to say to Nancy:

"You see, chance has favored me to-day. The rain which kept me away from the bridge has brought you to my home."

Nancy blushed in spite of her efforts not to. She felt half pleased and half frightened at the earnest manner of the young Japanese. He was undeniably handsome and graceful, with a self-possession she had never seen equaled. Just then a dark figure darted across the floor so swiftly that it was like a flash of brown wings in the air. There was a low exclamation from the ladies, a bird-like chatter from the servants, and for one brief moment the surprised Americans beheld old O'Haru on her knees before little Kenkyo in the act of touching her forehead to the floor. She drew a beautiful, bright-colored toy from her bosom and gave it to the solemn-eyed little boy. Then, bowing again with extreme reverence, she rose and left the house. When they next saw her she was swinging along in the rain on her wooden clogs. Miss Campbell made Komatsu stop the 'riksha and invited her to climb in, but she refused politely but firmly.

"Extraordinary creature," exclaimed Miss Campbell, but Komatsu could offer no explanation.



Chapter IV.

The Garden In The Rain.


For three interminable days the rain poured down uninterruptedly. The floodgates of heaven had opened and it seemed as though they would never close again. The all-pervading dampness and chill brought illness to the Campbell household of a kind not to be healed by medicine. Homesickness it was, and it spread rapidly like a contagious disease. Only one member of the party of Americans was not afflicted and that was Mr. Campbell, who had lived in many climates and countries and was accustomed to seasons of rain and wet. Moreover, as he himself had said, he had no home to be sick for. He felt a supreme content in the thought of having his daughter with him and no amount of rain could chill his enthusiasm.

Miss Campbell took to her bed with an attack of rheumatism, brought on, she insisted, from having sat on the floor at the home of Mme. Ito. Mary began a diary of her experiences in Japan and had several private weeping spells entirely due to the unsurpassed dismalness of the weather. Billie endeavored to throw off her depression by giving Onoye lessons in English in exchange for lessons in Japanese, and in the course of these lessons she learned a little of Onoye's history. O'Haru had been obliged to go to work after the death of her husband who had lost all his property in a fire. Onoye's only brother had been killed in great "bat-tel." The family had had "muchly unfortune. All money gone -- nothing."

At the conclusion of this sad story told mostly by expressive gestures and queerly chosen words, Onoye smiled sweetly. That is the only polite thing for a well brought up Japanese girl to do even when her own misfortunes are the subject of the conversation.

"What a shame," Billie exclaimed sympathetically. "I should think you would learn something, some trade, I mean, Onoye. You are much too clever to be a housemaid. But I suppose you will marry. I hear there are no old maids in Japan."

Onoye shook her head and smiled sadly. Perhaps she did not understand Billie's remark because she did not reply.

"Old maid, Onoye, is one who never marries," explained Nancy at the dressing table arranging her hair.

"Ah, Komatsu old maid. He not marry."

"No, no, Komatsu is a man," said Billie trying not to laugh. "Old maid is a woman who has no husband, like Miss Campbell."

"Old maid," repeated Onoye, and because of what happened that very evening, it was evident that the retentive Japanese memory had not lost the words.

In the afternoon there came a characteristic note from Mr. Campbell to his cousin.

"Tell O'Haru to put on the big pot and the little," it ran, "and to kill the fatted calf. I am going to cheer up my gloomy household by bringing four men home to dinner. If it were not for these flimsy little card houses, I would suggest a dance afterwards, but I couldn't answer for the walls and roof if two young Americans danced a two-step in the parlor."

"I am sure a two-step is no rougher than one of these storms of wind and rain," observed Miss Campbell, feeling a sudden loyalty toward everything American, including dances.

O'Haru was informed of the party and the house became at once a beehive of activity. Several of the little maids, without being told, took down all the dresses in the wardrobes and began drying them out with square boxes of red embers.

"I'd like to be done the same way," remarked Miss Campbell. "I think I am just as mildewed as my clothes."

The kitchen quarters of the house fairly vibrated with the stir of preparation. In the living rooms the air was dried with small charcoal stoves. The gardener was seen bringing in armfuls of flowers; and with all the activity and preparation, there was no noise, not a sound. It was positively uncanny.

Late in the afternoon Nancy slipped away from this noiseless busy scene and tripped demurely down a garden path toward the bridge. She was not exactly bent on mischief but she wanted to satisfy her curiosity about something. The rain had lessened considerably but it was still necessary for her to protect her recently arranged curls with her small blue silk umbrella. In her mackintosh of changeable silk in two shades of blue, she made a charming picture coming down the rain-soaked path. The garden itself was a thing of beauty. On the end of every pine needle hung a crystal drop, and through the thin veil of mist clinging to the shrubbery a clump of azaleas glowed like a crimson flame. Taking a path to the left, Nancy began the gentle and almost imperceptible descent to the little bridge. The air was filled with the perfume of wild roses and late plum blossoms. It was really a fairy land, this Japan; a place too exquisite and unreal for human beings to live in. She began to sing softly to herself Elinor's favorite song:

"'Know'st thou the land of the citron bloom?'"

As she approached the bridge she felt a little frightened for some reason. It was rather reckless of her to come down to this lonely place in the late afternoon even if it was their own premises. It was the first time she had done it and she decided it would be the last. But as long as she had come, she would see it through. Nancy could hardly explain to herself what she meant by "seeing it through."

She would stroll carelessly down the path, walk across the bridge, pause a moment and walk back again, not looking behind her of course, as, if she were observed, and she was sure she was not, she would pretend she was out for a walk and had not expected to meet anyone. Thus Nancy reasoned with herself, but by the time she had reached the bridge she had changed her mind and was about to turn and hasten back, when she noticed a beautiful tea rose that had been laid conspicuously on the hand rail of the bridge.

"He has been here," she thought. "He must have just gone. The rose is quite fresh."

Sticking its long stem through the buttonhole of her raincoat, she glanced about her curiously. Somehow, behind every clump of shrubs and every branching pine tree she felt black eyes staring at her and yet she was sure she was alone. Again she started for the house, feeling profoundly relieved that Yoritomo had not waited, if, indeed, it was he who had left the rose. Suddenly Nancy's heart jumped into her throat and she felt a cold chill down her spinal column, -- and for no reason, except that standing in front of her was not a man, but a woman. The stranger was too tall to be a Japanese and she was dressed, moreover, in European clothes, -- a beautifully fitting tailor-made suit and English traveling hat of stitched cloth. But there was something faintly suggestive of the Japanese about her face. Perhaps it was the slightly slanting eyes and the smooth olive skin. Her hair was much lighter than her eyes and quite fluffy; her features were regular and there was a graceful dignity in the poise of her head on her shoulders. Nancy concluded after a swift examination that she was, if peculiar looking, still strangely fascinating.

"May I ask your pardon for intruding on your beautiful gardens?" began the woman, speaking with a slightly English accent. "I did not expect to meet any one on this rainy afternoon."

Nancy wondered how she had got into the garden and where she had come from. These things the stranger did not explain. However, Nancy answered politely:

"It isn't my garden, but I am sure Mr. Campbell would be delighted to have other people enjoy it."

"You are a sweet child," said the woman, deliberately taking Nancy's chin in her hand and looking down at her, "a sweet, exquisite child."

After all, Nancy decided, this mysterious lady was both fascinating and beautiful.

"And who is Mr. Campbell?"

Nancy explained. In fact, after a few leading questions, she disclosed the entire history of the household; who they were, how long they expected to stay, and how they happened to be spending the summer in Japan.

"Is it possible that you are the Motor Maids who have ridden so many thousands of miles in a red car?" asked the stranger.

Nancy opened her eyes.

"Yes," she answered. "But we never dreamed we were so famous as that."

"Ah, you will find that Tokyo is not so far removed from the world," answered the woman, smiling gravely. "And Mr. Campbell is building a railroad, you say?"

"No, I didn't say so," replied Nancy, a little surprised. "He's not building anything that I know of. He is being consulted, or something."

But the stranger did not seem to have heard her.

"I must be going," she said absently. "You are an adorably pretty child. It's been a pleasure to see you. I only wandered in here because I was unhappy and wanted to be alone, but you have cheered me up. Run along, now, and don't walk in Japanese gardens at dusk unattended too often." Her glance fell on the tea rose. "And remember that the Japanese do not understand the meaning of the word 'flirtation.' Good-by, ma cherie, belle et charmante. You won't tell your Mr. Campbell that I trespassed on his garden, will you? Promise?"

"I promise," answered Nancy, quite bewildered and fascinated.

Then the mysterious lady disappeared down a dripping path and Nancy was left standing alone in the rain.

"I am sorry I promised," was her first thought. "It would have been such fun to tell Billie." But her second thought was: "Billie would have asked me why I had gone walking at dusk in the rain, and what a teasing I should have got."

It was late and she hurried back to dress for dinner. No one had missed her because Billie had been helping Miss Campbell into her best evening frock, and the others were all engaged in their own toilets.

That evening at half past seven a very jolly party gathered around the dinner table, which was a miracle of beauty with its decorations of apple blossoms. Besides Nicholas Grimm and Yoritomo Ito, there were two Englishmen, Reginald Carlton, a young man who was taking a trip around the world by way of finishing his education, and Mr. Buxton, an older man who lived in Tokyo. All the men wore evening clothes, although Mr. Campbell had sighed when Billie made him appear in his. He was a man of camps and open air and seldom appeared in society. Nancy watched his rugged, handsome face admiringly.

"What a splendid looking man he is," she was thinking, when Yoritomo at her right said in a low voice:

"You did go to the bridge."

"How do you know?" she asked.

"Because I saw the rose. It was fastened on your rain coat, which you left on a hook in the passage with your wet umbrella."

"I only went for the air," said Nancy hastily. "I shall not go again alone."

Yoritomo's face darkened, and he turned his attention to his dinner.

In the meantime the others were all amusing themselves in various ways, and there was a great deal of talk and laughter. Miss Campbell felt rejuvenated and her rheumatic twinges had entirely disappeared.

"There is nothing like a little pleasure for driving acidity out of the system," she thought, as she finished the last spoonful of her dessert of beautifully preserved fruits.

Onoye had entered, carrying a small lacquered tray on which lay a square, foreign-looking visiting card.

"A lady calling to the honorable old maid," she announced calmly at Miss Campbell's elbow.

"The what?" cried Mr. Campbell.

"The honorable old maid," repeated poor Onoye, with her precise accent, smiling innocently.

There was a perfect shout of laughter. Only Yoritomo's face remained impassive, but who could tell what angry thoughts were hidden behind that mask-like face? Billie tried to explain how the mistake had occurred, and Onoye rushed from the room in an agony of embarrassment and shame.

"Don't scold her, Cousin. She thought she had learned a new English word," Billie besought Miss Campbell.

"Scold her? I should think not. I don't mind being called an 'honorable old maid,' I am sure. But who is this caller, I wonder?" she added, in a lower voice.

Mr. Campbell examined the card with some curiosity. "Mme. Marie Fontaine," it read. Miss Campbell hastened into the drawing-room, and Nancy, peeping through the doors a few minutes later, was surprised to find that Mme. Fontame was her recent companion in the garden.

The visit was very brief, and Miss Campbell presently returned looking somewhat amused and a little annoyed.

"Mme. Fontaine wished to know if she might have an interview with the Motor Maids on the subject of their motor trip across the American continent and through the British Isles."

"And what did you tell her?" demanded the four girls in one voice, it must be confessed somewhat eagerly.

"I told her that while we appreciated the compliment, it would be impossible."

"Quite right," said Mr. Campbell. "Publicity is the thing of all others I wish to avoid, and if an article like that appeared in a Tokyo paper, either in Japanese or English, you would probably be the object of the most disagreeable curiosity. Am I not right, Yoritomo?"

"Oh, yes. It would not be agreeable to the young ladies. Many people would come to look at them."

"I am very glad my action is approved, then," said Miss Campbell. "I have an old-fashioned horror of notoriety like that, and I am sure none of my girls would care to see herself in a newspaper. Would she?"

"No, indeed," they answered promptly in a chorus.

In a secret place in Nancy's mind, however, she saw a picture of her own pretty face occupying at least one-third of a newspaper page and underneath, blazoned in large letters: "The Beautiful Miss Anne Starbuck Brown, One of the Famous Motor Maids."



Chapter V.

In The Library.


The house Mr. Campbell had sub-let for the summer was somewhat labyrinthian in design, since it was only one story high and contained many rooms for living and sleeping, besides the servants' quarters in the rear. Mr. Spears had engaged a Japanese architect to build the house and Japanese and European ideas were curiously combined in its construction. Down the middle ran a broad hall, intersected at the back by another hall running across the house. This was known as "the passage," and it was in a manner a social boundary line, dividing the quarters of master and servants. Only one opening broke the monotony of the uninterrupted partition on the far side of the passage. This was the door into the library which had been placed in a quiet and out-of-the-way corner overlooking the garden.

This library was decidedly the most attractive and home-like room in the villa. There was a large open fireplace at one end where a pile of blazing logs now crackled cheerfully. It would have taken an immense "go-down" to accommodate all the books which lined the walls. But Mr. Spears was evidently not afraid of fire, for they stood in serried ranks, rows and rows of them, and between each group of shelves was a panel of carved and polished wood. Over the mantel hung a beautiful Japanese print. Curtains of some heavy material, old rose in color, hung at the windows, and instead of the usual three by six mats, the floor was covered with an Oriental rug in soft warm colors. There were many low, comfortable chairs about and several tables on which stood shaded lamps.

Later in the evening after Mr. Campbell's dinner party, the three older members of the company sat down in the drawing-room for a quiet game, while the young people repaired to the library where they might talk and laugh freely without fear of disturbing the players.

"Oh, I say, what a jolly room," exclaimed Reginald Carlton, looking about him with interest.

"Isn't it?" agreed Billie. "Papa says that if people would only stick to Japanese notions of decoration and add a few comfortable chairs to sit in, they would never make any mistakes. You see, there's only one picture in this room, but that's considered very fine. It's by a famous Japanese artist."

"I like that one-picture idea," put in Nicholas Grimm, "especially if it is at a comfortable elevation. Just pull up an easy chair and raise your eyes and you have seen all there is to see. There's a delightful simplicity about that to me. But I suppose Yoritomo would call this room crowded, nevertheless. How about it, old man? It wouldn't take you fifteen minutes to pull down the curtains and roll up the rug and store them in the 'go-down.' Would it, now, honor bright?"

"No, no. I like the European furnishings," protested the Japanese. "You must remember that I lived in America for many years. There is only one thing I would store in the 'go-down,' and that is the little safe."

He pointed to a small American fire-proof safe in a corner of the room.

"But that is our 'go-down,'" laughed Billie. "We haven't any other. When Papa first came here he discovered that there was no place to lock up anything except some desk drawers, and he rented this little safe for his papers. A Japanese gentleman advised him to do it. He told Papa there was a great deal of curiosity here about the private business of foreigners."

A dark flush overspread Yoritomo's face and gradually faded out. The others did not notice it, however. They had followed Nicholas across the room and were standing in a circle around the safe, while the young American touched it with a caressing hand.

"Made in Newark, N.J., U.S.A.," he exclaimed. "Think of that. It's like meeting an old friend from home."

"A very proper kind of friend," observed Reginald. "The kind that keeps a secret behind a combination lock."

"I don't call it being a real friend to have any combination at all," put in Elinor, "because anybody who learns the combination can get the secret."

Nicholas laughed.

"You don't understand the Japanese, Miss Butler," he exclaimed. "They regard all persons with important secrets as combination safes. Sooner or later they believe they can learn any combination if they only persist."

"Why don't you stand up for your country, Mr. Ito?" asked Nancy.

"What Nicholas says is true," answered Yoritomo. "If the secret concerns his country, the Japanese will learn it if he must give up his life. What you call 'spy' in your language should be changed to patriot, or one who risks all for his country. Every Japanese is a spy, because every Japanese will suffer for Japan."

"Perfectly good logic," said Nicholas.

"Are you a spy?" asked Mary, so innocently that even the imperturbable Yoritomo laughed.

"I am, in the sense of being a patriot," he answered. "There is nothing I would not do for Japan."

"Are you a Samurai?" asked Billie, hardly understanding the meaning of the word.

"My grandfather was. There are no real samurai now. Only descendants."

"But what were they?"

Yoritomo's face became strangely animated.

"A samurai was a soldier," he said. "He was brave and feared neither death nor suffering in any form. He carried two swords, a long one for fighting and a short one for defense. The sword was the emblem of the samurai spirit. He took pride in keeping it sharp and bright."

"Aren't some of the descendants of the old warrior samurai rather fanatical?" asked Reginald. "That is, I mean -- " he hesitated, seeing a peculiar gleam in Yoritomo's eyes, "aren't some opposed to the entrance of foreigners into Japan, and the invasion of foreign ideas -- perhaps that feeling has died out now?"

"The old samurai defended his country against the foreigner and no descendant of a samurai, either now or ever, would endure for a foreigner to learn the secrets of his country. But that is not fanaticism. That is patriotism. He is very jealous of his country's honor, you understand. You will look at the history of other countries. First it is only a few foreigners; then more and more. They slip into the government. They spread their ideas and customs -- they get a foot-hold -- then -- all of a sudden, what is it? Not Japan any longer -- but -- America -- England."

"Oh, come off, Yoritomo," cried Nicholas, laughing. "What in the name of all the powers are you driving at? There are about forty millions of people on this island and I guess a few foreigners won't make much headway in such a bunch as that."

"At least, you are not afraid of being Americanized, Mr. Ito," broke in Nancy, "since you were educated in America."

"I am not afraid of the invasion of beautiful American young ladies," answered Yoritomo gallantly, and the others laughed and felt somewhat relieved that the conversation had drifted into a less serious vein. They drew their chairs into a circle about the fire and talked pleasantly for some time, when they were summoned back to the drawing-room by Mr. Campbell, who reminded Elinor of a promise she had made to him to sing for them with her guitar.

This performance was a subject of wondering curiosity to the servants of the household. Through the door to the dining-room Elinor caught a glimpse of a multitude of natives crouched on the floor behind the screen, including Komatsu and O'Haru, all the little maids, the numerous grandmothers, and the 'riksha men who had brought the guests out from Tokyo. If the music seemed strange to the Japanese ear trained for centuries to a curious uneven scale, at least they admired Elinor's lovely voice, clear and sweet as a bell. She had a large repertoire and knew all the favorites of everybody. While she was singing "Oh, that we two were Maying," at the request of Miss Campbell, Nancy, seated on the couch beside Billie, near the door, whispered into her friend's ear:

"I left my handkerchief in the library," and slipped into the hall. Hardly a moment later Billie, glancing through the door, saw Nancy in the distance, beckoning violently. She rose and followed, much against her will, thinking perhaps Nancy wished to bestow a confidence which might just as well be kept until later.

"What on earth do you want?" she asked, with the irritability intimate friends use toward each other without meaning really to be cross.

"The queerest thing has happened. The library is perfectly black dark."

"I don't think there is anything specially remarkable about that. The fire had burned low before we left and I suppose one of the maids put out the lamps. The Japs are nothing if not economical."

"They are nothing if not polite, too," argued Nancy. "And I am sure they wouldn't put out the lights before the company left. Besides, they are all listening to Elinor sing."

"Well, the lights are out and I don't see that it matters much, Nancy-Bell. Let's go back and hear the rest of the song."

"Won't you come with me first to get my handkerchief?" pleaded Nancy. "I know exactly where I left it, and I am afraid to go alone, if you want to know the real truth."

"Oh, you little coward," laughed Billie good-naturedly, taking her arm. "Come along, then."

The two young girls hastened down the long hall until they reached the passage.

"Billie," whispered Nancy, pausing at the door. "You won't think me silly if I tell you this? Of course it may have been imagination, but I was awfully frightened when I came in here just now. I opened the door suddenly and ran into the room before I realized it was dark. Then, of course, I stopped short. The door had closed behind me and it seemed to me that some one else was in the room. I remembered that as I opened the door I heard some one move or collide with a chair. I stood perfectly still for an instant. I was really frightened. Then I just flew."

"Perhaps it was one of the servants who had put out the lights and was afraid to acknowledge it," suggested Billie. "The little maids are as timid as wild things."

"But every servant in the house is in the dining room, I tell you. I saw them as I went down the hall, and I counted them just for fun. There were the four little maids and Onoye and O'Haru and Komatsu and the three jinriksha men and the three old grandmothers and the gardener. There aren't any others."

The door leading into the library was not a sliding panel of thick opaque paper, like the usual Japanese door, but a real European door of heavy wood with a brass handle.

"Don't you think we had better get your father, Billie, or one of the boys?" whispered Nancy, placing a detaining hand on her friend's arm.

"But that would be a needless alarm. Everybody would want to know what was the matter. There would have to be explanations and Cousin Helen would be frightened. Besides, I am sure it was just your vivid imagination, Nancy."

She opened the door very softly and peeped in. The room was flooded with the radiance of two shaded lamps, both burning brightly; in fact, one had been turned up too high, as if lighted in haste.

"Oh," gasped Nancy, in amazement.

But Billie was determined not to be surprised.

"Take my word for it, Nancy; one of the servants put out the lights by mistake, thinking we had finished in here for the night, and when you returned he or she was frightened and lit them again, thinking that honorable American young lady might be displeased."

Nancy found her handkerchief.

"Very well," she said. "If that is your expert opinion I am willing to abide by it, but I was fright -- "

Before she could finish one of the long French windows blew open and a gust of wet wind extinguished the lamp on a table near the window. Billie marched boldly over and closed and bolted the window.

"Whoever it was," she said, "must have got out this way."

The girls exchanged a long glance of uneasy speculation. In the dim light of the remaining lamp the room seemed filled with shadows. Billie drew the heavy curtains across the casement. Those at the other window were already drawn.

"Come along, Nancy-Bell," she exclaimed. "Thieves don't blow out lights and then come back and relight them. It would be extremely unprofessional if they did and very reckless besides. It's certain to be one of those timid little persons in a kimono. We had better be getting back to the drawing-room or Papa will be wondering what has become of us."

Hardly had they closed the door after them, when a figure, wrapped from head to foot in a long brown garment something like a cape, emerged from behind the other curtains. Whoever it was, whether man or woman, it was impossible to judge, opened the door, peeped cautiously into the passage and, finding it quite empty, marched boldly out. In another moment the intruder had disappeared into the garden.

As the girls passed along the hall they paused to notice the picturesque group of servants gathered near the door. There was a smile on every face, not a smile of ridicule, but of courteous enjoyment.

"Is there any rude person in the length and breadth of Japan?" thought Billie, while Nancy once more counted heads and then shook her own thoughtfully.

"I don't understand," she pondered, "but Billie is usually right, so I'll just cease to worry."



Chapter VI.

Cherry Blossoms.


A few hours of brilliant sunshine and all the dampness had been sucked up from the earth; the air was warmed and dried and the mists rolled back from the garden, revealing a fairy-land too exquisite to be real.

Something especially wonderful had happened that morning. The faces of the little maids had been filled with a joyous expectancy as they hurried from room to room on their household duties. A mysterious smile hovered on the lips of Komatsu when he appeared to receive his orders. Even old O'Haru was secretly immensely pleased about something, but they all had evidently agreed among themselves to keep the great news secret until the psychological moment had arrived when the ladies of the house and Mr. Campbell had assembled on the piazza just before breakfast.

When this occurred word was swiftly and silently conveyed over the household and all persons belonging to the domestic staff instantly gathered in the hall and doorway.

"Why, what on earth is the matter with them?" Miss Campbell asked uneasily. "Will you please look: the entire household collected in the front hall."

Mr. Campbell was as much at a loss as his cousin.

"They look as if they were going to play a joke on us," observed Billie, "Did you ever see anything so guileless and simple-hearted as they are?"

"Oh, I know what it is," cried Mary, clasping her hands with delight. "There," she said, pointing to the old gardener, who was approaching by way of one of the paths. There was an inimitable smile on his face, and he carried tenderly and gingerly a double handful of brown branches on which clustered delicate pink blossoms.

"It's the cherry blossoms! They are in bloom!" Mary shouted in her enthusiasm. "That's why they are all so delighted. The dears! They are just like a lot of children."

The crown of the year for the Japanese had indeed arrived, the season when every cherry tree becomes a magnificent nosegay which has caught the sunset's glow, and all the world goes forth to view the splendid sight.

The love of these people, young and old and of all classes, for flowers, and particularly for cherry blossoms, is touching in its simplicity and sincerity.

The old gardener was himself a delightful picture in his blue cotton, tunic-like coat, queer, tight-fitting trousers and an enormous hat that resembled an inverted flower basket. Against the coarse blue of his tunic rested the delicate rosy cloud of blossoms. With an elaborate bow he presented Mr. Campbell and each of the ladies with a branch. "Him muchly more big soon all same," he said.

"Thank you, Saiki. They are very beautiful," said Miss Campbell, speaking in the distinct, loud tone she used for persons not understanding her own language.

The girls exclaimed and admired and Mr. Campbell was delighted. He felt a kind of reverence for the old man's simple unaffected love of beauty. In the meantime, the regiment of servants who had witnessed and enjoyed the ceremony of presenting the first cherry blossoms to the master and mistress of the house retired to their various occupations.

The pleasure and surprise of the foreigners over the beauty of the cherry blossoms would be a memory for these humble people to cherish all their lives. Perhaps they had never seen the like before, these honorable barbarians; certainly nothing so perfect as the double blossom, of a delicacy and shade not to be surpassed.

Later at the breakfast table Billie concocted a scheme.

"Papa," she began, "can't we take the 'Comet' and go sight-seeing? It would be such fun, and while the 'rikshas are very nice, we are so separated, we can't all sympathize together as we usually do."

"A kind of sympathy in detachments, is it?" asked Mr. Campbell. "But I wanted to go with you on your first ride in the 'Comet.' I don't know just how the people will take to a girl's driving a red 'devil-wagon,' as they call it."

"Why not let Komatsu go along?"

"What do you think, Cousin?" asked Mr. Campbell.

Up to this time Miss Campbell had kept out of the discussion. The truth is, she yearned to relieve the tedium of life by taking a trip in the red motor car.

"Couldn't you get away and go with us?"

"Impossible this afternoon, because I have an appointment to meet some very distinguished persons to discuss various plans. One can hardly be polite enough as it is in this good-mannered country, and it would never do to break an engagement. In another week or so I shall be free to take the ladies on excursions."

"What is it all about, Papa?" asked Billie.

"Oh, government improvements, child. Things that are too important to be talked about." He pinched her cheek. "Well, beautiful American ladies, if you take Komatsu with you as interpreter and protector, guide and friend, I think you might be trusted to make a little cherry-blossom excursion in the 'Comet.' Only don't go too far or too fast and on your life don't run over anything, even a chicken, or there'll be trouble for all concerned."

So it was settled, and after breakfast Billie rushed to the mysterious back premises of the place on the other side of the house, where various hitherto unsuspected industries seemed to be in progress. There was a kitchen garden hidden by a hedge of althea bushes, a chicken yard, and in a most picturesque building, used by the Spears for a carriage house, the "Comet." So far they had been unable to find a chauffeur, and Mr. Campbell himself had gone over all the machinery and put it in order. Billie cranked up, and, jumping into her old accustomed place, guided the motor car into the open. Komatsu came at a run from around the side of the house. He was so amazed at sight of Billie in the chauffeur's seat that he could not conceal his feelings.

"Komatsu, we want you to go with us to-day. We want you to show us the cherry trees in Tokyo and Uyeno Park. I suppose we couldn't get to all the famous cherry blossom places in one afternoon?"

"Him fast runner. No sakura all same see."

"No, no. We shall go quite slowly. We want to see everything."

In less than an hour the hanami, signifying in Japanese a picnic to a famous place to view certain flowers in season, conducted on the most modern lines in a red motor car, proceeded on its way. Komatsu, a strangely incongruous figure, sat on the front seat beside Billie.

On the way to Tokyo the "Comet" created a sensation. All the varied wayfarers on that picturesque highway paused and stared, pointing and gesticulating.

The city was a vision of beauty. Most of its broad avenues are lined with close set rows of cherry trees which were now bursting into blossom in all the most delicate and exquisite shades of pink known to nature. Komatsu guided them about the city with a kind of pleased and gratified delight as if he were showing his own property. Sometimes he stood up and pointed to the feathery tops of carefully nurtured cherry trees, glimpses of which could be seen over the high walls surrounding private gardens.

The motorists were fairly bewildered by the beauty of it all. It was like a vast conservatory with the roof taken off. Nothing could have been more exotic or more lovely than the vista through the park with the white peak of Fujiyama, queen of mountains, glistening in the distance.

Moreover, this little jaunt in the car had stirred their blood into action. They felt once more the call of the road, the fever to be going. The old accustomed sensation that they must make a certain place by such and such a time had returned. They were of one opinion, this party of Motor-Gypsies: to go back home until sunset would be a foolish waste of golden hours. Their five wishes accorded like the notes of an harmonious chord and presently Billie, influenced by the force of this silent opinion, exclaimed:

"Suppose we take a country road and eat lunch later at some wayside tea house?"

"Splendid!" cried the others almost before she had finished.

Miss Campbell raised one feeble objection -- something about the weather -- but it was promptly overridden by her relative at the wheel, and presently she settled down in her seat and abandoned herself to the joy of motion.

"In all the ten thousands of miles we have covered in this car," she remarked, "I never was happier than I am at this moment."

"Why can't we go to the Arakawa Ridge?" suggested Mary, consulting a guide book. "It's only seven miles from here on the Sumida River and there are miles and miles of road bordered by double-flowering cherry trees."

This was agreeable to all concerned, and, accordingly, Komatsu guided them to this famous spot, the pride of Tokyo. On the way they passed hundreds of people in jinrikshas or on foot. Many of the pedestrians carried paper parasols and fans, exactly like the chorus in the "Mikado." Those who rode in the graceful little two-wheeled buggies looked out upon the world with expressions of calm enjoyment.

The "Comet" was a conspicuous object as it progressed slowly along the road, but so far all things worked together for good and there was no cause for uneasiness. At a little roadside tea house they paused for lunch. The building was nothing more than a shed with a low-hanging thatched roof and sides made of coarse strips of matting joined together with bamboo sticks. Humble as it was it possessed a peculiar charm, all its own. They were presently to find that the rear of the tea house facing a little garden was glorified into something rich and strange by a magnificent azalea bush in full bloom. It reached to the roof of the house and was a mass of deep red blossoms.

The ear was left in a pine grove near the house, and following Komatsu along a rocky path they presently found themselves in this delectable little garden. Here they were met by an old man and his wife, a very aged couple whose gentle deprecating expressions almost moved Miss Campbell to tears.

"The adorable old things," she exclaimed. "They remind me of two old turtle doves."

Close at their heels came two little maids who conducted the ladies into the tea house and brought tea for temporary refreshment, while Komatsu consulted with the proprietor regarding lunch.

Presently one of the little maids hurried in and placed a menu in front of Miss Campbell.

"Me speak little honorable American language," she said. "You like all same American food? Will gracious lady make eyes to look?"

Miss Campbell raised her lorgnette and examined the menu while the small maid backed away and disappeared, in the throes of extreme shyness over her endeavors.

"Girls," said Miss Campbell, in a curious, strained voice, "don't any of you dare to laugh because of course they are all peeping at us from somewhere, but I want you all to make eyes to look at this amazing production."

They crowded about her and over her shoulder read the following menu:

Soup by egge Eels to rice Seaweed Podadoe Sweete Sponge boiled Doormats a la U. S.

There were tears of laughter in Miss Campbell's eyes and her voice was so shaky she could hardly trust herself to speak, even when she saw the little maid returning around the corner of the azalea bush. The faces of the four girls were crimson with suppressed laughter.

"Very nice, my dear," said Miss Campbell, "you may bring in luncheon as soon as you can."

After she had gone there was a brief but eloquent silence.

"Do, some one, make a joke," whispered Elinor.

At that moment a strange looking bob-tailed cat walked by.

"There," cried Nancy, and they all instantly burst into hysterical laughter.

"In the name of good health and excellent digestion, tell me what are doormats?" asked Billie.

"Dear knows," answered her cousin, "but I think if they must be eaten it would be best to take boiled sponges afterward."

The luncheon was purely Japanese, in spite of the English menu, and it was really excellent.

"I never thought to come to eels," Miss Campbell observed, but she enjoyed her portion, nevertheless.

"Doormats a la U. S." turned out to be a sweet cake with a sugary icing.

"I believe they were intended for doughnuts," observed that astute little person, Mary Price, and no doubt she was quite right.

When the feast was over Miss Campbell paid the bill, which was pathetically small, since there was no charge for tea and sweetmeats.

"How do we give the tip?" she asked.

"I know," answered Billie, "Papa taught me about that the other day." She consulted her note book. Tearing out a leaf, she wrapped up what would amount to about a dollar in American money, then with her little silver pencil she wrote on the package "On chadai." "That means 'honorable money for tea,'" she explained.

Next she clapped her hands. All through the house voices could be heard calling "Hai! Hai!"

Presently the maid appeared hanging her head humbly. Billie motioned to her that she wished the proprietor, who, indeed, was close at hand. With an expression of much surprise he received the chadai and bowing to the ground murmured something which Komatsu explained meant honorable thanks for poor insignificant service.

Each guest on departing received a fan as a souvenir; because, as they were to learn before they left Japan, no Japanese ever receives a present without giving another in return. Every person attached to the tea house went out to see the departure of the car, and the old woman clutched her husband's arm fearfully when she heard the vibrations of the machinery and saw Billie turn the "Comet" down the hillside to the main road.

At last, fortified by strange if not unpalatable food and thoroughly enjoying themselves, they arrived at the entrance to the magnificent avenue called Arakawa Ridge, along each side of which, as far as the eye could see, ran two rows of cherry trees in full bloom.

The avenue was lined with 'rikshas, and hundreds of pedestrians paced slowly along. They were in holiday attire and the bright colors of the kimonos and obis made a bewildering and brilliant picture. At intervals booths had been erected, decorated with lanterns, where refreshments were sold, and nearby a roving band of musicians and dancers were entertaining the crowd.

The mistake Billie made was to attempt to take the car through the crowded road where apparently there were only pedestrians and jinrikshas. But Komatsu had not objected and since they had been accustomed to take the "Comet" wherever there was a navigable road, they pushed innocently on. As for the populace celebrating the cherry blossom festival, they evidently regarded the sight of a young woman driving a red devil-wagon as something just short of miraculous. Slowly and at a dignified pace the motor car moved along the avenue, and suddenly like a bolt from the blue two things happened.

A little boy escaped from his sister's hand and ran across the road. Billie reversed the lever just as the child fell under the wheels. At the same instant a tire on a rear wheel exploded with a loud report.

Miss Campbell groaned and hid her face in her hands.

Instantly they were surrounded by a mob of angry people.



Chapter VII.

A Bad Quarter Of An Hour.


In the uncertainty of that terrible moment everything turned black before Billie's eyes.

"I am a murderer," was all she could think. "I've killed a little child."

When the mists had cleared away she saw a weird scene about her: hundreds of Japanese men and women, speaking in low angry voices which somehow reminded her of the breaking of the surf on the beach -- perhaps because the Japanese language has a sing-song rhythm. The little boy, apparently limp and lifeless, lay in his sister's arms. Komatsu had leapt clear over the front of the car and pushed his way through the people gathered about them. With a hand as skillful as a doctor's he felt the child's pulse and placed his ear over his heart.

"Baby only make believe dead," he said. "Honorable heart beating all same like steam engine."

At these hopeful words Miss Campbell came to herself with a start. For a moment she had been faint and sick with the notion of what had happened. Never before in all their thousands of miles of touring in the "Comet" had they injured so much as a fly; and now to run down a little child! It was too dreadful to contemplate.

"Komatsu," she ordered, in an unsteady voice, "tell the girl to get in and we will take her brother to the nearest doctor."

Komatsu conveyed this message to the stricken sister, who shook her head violently.

"Honorable devil-wagon shoot pistol. Japanese no likee," he said.

Closer and closer pressed the tense mob about the party. These courteous and gentle Japanese had suddenly been transformed into a fierce, savage people.

From one end of Japan to the other a child is considered a sacred thing. If Billie had injured a grown person the public sentiment would not have been so strong, but to harm one of these little "treasure flowers" was to strike at the very heart of the nation.

"Can't you understand that we are sorry and anxious to help you?" cried Miss Campbell, addressing the mob, but her voice was lost in the subdued threatening murmur which sounded like distant thunder heralding the approach of a storm.

"Good heavens, Komatsu, what are we to do? The child might be saved if they would only listen to reason."

"People no likee honorable devil-wagon. Going breaking little pieces all same like sticks."

"No, no, they must not," ejaculated Billie. "We are sorry," she cried, stretching out her hands appealingly to the circle of Japanese pressed around the car. "We didn't mean to do it."

In the meantime Miss Campbell had produced her bottle of smelling salts, the same that had accompanied her on all her trips, and climbed out of the car. With a motion imperious and compelling she pushed aside the men and women in the circle.

The sister had laid the child on the ground and was kneeling beside him. Komatsu knelt on the other side, feeling the little legs and body.

"No break bones," he said briefly.

Miss Campbell sat on the ground by the unconscious child, wondering vaguely if she would ever rise again.

"They may tear us to pieces before we get back. They are like an angry, silent pack of wolves," she thought to herself. "Komatsu," she said aloud, "I believe he has fainted from fright," She put the smelling bottle to the baby's funny snub nose.

Presently the boy opened his eyes.

At this moment from the midst of the crowd there came a strange shrill cry and a distracted looking woman began beating and fighting her way toward the group.

"Honorable mother come in big hurry," said Komatsu, in a low voice. "Gracious lady, take jinriksha. Honorable quickness best now."

"But the child isn't injured, Komatsu. Look, he's opened his eyes and he's going to sit up. It was simply fright."

"No like honorable devil-wagon," went on Komatsu steadily.

While this low, rapid dialogue was taking place Billie, standing on the front seat of the "Comet" on the lookout for help, saw something that made her blood turn cold. A band of fierce looking young men in Japanese costume was approaching on the run. The leader was brandishing a short knife with a two-edged glittering blade and the others flourished sword canes. Billie was thankful that Miss Campbell was too much occupied at that moment in assuring the poor mother that her child was not injured to notice this murderous looking company. Komatsu had quietly placed himself beside the car, faithful soul, ready to die in the service of his ladies.

Were they all going to be cut to pieces or was only the "Comet" to be sacrificed in revenge for the accident?

The Motor Maids exchanged frightened glances.

"If I only knew six words in Japanese," thought Billie.

"Make honorable quickness to descend, gracious lady. Come, come," Komatsu urged. "To jinriksha. Leave red devil-wagon. This place no good for staying in."

"Oh, Komatsu, try and reason with them," pleaded Billie. "We don't want to lose the 'Comet,' It wasn't his fault. He was going quite slowly. He didn't mean to hurt the little boy. He's the kindest hearted old thing. It wasn't anybody's fault. Can't you tell them that?"

Billie was too distracted and unhappy to realize how absurd her words might have sounded to any English-speaking person. It had always seemed to her that a real heart beat somewhere in the mechanical organism of the red motor. Gasoline was his life's blood and his pulse-beats were only the throb of the engine, but, to Billie, he was a faithful and devoted soul and she was not quite prepared to say what she would do in order to save him from destruction.

However, at the moment that the band of young men, scarcely more than boys any of them, reached the car, some one sprang into the machine from the other side.

Turning quickly, Billie was confronted by a tall, slender young woman in a white serge suit and a big black hat. She had a dark, creamy complexion, dark eyes that slanted slightly and hair of a queer mousy shade of brown.

"Wait," said the stranger, "I will speak to them," and mounting the seat, she addressed the crowd in their own tongue with extraordinary fluency, the girls thought, remembering what they had heard concerning the difficulties of that language. There was an elegance and fascination indescribable about the stranger. Nancy recognized her instantly as the lady in the garden. Miss Campbell knew her as Mme. Fontaine, newspaper correspondent. The others in the party imagined her to be almost anything romantic and interesting; perhaps a foreign princess; a great actress; something remarkable, surely.

In a beautiful, cultured voice, far reaching in spite of its soft tones, she harangued the multitude which little by little fell back. The group of fierce young men put away their weapons and disappeared in the mob. The little boy, the cause of all the trouble, was now standing on his feet blinking his eyes at Miss Campbell. How the picture was stamped on their minds like a vividly colored print!

Miss Campbell took out her purse and gave the mother of the boy some money. Being still quite ignorant of Japanese coinage she did not pause to make any laborious calculations, but poured all the money in the purse into the woman's outstretched hand. It must have been an undreamed-of sum, for the mother's face was wreathed in delighted smiles. She bowed until her forehead almost touched the ground, as did the witnesses of this princely generosity.

"It's all over now," said Mme. Fontaine, stepping down from the seat and smiling at Billie. "You had a bad quarter of an hour, though, I fear."

"I don't know how we can ever thank you," exclaimed Billie. "You not only saved the car from destruction, but you may have saved us, too. There's no telling how far they would have gone once they got started."

"No, no, they would not have harmed you, but they might have injured the car. They are a good deal like children, but they are not butchers. I think they admired your courage, too, for not deserting the sinking ship."

Miss Campbell now approached and held out her hand gratefully.

"You are heaping coals of fire on my head, Mme. Fontaine," she said. "Yesterday I refused to grant you a favor and to-day you are placing us everlastingly in your debt."

"No, no, you must not put it that way," said the other woman, with a graceful movement of protest. "You were quite right not to be interviewed if you did not wish it. Some Americans do not object to publicity, you know. One can never tell. But what I did just now any other person who spoke both languages would have been glad to do."

The end of the episode was that Mme. Fontaine waited with Miss Campbell and the three girls, while Billie, in the center of a curious circle of onlookers and with the help of Komatsu, put on a new tire.

"Are you in a 'riksha?" asked Miss Campbell of their deliverer. "We would be glad if you would let us take you back to Tokyo in the car. My young cousin is a careful and experienced chauffeur. This is the only accident of the sort we have ever had and I think it was entirely the fault of the child."

"Oh, I am not in the least timid in motor cars and I accept with pleasure," answered Mme. Fontaine quickly.

Some twenty minutes later, with Komatsu running ahead to clear the road, the "Comet" threaded his way at a snail's pace along the Arakawa Ridge. No doubt his mechanical organism, which Billie had endowed with a soul, heaved a sigh of relief when they took the road home.

"Who were the young men with the knives and sword canes, Mme. Fontaine?" asked Mary on the way back.

"Oh, they are a group of fanatical young persons opposed to foreigners. Most of them are descendants of the samurai. They believe in old Japan. They talk the wildest kind of nonsense, and while their beliefs are opposed to progress, they represent in Japan what the Nihilists represent in Russia and the Anarchists and such people in other countries. They will outgrow it in time. Some of the finest men in Japan once belonged to these clubs of soshi, as they are called. In another generation there will be very few of them left. In the meantime they are quite dangerous occasionally. About fifty years ago a band of them attacked the English Legation at Takanawa and there was a fierce fight. But I feel perfectly sure that they wouldn't attack people now. Only motor cars and the like."

"That would have been bad enough," remarked Billie, patting the wheel of the "Comet."

Mme. Fontaine smiled pleasantly.

"After the great excitement may I not have the pleasure of offering you a reviving cup of tea at my house? It would make me very happy."

Miss Campbell would have much preferred to go straight home, but to decline the invitation would have seemed ungracious and she accepted promptly.

Along the broad streets of Tokyo, under out-stretched boughs heavy with blossoms, they rolled, and at last Billie paused as directed at a gate in a wall behind which was a charming little house, set in the usual beautiful garden.

If Mme. Fontaine was fascinating and elegant, so also was her home. The drawing-room, which seemed to occupy most of the second floor, was furnished in European fashion with deep chairs and couches, Oriental rugs and rich hangings. There was a grand piano near the windows, and on the walls were the rarest and most beautiful Japanese prints. It was a blending of the East and West and was one of the most artistic and delightful apartments the girls had ever seen. In the dim shadowy confines they caught glimpses of teakwood cabinets in which were carved ivories and pieces of fine porcelain. The girls would have liked well to linger another hour among all these interesting and strange objects, but Miss Campbell, for some reason, was in her most conventional mood. While her manner toward Mme. Fontaine left nothing to be desired and she was graciousness personified, she cut the call to twenty-five minutes by the French clock on the mantel, and then go she would. As they were leaving Mary noticed on a table near the door two splendid swords, one very large and heavy and one with a double-edged blade of much smaller size.

"Oh, are these the swords of a samurai warrior?" she demanded, with excited interest.

"Yes," answered Mme. Fontaine. "They belonged to my great grandfather."

Not until they were back in the "Comet" and well on the way home did they realize the meaning of her words.

"Then," exclaimed Nancy, "she is half Japanese."

"And I've invited her to dine the day after tomorrow," Miss Campbell remarked irrelevantly.

The adventure on Arakawa Ridge was far-reaching in its results as a matter of fact, but the most immediate one was a severe punishment administered by that usually kind and gentle person, Mr. Campbell, on no less a victim than the "Comet." Just what the punishment was you will find out when the Motor Maids themselves discover it.



Chapter VIII.

The Compassionate God, Jizu.


Miss Campbell was very dubious about having invited Mme. Fontaine to dine.

"Of course she was very kind," she remarked, "and we owe her a great deal, but I wish we could show our appreciation in some other way. We don't know anything about her: who she is; where she came from; whether she has any family."

"But, my dear cousin," said Mr. Campbell, who had wandered about the world so much that he was accustomed to taking people without any questions, "what difference does it make? You say she is refined and well-bred. We know she is kind because of what she did for us. But I will make some inquiries about her if you like -- "

"I never liked mixed bloods," interrupted Miss Campbell, not listening to her relation.

"Everybody has some mixture of bloods," laughed Billie. "Look at Mary -- French and English; look at Elinor -- Scotch and Irish."

"No, no," protested Miss Campbell "Those aren't the kinds of mixtures I referred to. It's those queer Oriental bloods -- yellow people and white people."

The others all smiled indulgently. Miss Campbell was just a little old-fashioned lady with old-fashioned restricted views, they thought. She was the only one of the motor party who had not fallen under the spell of Mme. Fontaine, and apparently the only cause for her objection was because this charming stranger was part Japanese and wrote for the newspapers.

That evening Mr. Campbell endeavored to set her fears at rest.

"I have inquired about your mysterious Mme. Fontaine," he said. "She is a widow. Her husband was editor of a paper in Shanghai. She herself is a writer and a newspaper correspondent. She has written several novels published in Shanghai, and she is generally considered to be a very bright person. She has been living in Tokyo not quite a year and goes out very little."

This fragment of her history only seemed to deepen the atmosphere of romance which enveloped the "Widow of Shanghai," as Mr. Campbell would call her, and the Motor Maids rather eagerly awaited the evening when she was to dine with them.

In the meantime, they were to receive a ceremonious call from the family of Yoritomo Ito, and he himself was to act as interpreter for the three Japanese ladies, his mother, his aunt and his sister. They appeared one afternoon in two jinrikshas and such a bowing and smiling was never seen before. The day had been sultry and hot and tea was served in the summer-house in the garden by the little maids attached to the household. Miss Campbell was sorry that the pretty Onoye, flower of the staff, did not appear. However, these things were all left to O'Haru, and she said nothing.

Yoritomo's sister, O'Kami San (that is to say: the honorable Miss Kami), spoke a very little English. This fact she had bashfully hidden from the girls on the occasion of their first meeting. But when Billie, through Yoritomo, asked his sister to walk in the garden, she answered herself:

"Receive thanks. Honorable walk will confer pleasure."

Assuredly the Japanese-English dictionaries and phrase books must all use the most stilted and ceremonious English words, so Billie thought.

"'Receive thanks and confer pleasure!' How absurd!"

But then Billie did not realize that the Japanese language abounds in such ceremonious words and high-sounding phrases and, in order to keep the spirit of the original, translations are generally literal.

Off they trooped down a garden path, followed by the reproachful eyes of Miss Helen Campbell, who found it a decided strain on the nerves to keep a second-hand conversation going. Nancy lingered behind and helped her out by giving Yoritomo an account of their accident on Arakawa Ridge. This he immediately passed on to his mother and aunt.

In the meantime, O'Kami San, trotting along beside Billie, with Mary and Elinor following behind, might have just stepped out of a Japanese fan. She was so entirely unreal and cunning that the girls had no eyes for the rosy rain of cherry blossoms dropping from the trees, nor the lovely vista of garden with its flaming bushes of azaleas and cool green clumps of ferns. Out of compliment to the season O'Kami San wore a robe of delicate pink embroidered all over with sprays of cherry blossoms in deeper shades. Her obi, or sash, was of pale green silk. Her hair was elaborately pompadoured and drawn up in the back into a large glossy roll held in place with tortoise shell pins. No doubt it had taken hours to arrange; two, at the very least.

Billie patted her own smooth rolls serenely.

"Suppose I had to sleep with my neck on a little wooden bench every night to preserve my coiffure," she thought. "I think I'd just lay my head on the executioner's block and say, 'Strike it off. It's not worth the trouble.'"

"Think garden pretty, O'Kami San?" began Mary, whose method of talking with the Japanese was to preserve only the framework of a sentence and drop all articles and small words.

"Much pretty. Me -- like honorable garden and beautiful American ladee," answered O'Kami, speaking slowly and distinctly.

English pronunciation never seemed to trouble the Japanese. It was only choice of words and construction.

"What do you do all day, O'Kami San?" asked Elinor.

"Much honorable work," answered the Japanese girl. "Cook-ing; sew-ing"; she pointed to her kimono; "mu-seek; book-stu-dee. Ah, much work to become wife."

"You are not thinking of marrying, surely? Your brother says you are only sixteen," protested Mary.

O'Kami nodded her head and smiled.

"Arrange all the day before to this."

"Do you love him?" asked Mary, in an awed tone of voice.

O'Kami looked puzzled. The word "love" she had not learned.

"O'Kami much happy. Honorable mother of husband not any more. Gone." She pointed up.

"Goodness!" broke in Elinor. "She means that there will be no mother-in-law, so the marriage is sure to be a happy one. What a mother-in-law ridden place this country is!"

She spoke too rapidly for the Japanese girl to grasp the meaning of any word except "mother-in-law."

"Mother-in-law," she repeated slowly. "Little Japanese girl much afraid to great mother-in-law."

The girls laughed and O'Kami's silvery note mingled with theirs.

"I found something quite new and interesting in the garden the other day," observed Mary. "Or rather not quite new, but quite old. Who wants to see it?"

"Lead on, Macduff," ordered Billie.

"It's an old shrine," continued Mary. "Komatsu says it's to the Compassionate God, Jizu. He's sitting cross-legged in a little niche in the hillside below the bridge and he has a beautiful frame of clematis vines around him. I think he's delightful."

O'Kami San was unable to grasp the meaning of this rapid fire of words, at least it seemed to her to be a rapid fire. Most people are under the impression that a foreign language is spoken faster than their own. But she trotted along beside the others, always with the same polite, intelligent smile, as if she understood every word.

Having crossed the bridge, they followed a narrow path through a grove of pine trees. The path took an unexpected curve to the right and led them around the side of a grassy embankment under which sat the stone image of the Compassionate God, Jizu. The inscrutable smile of the nation hovered on the lips of the ancient idol, and his compassionate stone eyes looked out upon the green little world around him with a gentle tolerance. Time and tempests had worn away his arms and softened the outlines of his stone countenance. He was indeed a graven image of kindly mien and of a certain majesty of expression.

But there was, another visitor at the shrine of the Compassionate God. She lay flat on her face in a tumbled, many-colored little heap before the gray old image at whose feet was her offering: a pitiful little bunch of wild roses. She had been sobbing. It was easy to tell. The storm of weeping had passed now and she lay quite still, but at intervals there was that catch in the breath which follows a period of bitter crying.

The three American girls paused at the edge of the miniature lawn about the shrine and exchanged embarrassed glances. O'Kami Sail drew back a step or two. It was their intention to creep away as noiselessly as possible and leave the unhappy worshiper at the shrine none the wiser that she had been observed by profane, foreign eyes. But at this moment a temple bell not far off sent out a clear silver note in the stillness. The bright-colored heap stirred into life and the sorrowful worshiper rose and looked about her bewildered.

It was Onoye, as they had suspected, and Mary recalled that it was the second time she had seen the Japanese girl crying miserably when she thought she was alone.

Onoye tried to smile when she saw the three young ladies of the house looking at her with great concern. She ran to Billie and fell on her knees.

"Forgive, gracious lady," she said, endeavoring to compose her expression to its usual tranquility.

"Why, you poor dear, what have I to forgive?" exclaimed Billie, trying to raise Onoye to her feet.

"Why are you so unhappy, Onoye? Is there anything we can do for you?" asked Elinor.

"Do tell us and let us help you," put in Mary.

But Onoye was silent.

"O'Kami San, will you not ask her?" said Billie. "Perhaps she would tell you in Japanese when she can't in English."

At the words "O'Kami San," Onoye jumped to her feet in subdued excitement.

"O'Kami San," she repeated.

The two Japanese girls confronted each other. They spoke in low, rapid voices and their faces were so calm and unemotional they might have been two Japanese dolls wound tip to move the lips and occasionally make a slight gesture with one hand. Presently Onoye slipped from her obi a small package done up in crępe paper and gave it to O'Kami, who concealed it in the voluminous folds of her own kimono. They exchanged low, ceremonious bows and Onoye hurried away, while O'Kami turned to the mystified young-Americans with an apologetic smile.

"Receive excuses and pardon grant," she said.

Billie made a superhuman effort not to laugh, while Mary stooped to break off a spray of azaleas and Elinor examined intently a stunted pine tree planted in a big green jar near the path.

Japanese gardeners are very fond of cultivating these dwarf trees. Some of the tiniest are said to be of great age. The arrested development contorts the venerable branches into strange twisted forms but they put forth blossoms and foliage with systematic dignity.

"What is the matter with our little maid? Were you able to find out?" Billie asked the visitor.

But O'Kami San was not inclined to be communicative, and they were obliged to return to the summer-house with their curiosity entirely unsatisfied. In the meantime, Miss Campbell and Nancy were in a painful state of embarrassment about what to say next. The conversation had come to a dead stop, while Miss Campbell, with a flushed face, raised her eyes to heaven with a prayerful look and Nancy endeavored to say a few words about the weather. Yoritomo was inclined to be silent, too. He kept his eyes on the floor and only raised them to transmit Miss Campbell's remarks to his mother and aunt.

"Will you ask your mother, Mr. Ito, if -- she suffers from rheumatism from sitting on the floor so much?" asked Miss Campbell, groaning mentally and sending up a prayer that the visitors would see fit to bring the visit to an immediate end.

There was a short colloquy between mother and son, during which Mme. Ito smiled blandly and waved her fan to and fro.

"No, Madam, my mother does not have that complaint," answered her son in precise English.

Miss Campbell flashed a glance of black reproach at Nancy, as much as to say:

"It's your turn now, ungrateful girl. Speak, for heaven's sake."

Nancy exchanged a hopeless glance with the distracted lady. Then she remarked:

"Mr. Ito, is your aunt married?"

Yoritomo smiled broadly.

"She is a widow," he replied. "In Japan all widows cut their hair short."

"But what a strange custom," objected Nancy. "That would keep them from ever marrying a second time. I'm sure I should never cut my hair if my husband died. I should use hair tonic to make it grow longer and thicker."

Yoritomo laughed outright and communicated Nancy's views to his relatives. They laughed, too, and contemplated her knot of chestnut curls with much admiration.

There came another uncomfortable pause. Two simultaneous winged prayers went up into the ether and relief was granted in an unexpected and startling guise. Billie and her friends had just returned and tea and refreshments of a light volatile nature were being passed for the fourth time, by order of Miss Campbell. The visitors were elaborately declining all further nourishment when Nancy saw an arm raised from behind a thick clump of shrubbery near the summer-house. It was clothed in nondescript brown and long fingers clutched a stone. The arm gave a swift circular movement, as if to gain impetus. Then it went backward with a movement of a pitcher about to throw a ball.

"Yoritomo," shrieked Nancy, for the stone seemed to be aimed straight at his head.

In the fraction of an instant the young Japanese had ducked and the stone had crashed into the summer-house and fallen at his feet, making a dent in the floor.

Undoubtedly Nancy had saved his life.

"Oh, oh, oh!" cried Miss Campbell, but Mme. Ito and her sister and daughter were perfectly calm and silent, as were also the Japanese maids, gathered in a frightened group behind them.

"I never saw people take on so little," Miss Campbell observed later, describing the incident to her cousin.

Nancy wept softly. It was never very difficult for her to weep and she emerged from one of these gentle paroxysms -- even as the flowers after a summer rain -- a little dewy but refreshed.

Yoritomo vaulted over the rail of the summer-house and ran in the direction of the group of shrubbery. But, of course, no one was there. Who could expect an assassin to wait and be caught?

"I think we had better get into the house at once," ordered Miss Campbell, and taking Mme. Ito's arm, she hurried the little lady up the path, calling to the others to follow. Once in the drawing-room, all the windows were ordered closed and the doors locked, while Komatsu was sent to search the premises.

"What is your opinion, Mr. Ito?" asked Billie. "Was it an enemy of yours or some one who wanted to exterminate us because we are foreigners?"

But Yoritomo could not enlighten her.

"I cannot say," was all they could get out of him.

He was only deeply chagrined, as was his mother, that the American ladies should have been subjected to such treatment in Japan.

The Campbell party finally arrived at the conclusion that it was an insane person, and Mr. Campbell immediately engaged a day and night watchman and reported the matter to the police.



Chapter IX.

A Birthday Party.


It so happened that the dinner to Mme. Fontaine became a triple celebration. Billie recalled that it was her father's birthday, for one thing.

"He's forgotten it himself," she said. "He never did remember that he was entitled to a birthday."

Furthermore, it was the occasion always of great rejoicing in Japan, being the fifth day of the fifth month on which the Boys' Festival -- O Sekku, as it is called there -- is celebrated.

"Think of my sweet old boy being born on this lucky day!" cried Billie. "Why can't we give him a real Japanese surprise party, Cousin Helen, and invite those nice men to come? Mr. Ito will tell us what to do."

When Mr. Campbell departed for Tokyo that lovely morning on the fifth of May he had no idea of the plans that were hatching in his home. Scarcely had his 'riksha disappeared down the road, when the entire household became actively busy. Komatsu made a hurried visit to town, bearing notes of invitation to the few acquaintances of the Campbells and returned later in the day accompanied by two men carrying large bales on their backs. That evening when the master of the house returned in time to dress for dinner he scarcely recognized his abode, which had been decorated in a most extraordinary manner.

Across the front of the house on long poles were at least six enormous paper carp, which rose and fell and became realistically inflated with every passing breeze. Very fantastic they appeared with their gaping mouths, their enormous bulging eyes and fins and their scales shining in the sunlight.

The carp, it must be known, is the sacred emblem of the male child in Japan. It also signifies courage, endurance and other admirable though not exclusively masculine qualities. This valiant fish can accomplish the difficult feat of swimming up the rapids, even as a brave youth must conquer difficulties and surmount obstacles. His name is synonymous with perseverance and fortitude. The fifth of May is every boy's birthday in Japan, no matter what his real birthday is, and on that day a feast is kept in every home, rich or poor, where there is a son.

"I suppose, because we have only one son in our house, we are entitled to only one carp," observed Billie, "but I think our nice old boy is good enough for us to string up twenty carp."

This statement was unanimously acceded to by all persons connected with the feast.

All the afternoon the girls had worked over the decorations. The garden was strung with lanterns much more beautiful and artistic in design than any that ever reach America; and the house, under the supervision of Onoye and her mother, was made beautiful with the splendid iris in all its varying shades from deep purple to pale mauve. Among their long, slender, delicate leaves the flowers seemed to be growing in the shallow dishes in which devices of soft lead held them in place.

"Are we entertaining a family of sons this evening or have we just decided to celebrate whether we have sons or not?" asked Mr. Campbell, greeting his daughter on the piazza.

"We are entertaining for our only son, the most promising and delightful young man in the entire universe," answered Billie, kissing him.

"I always thought you were a singularly fortunate young man, Duncan," remarked Miss Campbell, "but I shall no longer attribute it entirely to industry, intelligence and good looks."

"What's the reason, then, Cousin Helen?" asked Mr. Campbell, laughing.

"Why, have you forgotten, boy, that this is your birthday? Forty-five years old, and you don't remember it!"

"I did forget it," said Mr. Campbell, "but I don't see where the luck comes in."

They explained the meaning of the Boys' Festival and the lucky coincidence that had brought him into the world on that auspicious day.

"Go in now and get dressed, for the Widow of Shanghai will be arriving pretty soon and other company besides," ordered Billie.

The girls had dressed early and their pretty summer frocks gleamed softly against the green of the shrubbery as they flitted about the garden and the lawn in the twilight. Nancy was wearing her first train that night; it was only a wee bit of a train, nothing regal and sweeping; but it gave her a secret thrill to throw it over one arm, displaying her lace trimmed petticoat underneath, while she tripped along the garden path. The dress was of pink batiste and delicate lace, and from the round neck her throat rose soft and white like a column. She was the first of the four friends to wear a train. Even Elinor, tall and slender in her white lingerie frock, had not aspired to that dignity. Billie was wearing her best blue mulle that became her mightily because it was near the shade of her blue-gray eyes, and little Mary was dressed in one of the dainty muslin frocks that her mother excelled in making.

"They are no longer little girls," thought Miss Campbell, rather sadly, it must be confessed. She was sitting in a long-chair on the piazza watching her four charges flit about the lawn. "They are almost young ladies now, and how pretty they are, too; each is so different from the other and each charming in her own way. Billie, I think, is too much of a tomboy to worry about yet. Elinor is far too dignified; Mary is too shy. But I feel I shall have to keep a sharp eye on Nancy. Those blue eyes of hers are simply wells of coquetry. I believe the child would flirt with a stone. I doubt if half the time she realizes herself how eloquent she can make them. Little mischief!"

The little lady smiled indulgently, recalling her own blue eyes and the mischief they had been known to stir up.

"And now this Widow from Shanghai comes and breaks in on us," her thoughts proceeded irrelevantly. "I don't in the least wish to cultivate her friendship, but I know her kind. Once she gets her foot in the door there'll be no shaking her off."

As a matter of fact, Miss Helen Campbell, spinster, was never very enthusiastic about widows.

"I don't care for them," she used to say. "They are a knowing, designing lot."

Once when she was asked by a missionary society in West Haven to contribute to a fund for the widows in India, to induce them not to mount their husbands' funeral pyres and permit themselves to be consumed by mortuary flames, Miss Campbell indignantly refused.

"I am sure, if they are so foolish, that's much the best place for them," she announced. "I prefer to give my money for more worthy causes."

And now a widow, who, far from having mounted any funeral pyre, appeared to enjoy life immensely, had placed them under obligations.

"She is a slant-eyed widow with a yellow skin," Miss Campbell thought uncharitably, "and her hair that ought to be dark is light. Of course that isn't her fault and neither is her peculiar complexion nor her slant eyes, but I do wish she were one thing or the other and not half and half."

Of course all these inhospitable and unfriendly notions the little lady was careful to keep to herself. When presently the Widow of Shanghai rode up in a 'riksha and was helped to alight by three maids at once, Miss Campbell was all graciousness and affability.

Mme. Fontaine wore a beautiful white embroidered crępe dinner dress. Her figure was so slender Miss Campbell feared it might sway and bend with the least breath of wind. Her curious fluffy hair was arranged on top of her head and her only ornament was a string of small pearls wound twice around her throat. They were very beautiful pearls, each one perfect to the casual eye.

"But then, who can tell the real from the unreal nowadays," thought Miss Campbell, regarding the jewels critically. "They might be imitation, every one of them."

"Reggie" Carlton, as he came to be known to the girls, and Nicholas Grimm soon followed the widow, and after them came Mr. Buxton. Yoritomo could not appear that evening, because of the celebration in his own home where he must remain and share in the family feast.

Mme. Fontaine was reserved almost to the point of shyness with the four men of the party, whom she now met for the first time. But she drew the girls around her by a kind of irresistible attraction. Billie found herself talking as freely as she talked with her three friends. The widow had a curiously sympathetic way of listening that provoked confidences. There was a good deal of friendly rivalry among the Motor Maids for her society. They took turns sitting by her side during the half hour before dinner was announced; but Nancy felt a certain superiority over the others. Was she not bound by a secret tie to this fascinating person because of their chance meeting in the garden in the rain?

"These four girls of mine seem to have acquired a monopoly over you, Mme. Fontaine," observed Mr. Campbell, just returned from a short conference with Mr. Buxton in the library. "They don't give the rest of us half a chance. They have fenced you around as if you were a sacred image of Buddha."

"I feel that they have paid me a great compliment," answered the widow, smiling, "To a lonely woman the friendship of four charming young girls is very sweet."

Mr. Campbell somehow felt extremely sorry for this lonely lady. Mr. Buxton also was touched with commiseration, and the younger men, too, were moved to cast glances of sympathy in her direction.

For the first time in her life Miss Campbell experienced the same sensation a young girl feels when she is left sitting against the wall at a dance while her friends are being whirled about. At first she thought the sensation was a touch of indigestion which frequently brings with it, its near relative, depression. But when the circle closed in around the Widow of Shanghai, and Helen Campbell, spinster, of America, was left sitting quite alone to contemplate the view, she decided that it was not indigestion nor any of its ramifications that ailed her. What the sensation was she could not name, but she felt a profound and entirely human irritation with the Widow of Shanghai and her ingratiating methods.

Fortunately dinner was announced and on the arm of Mr. Buxton she led the way to the dining room with the air of an exiled queen.

Billie was very anxious about the success of her father's birthday dinner. She had herself assisted in decorating the table, and had insisted on placing a crystal bowl of goldfish in the center, although O'Haru had told her that goldfish were not carp, and therefore had no significance whatever with the day.

However, Onoye had caught the idea at once and had carried it out charmingly. Hiding behind the screen, where she could see without being seen, her heart warmed with joy when she heard the exclamations of the guests. The center of the table was arranged to resemble a little lake. The shallow bowl of goldfish was placed on a flat round mirror, on the edge of which nodded groups of iris and their sword-like leaves planted in shallow green dishes; pebbles and water grasses hid the perforations which held them in place. Two little boats sailed on the lake, and at one side was a miniature grotto formed of rocks and moss, and spanned by a little bridge.

"Isn't it cunning?" asked Billie proudly, "and isn't Onoye clever to have carried out the scheme so perfectly?"

"She is, indeed," assented Miss Campbell, feeling suddenly glad to praise some one to counteract the unusual sensations that had possessed her a moment before.

"It is a part of every Japanese girl's education to learn the art of arranging flowers," said Mme. Fontaine. "She is taught that, just as girls in other countries are taught music and languages. It often takes several hours to arrange a group of flowers. The object is, you see, to make them look as natural as possible in the vase."

"It is a pretty accomplishment," said Miss Campbell, "but I doubt if any American girl would have the patience to learn it. Can you imagine, Billie, spending two hours arranging three lilies in a bowl to make them look as if they had grown there?"

"No, I can't," laughed Billie, "but I have spent two hours many times on my back under the 'Comet' trying to find a loose screw."

"If I had a wife -- " here Nicholas remarked and paused because everybody laughed.

"Well, if you had one, what would you do with her? Beat her?" asked Mr. Buxton.

"Do I look like a wife beater?" demanded Nicholas indignantly. "No. I was going to say I'd rather she would know about loose screws in machinery than how to arrange flowers."

"You speak as if marriage was one long motor trip, my boy," observed Mr. Campbell.

"And, surely," put in Miss Campbell, "if the machinery broke down, you wouldn't compel your wife to repair it?"

"I am afraid very few girls would be eligible for your wife, Mr. Grimm," remarked Mme. Fontaine.

As for Billie, she said nothing at all, but glanced down at her plate, because Nicholas looked straight at her and then burst out with:

"Don't jump on me, everybody, with both feet. I only meant that it's a jolly fine girl who can -- er -- who -- knows -- "

He broke down in confusion.

"You mean that a young lady chauffeur would make an excellent wife?" laughed Mr. Campbell.

"Spare his blushes," put in Reggie, and then the talk shifted to other subjects.

It is customary in Japan on the day of the Boys' Festival to tell stories of the heroes of the country, and after dinner when they had gathered in the lantern-hung summer-house for coffee, Mme. Fontaine, urged by the girls, recounted an incident in the life of Yamato, or O'Osu, as he was then known. He was the son of the Emperor Keiko, and when a mere slip of a boy was sent by his father to slay two fierce robbers who had been spreading terror through the country. O'Osu gladly undertook the affair and since the outlaws were giants and he just a boy, he devised a cunning scheme to outwit the terrible brigands. He was slender and small and his hair still long, so that in the gorgeous clothes of a dancing girl no one would ever have guessed he was a brave and reckless young prince.

One night when the robbers were feasting in their cave after pillaging the country for miles around, the beautiful dancing girl appeared before them like a vision. She charmed them with her songs and dances and then suddenly she whipped out a sharp sword and slew the nearest robber. As the other fled terror-stricken to the entrance of the cave, she thrust him in the back and he fell to the ground.

"'Pause, oh Prince, for prince thou surely art,' he gasped. 'But why hast thou done this deed?'

"And the prince, standing over him with the dripping sword, said:

"'I am O'Osu, messenger of the Emperor and avenger of evil.'

"'Then,' said the dying robber, 'thou shalt have a new name. Until this hour my brother and I have been called the bravest men in the West. To thee, august boy, I bequeath the title. Let men call thee the bravest in Yamato.'

"From that day O'Osu was called 'Yamato Take,' and never did he wrong the name."

Mary sighed when Mme. Fontaine had finished the story. She yearned for the gift of language and the power to chain the attention of a circle of people. How had she done it, this mysterious foreigner who could handle the English language even better than English people? Her words were simple and gestures she used almost none. It was her voice, Mary thought. There was an undercurrent of dramatic power in it, like a subterranean river. It could only be guessed at, but it was there, powerful and deep. Even Miss Campbell, unreasonably prejudiced, felt the undercurrent.

"That is a charming story," she observed. "I suppose Japan is filled with many romantic stories of that sort."

"Hundreds of them," answered the widow. "Volumes and volumes could be written about them and still the half not be told."

"And you know many of them, I suppose?" asked Billie.

"Oh, yes. One could not live in Japan without studying her history, so filled with romances and legends of heroic deeds. It is fascinating, I assure you, and furnishes no end of subjects for decorations from a picture on a fan to the masterpiece of a great artist."

There was a moment's silence in the company of which Mme. Fontaine certainly seemed the center. She looked suddenly very Japanese. Against the white of her dress her soft skin gleamed like polished old ivory. Her eyes were darker and more noticeably slanting than ever before. If she only had had dark hair! What country had given her those strangely incongruous locks?

And now it was proposed that they should wander in the garden, and off they started by various paths and bypaths all leading eventually to the little curved bridge at the far end, where Nancy had hung two large yellow lanterns on the ends of supple willow wands.

The Widow of Shanghai walked between Billie and Mr. Campbell, but she had little to say. The moon, swinging over them like another yellow lantern, had glorified the garden into a little earthly paradise. It seemed somehow inappropriate to speak above a whisper in the midst of so much exquisite beauty. The wisteria had opened up during the day and now hung in magnificent purple clusters from an arbor across the main walk.

From the servants' quarters came the tinkle of the samisen, and a breeze laden with the scent of flowers brought with it also the distant sound of voices and laughter.

Nicholas Grimm had joined Billie, and the two young people now lingered in the arbor. In the curve of a path they caught an occasional glimpse of a white dress. The music of Nancy's laugh came to them mingled with Mary's high, sweet note. Gradually the voices died away. The garden seemed to be under a spell. Billie, sitting beside Nicholas in the arbor, waited breathlessly. Then at last in the stillness there burst forth such a stream of full-throated singing as had never been heard.

"It's a nightingale," whispered Nicholas.

Billie felt that she would like very much to cry. Nothing had ever stirred her as this flood of melody which seemed to have been turned on for their especial benefit. While they listened, there came the sound of three pistol shots in quick succession and a cry. Was it an English cry for help?

Instantly Nicholas was on his feet.

"You had better stay here," he said. "I'll run and see what has happened."

Before Billie could reply, Nancy dashed up.

"We are all to go into the house," she said. "Someone has shot a pistol in the far end of the garden. The men have gone down there."

Billie considered the situation for a moment. Certainly neither her father nor his three guests were armed. Would it not be a good precaution to go to the library and get her father's pistol? It was merely an impulse, and she could hardly explain it later, but she obeyed it.

"It's nothing serious, Mr. Buxton says. Probably someone who has been celebrating has wandered into the garden, but we had better wait for them in the house," Billie heard Miss Campbell remark, as she ran along the path to the side entrance.



Chapter X.

In The Dark.


The impulse that had moved Billie to run ahead of her friends and dash into the library for her father's pistol carried her so fast, indeed, that she was in the room with the door closed behind her before she realized what she was doing. It was perfectly dark there. Not even the brilliant moonlight outside penetrated through the heavy curtains drawn for the night.

"There are always matches on the desk," she thought, remembering that her father usually smoked while he worked over his papers.

With her hand still on the doorknob she turned and faced the desk without moving a step. Why was she so frightened? It was absurd. Her father would be ashamed of her for being afraid of the dark. Giving herself a little impatient shake, she took two steps in front of her, groping with her hands like a blind person for obstacles in the way.

She stopped short and listened. Every nerve in her body was tingling and she felt she was trembling. For half a minute she hardly breathed. Then she resolutely began her march in the dark. At last the desk was reached and her hand was on the green china match holder. She stood for a moment irresolute. The pistol was in the lower left-hand desk drawer. She knew exactly where it was. Her father had shown it to her only the other day.

"I think you had better know where I keep it," he had said, "not that you will ever need to use it, I hope, because either Komatsu or I shall always be here to protect you, but just as a matter of precaution."

Again she reached for the match holder, but it was empty. Softly opening the drawer, she felt in the back until her fingers grasped the pistol. Carefully she drew it out and transferred it from her right hand to her left. There was an unacknowledged relief in Billie's heart that there were no matches. She felt she would rather get out of the library in the dark than make any investigations with a match. Once in the hall she would decide what to do.

She was morally certain now that someone else was in the room. She could see nothing, hear nothing, but in the dark she felt the presence of another human being. She recalled Nancy's experience.

"Perhaps it wasn't her imagination, after all," she thought.

The thing was to get back to the door and out of it. Billie wished with all her soul she had never come in at all. It had been a reckless, silly notion. Why should her father need a pistol? After all, it was just some roisterer on his way home from the festival. She had heard that sake, the Japanese brandy, made the men who drank it wild, no doubt wild enough to shoot off a pistol in the suburbs where there were no policemen about to interfere.

And all because she had heard this pistol shot, she had obeyed a foolish impulse to find her father's pistol. How reckless! How foolhardy! How stupid! Because, to come right down to a fine point, here she was shut up in a perfectly huge room, as black as the pit, with -- someone else!

Never in all her experience had Billie been so frightened. Her knees knocked together and her head was quite giddy as she made her way unsteadily toward the door, still with the pistol in her left hand.

But she seemed to have lost all sense of direction. Groping with her right hand, she encountered a chair. There had been no chairs in the way before, -- was it an hour ago or only a minute?

It would be better to get to the wall and feel her way along the shelves until she reached the door.

Why was she so panic-stricken? After all was she so sure about that other person crouching somewhere -- anywhere?

Then the thing happened that she had known was going to happen all the time.

Reaching out in the dark, she encountered an arm. Instantly her right hand was seized in a grip of steel. There was a struggle. She was thrown to the floor; a shot; a cry -- was it her own or another person's voice? Then absolute silence.

When Billie came back to consciousness, she was lying on a couch in the library. Miss Helen was kneeling beside her with the smelling salts. Mary was bathing her forehead with cold water and her father was chafing her wrists and saying in a low voice:

"You are not hurt, are you, Billie-girl? There, speak to father. Are you all right?"

There seemed to be a great many other people scattered about the room, the guests and the servants and her own particular friends leaning over her anxiously.

"I hope I didn't kill him?" she said weakly.

Mr. Campbell could not refrain from smiling.

"You are just a little girl after all, Billie," he said. "No, you didn't kill him, but you hit him. Look at that." He pointed to some blood spots on the rug. "You certainly winged him, whoever he was. In some way, he escaped. I don't know how, because we were in the hall when the shot was fired and the windows are still locked. He may have got out through the servants' quarters but that would have been difficult, too, without being seen."

Billie sat up.

"I'm all right now," she said. "It was only fright because I lost my way in the dark and couldn't find the door, and it was so ghastly running into another person in the blackness like that. Father, I wish you would tell them not to put out the lights in this room so early. It's the second time it's happened now."

"O'Haru, you hear what the lady says," said Mr. Campbell half humorously.

Billie, knowing her father as she did, was suddenly aware that he was trying to make light of the affair for the benefit of the others in the room. That the episode was far more serious than he cared to admit, she knew perfectly well.

O'Haru left the doorway where she had been standing and came over to the group by the couch.

"What was the honorable wish of the young lady?"

"Not to have the lights in the library put out so early in the evening. To wait until bedtime at least."

O'Haru disliked to contradict, but the august young lady was honorably mistaken. The lights had never been put out by any servant attached to the household. She herself, or her daughter, attended to that after the honorable family had retired for the night.

"Never mind," said Mr. Campbell in a soothing voice, indicating to Billie by a slight shake of the head that he would be glad if she would let the matter drop. Billie nodded. There was perfect understanding between the father and the daughter.

"How do you feel now, Miss Billie?" asked Nicholas Grimm coming to the foot of the couch.

"I'm all right again. I am ashamed of having been such a coward. If it had been daylight I shouldn't have been half so frightened."

"I feel that it was all my fault for running off and leaving you alone. I should have seen you to the house at least."

"Nonsense," said Billie. "That wouldn't have altered matters in the least. I would have come back here just the same for the pistol. You see I had a feeling that Papa might need it. Besides, we were all alone here. There were no men -- "

"I am only glad it was someone else that was shot and not you, my darling child," broke in Miss Campbell tremulously. "Duncan, I do wish you wouldn't keep pistols lying around the house. They are so dangerous."

"But I don't, Cousin. It was carefully stored in the back compartment of a bottom desk drawer. If this reckless young relative of ours would go and dig it out, I'm sure it's not my fault."

"I'm sure I can't imagine why you treat the matter as such a joke," Miss Campbell was saying, when Mme. Fontaine swept into the room.

Her face was whiter than the long white wrap that enveloped her.

"I am so glad you were not injured," she said standing beside Billie.

"You must thank Mme. Fontaine, Billie. It was she who found you first. The rest of us were not certain in which room the shot was fired. I thought it was in the kitchen."

"Oh," said Billie, turning to the widow. "Were you the first person on the scene? You couldn't have seen much, it was so dark. How did you know I was here? I don't suppose the robber made any noise."

"It was very dark. I should not have known, if -- if I had not smelt the smoke of the powder."

"I thought perhaps you were going to say you heard the robber groan," went on Billie. "You see I hit him. I think I must have a pretty good natural aim to shoot with the left hand in the dark and not fire wide of the mark. But I don't think he was very badly hurt. He got away so fast. I just winged him, I suppose."

"How do you know you shot him?" asked Mme. Fontaine.

Miss Helen pointed dramatically to the blood stains on the floor.

Suddenly the widow's lips turned quite white and a blue line appeared around her mouth. She swayed slightly and Mr. Campbell caught her. Billie was on her feet in a moment and they laid her on the couch.

"Unfasten her wrap," ordered Miss Campbell.

"No, no," said Mme. Fontaine in a very weak, thin voice. "The sight of blood -- " she closed her eyes. "I shall be all right in a moment." Beads of perspiration appeared on her forehead and she shivered with a chill.

"I think Mme. Fontaine had better stay here to-night. She's too ill to get back to town," said Mr. Campbell.

"Oh, do," echoed the girls, and Miss Campbell added hospitably:

"We shall be so glad."

"I am quite well now," said the widow rising unsteadily to her feet. "You will forgive me, I hope. It is a faintness that comes to me at the sight of blood. Will you call my 'riksha now, Mr. Campbell? I must be going. I won't try to shake hands," she added, reaching the door. "I am still so light in the head, I am afraid of the effort. But I want to thank you for a delightful evening. I am only sorry it ended so disastrously."

Making a ceremonious Oriental bow to Miss Campbell and smiling and nodding to the others, she left the room followed by Mr. Campbell and the four girls.

"No one has told me yet what the shots were in the garden," announced Billie after the widow had departed.

"There was nothing to tell. We never found anything at all," answered Nicholas.

The next morning Mr. Campbell engaged another night watchman. His duty was to patrol the inside of the house, making his rounds every hour through the halls and living rooms. Between times he sat in the library.



Chapter XL

The Comet Disguised.


"Where is Onoye, O'Haru?" Miss Campbell asked, a few days after the excitement in the library.

"Honorable Madam, Onoye much business."

To Miss Campbell, a seasoned housekeeper, this reply seemed a little irregular.

"What kind of business, O'Haru?" she demanded rather severely.

O'Haru looked amiably sad. It is true that Onoye was on the pay roll of the household servants, but then, did not her mother do work for two when Onoye was not actively engaged? The Japanese reasons thus: if the work is done properly, it is of no consequence who does it. Certainly the machinery of the household moved on without a hitch. There was no cause for complaint, but it seemed to Miss Campbell that if Onoye received wages she should appear about the house. Her position, which was practically that of ladies' maid, had been filled by one of the other small maids while O'Haru had covered up that vacancy by her own redoubled labors.

"Will you send Onoye to me, please," ordered Miss Campbell. "I have some sewing for her to do."

Poor O'Haru bowed. Her face looked wan and sad and it seemed to the Motor Maids that Miss Campbell might not have been so severe; but as a housekeeper, that small, gentle lady was a disciplinarian.

They waited with some curiosity for Onoye to appear. In five minutes O'Sudzu, one of the other maids, stood framed in the doorway like a Japanese souvenir post card life size. She bowed low and entered the room timidly.

"But I sent for Onoye," exclaimed Miss Campbell.

O'Sudzu only smiled. She spoke no English.

"Onoye. Wish Onoye," repeated Miss Campbell. She pointed to the door.

O'Sudzu departed.

O'Matsu appeared next, and after O'Matsu came O'Kiku, who was followed presently by Masako, until these successive apparitions of Japanese maids became positively bewildering. The girls were consumed with the giggles and Miss Campbell was scarcely able to maintain a serious expression.

"No, no!" she would say each time, "Onoye! Wish Onoye!"

At last O'Haru appeared once more.

"August one, much kindness bestow. O'Haru make sewing."

"Where is Onoye? Where is your daughter?" demanded Miss Campbell.

O'Haru on her knees hung her head humbly.

"I think I know what's the matter," put in Mary. "Onoye is ill. I am sure it must be that."

"Is there anything the matter with Onoye?" asked Miss Campbell, but apparently O'Haru's English did not extend so far.

"Much sickness?" asked Billie.

O'Haru's head sank lower and lower.

"Poor thing," exclaimed Mary. "Onoye is ill, Miss Campbell, and O'Haru is afraid to say so."

"You must not be afraid, O'Haru. If little daughter ill, we take care of her. Bring doctor. See?"

"No, no, Onoye better. Onoye soon well," said the woman in a low voice. "Ask much pardons, gracious lady."

"Can't we see her?" asked Billie.

"Onoye see no one. Onoye only humble servant"

"Nonsense, she might be very ill," put in Miss Campbell. "I'll go with you now, O'Haru. Lead the way."

The housekeeper gave a sigh of patient resignation and rose to her feet. Miss Campbell and the girls followed her down the long hall and across the passage to the servants' quarters.

At last they came to a small room at the end of the house. The floor was covered with the usual wicker mats. The shoji, or sliding partitions, were drawn together, and in the dim mellow light which filtered through these opaque walls they saw Onoye. She was stretched on the mat which is the usual Japanese bed, her neck on the uncomfortable little pillow bench. With a murmur of surprise and apology, she pulled herself weakly to her knees and touched her forehead to the floor.

"Pardon, gracious lady," she said, drawing her kimono closely about her.

"But, child, we didn't know you were so ill," said Miss Campbell, gently forcing the girl to lie down on her bed. "Has the doctor seen you?"

"Yes, gracious lady"

"What is the matter with you?"

Onoye shook her head.

"Not say it in English." She touched her forehead. "Muchly fire."

"It's fever, of course," said Miss Campbell, kneeling beside the sick girl and feeling her forehead. "I think you had better not stay here, children. It might be something contagious."

"Nonsense," thought Billie; but Miss Campbell was in one of her compelling humors and they retreated obediently, leaving her to hold a conference with O'Haru and to see that everything was done that could be done to alleviate Onoye's sufferings. She finally departed, after satisfying herself that Onoye was in the toils of a bilious attack. But she did not administer calomel as she would have done in ordinary cases of torpid liver. "I suppose the doctor knows what he is about," she said, "and there must be a Japanese equivalent to calomel in a country where it rains eternally."

It was decided that they should take the "Comet" out after lunch. Miss Campbell wished to visit an apothecary shop and there were other plans for sight-seeing, -- perhaps the magnificent Shiba Temple and the wisteria in the park. But before they were to go, there were two surprises in store, one for Billie alone and one for all of them. Just after luncheon while the others were dressing for the trip, Billie, who needed about two minutes for pinning on her hat and slipping on her coat, went back to the stable to take the "Comet" from his garage. On the way, she passed the room occupied by O'Haru and her daughter. Not having the least fear of contagion, she entered a back passage of the intricate house, which reminded her of the houses she used to build with cards as a child. Pushing back the partition she marched into Onoye's room without announcing herself.

"There's nothing to knock on, so why knock?" she thought.

Billie surprised the little Japanese girl sitting up examining her arm, which was wrapped in bandages.

"Why, Onoye, I didn't know you had been injured," she exclaimed, running over and kneeling beside the sick girl.

Onoye was speechless. She tried to cover her arm with the sleeve of her kimono and to apologize and bow all at the same time.

"Not muchly badly," she said at last in a low voice.

"But how did it happen?"

"Not nothing. Pardon grant," murmured Onoye.

"Of course, you poor dear, but how did you injure yourself?"

She laid the bandaged wrist gently on the palm of her hand and looked at it.

"Poor small accident," said Onoye.

"But why was it?"

The two girls looked at each other silently.

"Was it in the library that night?" asked Billie after a long pause.

Onoye's head drooped more and more.

"Poor little thing. Poor child," exclaimed Billie, consumed with pity and remorse, since it had been her own carelessness that had caused the poor small accident.

Onoye had doubtless put out the lights and when she, Billie, had crept into the room like a thief, the Japanese girl was frightened and hid herself behind a chair. Then when they had collided, they had both lost their heads and the pistol had gone off. In spite of her remorse, Billie was immensely relieved.

"Papa will be, too," she thought. "It had much better be Onoye than a robber."

And Mr. Campbell was decidedly relieved when he heard the story from his daughter that night.

"I'll keep it a secret, Onoye, dear," said Billie, moved by compassion. "I'll only tell Papa. I am so sorry I shot you. It must have hurt terribly."

Onoye tried to smile.

"Forgiveness grant," she murmured again.

"I think I'd better say 'forgiveness grant,'" said Billie. "But I must be going now." She patted Onoye on the cheek and then tiptoed out of the room. "It is a relief," she thought, turning her footsteps toward the garage.

Some minutes later, Billie ran into her cousin's room breathlessly.

"Ready in one moment," called Miss Campbell, who had heard the whir of the motor at the door.

"I want to prepare you for a surprise," said Billie solemnly. "I don't mind telling you that I have had the shock of my life."

"But what is it?" they all demanded in one voice.

"I'll only say this much. Papa has punished the 'Comet' for running over the child that day."

"How?"

"You'll see. I thought I had better prepare you. The shock might have killed you if I hadn't."

"Goodness gracious me, what is it?" cried Miss Campbell, seizing her reticule and gloves and rushing into the hall, followed by the others.

When she reached the piazza, she sat down flat in a chair and gasped.

There was the "Comet," to be sure. His outlines were as familiar as the profile of a beloved brother, but his beautiful scarlet coat had been taken from him and he wore instead a quiet covering of dark blue. The luxurious red cushions were covered with buff linen. One small decoration had been conceded by Mr. Campbell. The dark, quietly colored coat was relieved on each side by the buff-colored initials, "M-M" lovingly intertwined.

"I suppose Papa thought the red coat was too gaudy," said Billie, who was indeed just a little tearful over the loss of that cheerful and familiar scarlet dress which would never again flash along the highways like a scarlet bird. "But he's the same old 'Comet' inside," she added hastily. "You couldn't change his noble disposition if you painted him sea green."

"I think he looks beautiful," put in Elinor. "He's so neat and elegant in buff and blue. It's like a livery."

The other girls laughed because Elinor's speech was so characteristic.

"Oh, you regal young person," exclaimed Nancy. "Your imagination doesn't stop at anything short of liveried retinues of servants. There is no doubt you were a royal princess in a previous existence. And suppose you are a fat old pug in another life, like Nedda!"

"I am sure Nedda is waited on hand and foot," cried Elinor. "She has a maid who follows her around with a cushion and a silk cover."

Komatsu, standing at the side of the motor, grinned with amusement.

"They are foolish children, aren't they, Komatsu?" observed Miss Campbell, climbing into her accustomed seat.

Nedda, hearing her name mentioned, wobbled on her uncertain old legs to the edge of the piazza and whined piteously.

"Go back to your mat, you pathetic, pampered old great grandmother," called Nancy.

The aged animal turned obediently and curled herself on her cushion. Then she lifted her wrinkled, snub-nosed face to watch the departing motorists.

"She does look like our Irish cook's grandmother," said Nancy.

Everybody laughed gaily and the feelings regarding the "Comet's" new blue coat were dispelled. Nedda had been a welcome interruption.

"Papa always does the right thing," Billie announced presently. "I'm glad he did it now. I was a little hurt at first, of course. But I understand perfectly what his reasons were. Everybody will be looking out for a red motor car that runs over people and they'll never recognize the 'Comet' It's just as if he wore a disguise."

The dark blue car was, as a matter of fact, not nearly so conspicuous as he skimmed along over the road, and it was the very wisest thing Billie's father could have done to change the color. Probably every man, woman and child in the multitude that had clustered around the car that day on Arakawa Ridge would be constantly on the look-out for the red machine, and never glance twice at the blue one.

"I do feel so inconspicuous and quiet and lady-like," remarked Billie when some time later they left the motor car in charge of Komatsu and went in to visit Shiba Temple in Shiba Park. These chapels are mostly the tombs of the Shoguns who for many years were powerful nobles and who really ruled Japan in place of the Emperor, a mere figurehead in those days. The magnificent tombs they built for themselves are now the very pride of Tokyo. Within the great red gates of the main temple, upheld with scarlet columns, wheeled flights of pigeons quite tame. The girls bought packages of grain from little booths and fed them and presently one of the pretty creatures perched on Mary's wrist and ate from her hand.

"Don't frighten him," she whispered, her eyes brimming with tears of pleasure.

All the afternoon the tourists wandered through the wide courts where were armies of stone lanterns placed in exactly the right spots. They passed softly flowing fountains wherein the worshippers washed themselves and climbed stately stairs by fern-set walls. Court within court they entered adorned with magnificent paintings and carvings of marvelous workmanship. They walked through the great hall of books where scrolls of immense value are kept, each swathed in silk and lying in its own lacquer box. At last dazzled and silenced by the succession of magic courts, they returned to the outer world of the living, and climbed into the motor car.

"Before we go home, don't you think we had better inquire for Mme. Fontaine?" Billie suggested.

Miss Campbell assented. So long as they did not go in, she was quite willing.

They found the gate of the Widow of Shanghai's garden stretched wide open; a jinriksha was about to pass into the street. A Japanese lady in a rich costume was the occupant. She exchanged one swift glance with Billie and quickly looked the other way. Billie started slightly. She felt uncomfortable. It seemed to her that she had been looking straight into the eyes of Mme. Fontaine.

"Did you notice," said Mary, "that the Japanese lady in the 'riksha wore her arm in a sling?"

No, they had not noticed it, but there was nothing remarkable in that. No one even commented on the fact, while they waited for Komatsu to inquire and leave their cards.

"Mme. Fontaine was still very much indisposed," the message came back, "but she would be glad if the ladies would enter and have some refreshment. She regretted she would not be able to see them herself."

The ladies would not enter, however, as it was nearing the hour when Mr. Campbell would return and expect to find them in the garden waiting tea, and the "Comet" bore them swiftly home.



Chapter XII.

A Theater Party.


"It's very easy for a bachelor to entertain in Japan," remarked Mr. Buxton one afternoon in the Campbells' summer house. "A busy man is saved all bother and inconvenience if he wants to give a theater party, say, with a dinner to follow, by putting the affair in the hands of an 'elder sister,'"

"Suppose he hasn't any elder sister," put in Miss Campbell feeling slightly offended. Perhaps she was older than Mr. Buxton, but she was sure she didn't look it and she had no intention of being designated as his "elder sister."

"Oh, but he always has," replied Mr. Buxton. "A Japanese providence always provides a Nesan, or elder sister, for persons desiring to entertain. All she requires of you is to leave her alone and pay the bill."

Miss Campbell felt somewhat mollified.

"But what does she do?" asked Mary.

"She does all the work, makes all the arrangements, engages the boxes and the 'rikshas, orders the dinner, tells you how to act; in fact, does everything any good elder sister would do to oblige a little brother."

The others smiled at this droll notion but there was something rather touching, too, about the simple title of elder sister or Nesan for this efficient and reliable individual who took all the burdens on her own shoulders. As a matter of fact a Nesan is the proprietor of a tea house and her business is to get up entertainments.

"And it is for this reason," continued Mr. Buxton, "that I am able to ask all of you for the honor of your company to the theater to-morrow at three and later to dinner. I could never have undertaken it alone, but having been provided with an efficient relative older and wiser than I am, although she looks to be under thirty, I feel no uneasiness whatever."

"I am inclined to accept your reluctant invitation on the spot, Buxton," laughed Mr. Campbell, "for self and family."

"I didn't intend it to appear reluctant," answered the Englishman. "I only wanted to assure you that if you would do me the honor of coming to the entertainment, all things would be correctly carried out according to Japanese etiquette and there would not be a hitch in the whole affair. Will you come?"

"We shall be delighted, Mr. Buxton," answered Miss Campbell.

"I thought you would," he added. "Indeed, I was so certain of it that the little Nesan has already got a list of the guests and the whole thing has been arranged."

"And to make assurance doubly sure, you thought you would just mention the matter to us?" asked Mr. Campbell, who enjoyed teasing this rather odd and amusing old bachelor.

"How do we dress?" asked Nancy.

"I never thought to ask the Nesan how the ladies should dress. But if you take my advice, I should say comfortably. That is, if you can. I believe a woman's clothes are never really comfortable."

"Mine are," broke in Billie, poised on the railing of the summer house swinging her feet carelessly.

"Would you have us dress like men?" demanded Miss Campbell indignantly.

"No indeed, Madam," answered the bachelor, "but in your present costume, you must admit that it would be difficult to sit on the floor."

"But I don't wish to sit on the floor," exclaimed the spinster. "It's a perfectly absurd custom. Besides, you are edging away from the main point -- trying to draw out of the -- "

"There will be no chairs to-morrow," interrupted the other, blinking his eyes like a wise old bird. "And," he continued as he took his departure, "neither will there be any knives and forks."

"I shall take mine along, then," called Miss Campbell, whose discussions with the bachelor kept them in a constant state of amusement.

"It would be an unpardonable breach of etiquette," he called over his shoulder. Presently he turned back and added, "You are not to use that infernal machine for my party. The Nesan provided 'rikshas for all guests."

"But that's just an additional expense to you, Buxton," cried Mr. Campbell.

"I know it perfectly well and I so suggested to my elder sister, but she didn't seem to understand, and I decided I would rather hire a gross of 'rikshas than try and make her. So you may expect three of 'em to-morrow at a quarter past two. The performance begins at three."

"Dear old 'Comet,' he's always getting slighted nowadays," remarked Billie. "He never gets to go anywhere."

"He's probably glad enough to sit in his cell and meditate on the mutability of human events," answered Mr. Buxton, and this time he really did go.

It happened therefore that the "Comet" was once more left in humiliating retirement while his young mistresses rode off in jinrikshas which appeared at the door exactly at the hour mentioned by the host of the afternoon. Indeed the motor car had good reason to be a disgruntled machine. He never did seem to be a part of the Japanese landscape like the graceful 'riksha. As a matter of fact he was a blot on the scene and entirely out of place against a background of an ancient temple or a group of picturesque individuals in clothes more brilliant in hue than his own boyhood coat.

Converging from various points in Tokyo but all timed to meet at the theater door exactly at five minutes to three, came the other guests of the party in 'rikshas provided by the Nesan. Mme. Fontaine was one of these.

"What a picture she is," exclaimed Nancy, noticing at once the widow's beautiful costume of embroidered pongee over which she wore a kimono-shaped mantle of the same embroidered silk, the sleeves of which covered her arms and hands completely.

Nodding and smiling at the girls brightly, she followed Miss Campbell into the theater where they were met by the plump, hospitable little Nesan, who prostrated herself before each guest and removed shoes at the same time.

Miss Campbell groaned.

"Oh, dear," she complained. "Even at the theater! I shall never get accustomed to walking flat-footed. I shall be wearing bifurcated stockings next, I suppose."

"Etiquette, Madam, etiquette," said Mr. Buxton. "You must do as the Romans do, remember, or else be thought extremely rude."

But there was no time for argument and the party hastily distributed themselves in the two boxes. Yoritomo Ito kept close beside Nancy while Nicholas Grimm and Reggie Carlton sat tailor fashion in the back of the box. The theater was a strange place to the Western eye. There was not a chair in the entire house and Mr. Buxton chuckled aloud over Miss Campbell's complaints when she was obliged to sit on a mat on the floor. Below the two tiers of boxes, the pit appeared like a gigantic checker-board divided into square compartments by partitions about a foot high. In each compartment squatted six people. Running from the rear of the house to the stage was a slightly raised walk three feet broad to be used by the actors as an exit. The stalls were crowded with men and women and children. Here and there were groups of geishas or dancing girls. Their rich apparel made bright spots of color in the scene. The children ran about with perfect freedom, up and down the aisles at the sides and in and out of the stalls, eating sweetmeats and visiting their friends. And there was scarcely a grown person in the entire audience of Japanese who was not smoking, for women as well as men smoke in Japan: one pinch of tobacco in a short pipe, one puff, a little whiff of smoke inhaled and the operation is over. Before the curtain rose, the Nesan flew busily from one box to the other with cushions and sweetmeats, baskets of oranges and boxes of sweet pickled black beans. Presently came the sound of two blocks of wood striking together. Then the curtain rose and the audience settled itself for three hours of the most intense enjoyment. The play was a Japanese legend and the actors picturesque and dramatic, but if all the greatest actors in the world had combined to give the performance, Miss Campbell could not have maintained her cramped position a minute longer than two hours.

"I am sure my limbs will refuse their office, Duncan," she whispered. "If this goes on much longer, I shall have to be carried from the theater like a helpless paralytic."

"Buxton, don't you think we've had enough?" suggested Mr. Campbell, and the bachelor, glad to stretch his own cramped legs, took the hint and gave the signal for departure.

Once more they were in the 'rikshas, only this time Nancy found herself seated by Yoritomo and Billie and Nicholas had paired off in the same way. Miss Campbell was not sure that she approved of this change.

"In my day," she remarked to her cousin, "young ladies never rode alone in buggies with young men."

"But they aren't buggies, Cousin," he answered good-naturedly.

"They are, all but the horse," said Miss Campbell.

But they had arrived at the gate of the tea house before the argument could proceed and were presently rolling through a garden enclosed by high walls. It was a fairyland of a place, even more beautiful than the Campbells' own garden, filled with brilliant beds of flowers and here and there a small grove of stunted pine trees.

Through the door of a tea house, low roofed and brown (houses are not painted in Japan), rushed a score of musumes (maids), pink-cheeked and bare-footed, who greeted the guests with low bows and removed their shoes. There also was their own particular Nesan, owner of that particular tea house, who bowed gracefully and said in Japanese:

"Be honorably pleased to enter."

Inside, the tea house was scrupulously clean. The bare boards in the hall seemed worn thin by scrubbing and nowhere were any furniture or ornaments except the hanging scroll. The floors were covered with soft wicker mats and presently they were all seated in a semicircle at one end of the room. The younger members of the party were in a perfect gale of subdued laughter by this time. Elinor, too dignified to look where she was going, had stubbed her august toe and for at least half a minute had hopped on one foot in an agony of pain. Nicholas had privately circulated a rumor that live carp would be one of the courses, and not to eat a small piece would give grievous offense to the Nesan and her musumes.

After a little table about a foot high had been placed before each guest, a procession of miniature waitresses entered with the dinner. In quick succession were served fish soup, crushed birds with sugared walnuts and oranges, broiled fish with tiny balls of sweetened potatoes, and numerous other strange but not unpalatable dishes, and all the while streams of hors d'ouvres: horseradish, spinach and seaweed. But they were not obliged to eat with chop sticks. Mr. Buxton had provided knives and forks.

At last with the greatest ceremony, the little proprietor herself appeared bearing a large silver tray.

"Here it comes," whispered Nicholas. "What did I tell you?"

There, sure enough, was the carp, taken from the water a moment before and sliced into delicate pink steaks. He lay on a bed of fresh water grasses and leaves, and each portion was served in a dainty mat of twisted grass. Nobody refused a sacrificial morsel, but only Yoritomo and Mr. Buxton had the courage to eat it. Mr. Buxton swallowed his at a gulp and Miss Campbell shivered all over at the sight.

"How could you?" she exclaimed in a whisper.

"Etiquette," he answered. "I would swallow a mouse for the sake of etiquette in this polite country."

During the dinner there had been a sound of suppressed laughter and the tinkle of music behind the partitions, and now, after the last round of the innumerable courses had been served, the partitions were shoved aside and four samisen players entered followed by eight dancing girls. Nothing could equal the grace of their bows as they glided softly in. Their smiles of welcome were inimitable. Then their faces became grave and serious and the dance began. The oldest was hardly more than fifteen and the youngest about ten. They were like sober-faced little dolls in gorgeous brocaded robes as they paraded, stamped their white-stockinged feet and postured with elaborate fans.

Mme. Fontaine, who had eaten no dinner and talked very little, watched the dancers with intense interest.

"Are they not charming little creatures?" she asked Mr. Campbell. "They are trained to be so, -- to sing, dance and amuse and to look pretty. But I assure you some of them develop into splendid women. Many of them marry well. The geisha girl is not always a butterfly."

There was a subdued fire in her eyes as she spoke.

Mr. Campbell looked at her curiously.

"You have a special tenderness for them, I see," he remarked.

"I was one," she said.

While this little colloquy was going on, Yoritomo was whispering into Nancy's ear:

"You think they are pretty? But they are not so beautiful as you. There are no blue eyes in Japan."

And Nicholas was saying to Billie:

"By Jove, it's terrible sitting in this position for three hours at a stretch. Do you think we could slip into the garden? I have something I want to tell you."

Being on the end of the semi-circle, they crept behind one of the sliding partitions and rose stiffly to their feet. Two steps more and they were in the garden, now flooded with moonlight.

"It's romantic," observed Billie, "but what will Cousin Helen say? She's a very strict chaperone."

"Tell her you couldn't endure it another moment; or tell her I couldn't, which would be perfectly true. I feel as if I had shrunk a few inches. I can't stand up straight."

Turning down a walk leading to the little gold fish pond, they presently paused on the miniature bridge and looked down at the reflections of the stars mirrored in the pool beneath. They were quite silent for a moment. Then Nicholas cleared his throat and began in an embarrassed and hesitating way:

"Miss Billie, can you keep a secret?"

"Don't you think that is rather an uncomplimentary question?" answered Billie. "I must have made a poor impression on you."

"Indeed you haven't. You have made just the other kind," he replied with boyish candor. "That's why I wanted to tell you something, but it was a stupid way to begin. Please forgive me. Of course you can keep a secret. Any girl who is cool-headed enough to run a motor car and -- and keep machinery in order and -- "

"Well -- and what?"

"I think you are just great, Miss Billie. I never met a girl like you before," he mumbled half audibly. "That's why I wanted to tell you something -- that is -- confide something to you."

Billie looked uncomfortable. She was only a month younger than Nancy, but she Was far less experienced in the ways of the world, her tastes being more boyish and simple than those of that gay little coquette.

"In the first place, you knew I was a civil engineer. That's how I happened to meet your father. Every engineer in the country wanted to meet him, because he is a very famous one himself, as you probably know."

Billie was pleased at this compliment. Her father was too modest to tell such things about himself, and she had no way of knowing his reputation unless other people told her.

"It was through Yoritomo that I came to Japan. We were friends in New York; and it was through his uncle, who is high up in public affairs here, that I got an appointment almost immediately. It's been interesting work, most of the time around Tokyo, and I have enjoyed the experience. But, you see, I came here with just a little money and fell on my feet and feel that I am under obligations to Yoritomo and his family for a good many favors."

"Of course," answered Billie. "But what of it?"

"Well," began Nicholas slowly, "Yoritomo has been a good friend to me. I have always liked him and looked up to him because he's a deal cleverer than I am and a wonderful student, -- but lately, -- it's hard to explain to you, Miss Bille, but I -- "

"Don't you like him any more?"

"No, no, it isn't that." Nicholas paused again and wiped beads of perspiration from his face. He shifted his position and dug his hands into his pockets. "I don't think I can say it," he said. "I thought I could, but it's too deuced hard."

"Go on, you silly boy."

"Well, to tell you the truth, I don't trust him," he blurted out.

"But Papa likes him," said Billie, simply, feeling that her father's sanction was as good as a royal stamp of approval.

"Oh, yes, of course. Everybody likes him. It isn't that."

"Then what are you driving at?"

"Good heavens, I don't know what I am driving at. Only, you see, I introduced Yoritomo to the family and something happened the other day that made me uneasy. It seemed to me that I ought to warn you not to get too thick with him -- that is -- not you but Miss Brown. You see, Japanese are different -- they take things more seriously -- " Nicholas plunged deeper and deeper in.

"Can't you tell me what happened?"

"That's the queer part. There's nothing really to tell. It was one of those little incidents that mean everything or nothing. I couldn't tell Mr. Campbell because it was too insignificant, but I thought I might make a clean breast of it to you and you could warn Miss Brown -- well -- not to talk too much to Yoritomo. She might tell him something -- "

"But Nancy hasn't any secrets to tell, Mr. Grimm."

"I thought you promised to call me Nicholas? I didn't say she had, but these Japanese are the wiliest people. They will use you without your knowing you are being used. Couldn't you just tell Miss Nancy to be careful without explaining why? Don't girls ever do that? Just say that Yoritomo's a Jap, and Japs are deep people and she had better not tell him all she knows."

Billie laughed.

"Why, yes, I could, I suppose, but I'm sure it's not necessary. She doesn't know anything to tell."

"Whew!" ejaculated Nicholas, fanning himself with his hat. "I'd rather dig a tunnel through a mountain than have to do that again. I decided I had to do it and I have been working it over in my mind for days. First I thought of Miss Campbell, but she would have gone off her head about it. Miss Brown wouldn't have understood, either. She would have been angry, I suppose. So I decided to come to you. I felt sure you would understand and know exactly what to do."

Billie smiled. She was beginning to be very fond of this boyish, honest young man whose nature was not unlike her own. Just at that moment they saw Yoritomo and Nancy strolling along a moonlit path. He was talking to her in a low intense voice and she was smiling and dimpling as usual. It occurred to Billie that Nancy was getting very grown up all of a sudden and for her part, she couldn't see any fun in it at all. She had noticed lately that Nancy did not enjoy their old-time girlish fun half so much as she used to. She would rather stroll in the garden with a young man than with her four devoted friends, and "hen parties" as she called them, did not amuse her any longer.

Billie began to feel quite serious about the benighted state of her best friend. Her nature was deeply tinged with sympathy and sweetness, but she was not yet old enough to feel tolerant with Nancy for growing up and craving beaux and flattery.

"I will speak to Nancy Brown," she thought, and that night going home in the 'riksha by Nancy's side she turned the matter over in her mind. "But not to-night," she decided, for Nancy had never seemed more adorable than on that ride, chatting with her friend about the evening's pleasures.



Chapter XIII.

A Failing Out.


Several days went swiftly by and still Billie had not delivered the warning to her beloved Nancy.

After all, was it really necessary to warn Nancy not to talk too much and tell all she knew? That was a man's idea of a girl's conversation: to tell all she knew. How absurd! Besides, Nancy was not much of a conversationalist and it's only people who talk all the time who tell secrets. After they exhaust every other subject, they begin to draw on their confidential stock.

The more Billie turned the question over in her mind, the more far-fetched it seemed, and at last she determined not to mention it at all.

"Who am I to be scolding anybody?" she said to herself. "I am sure I am far from perfect and it would look rather presumptuous to criticize Nancy who hasn't done anything to be criticized for."

But these noble and modest sentiments were not destined to remain unchanged in Billie's mind. By a curious chain of circumstances, the very thing she had concluded to avoid was brought about.

The circumstances began in the morning before breakfast and led up, one after another, to the first real quarrel the two friends had ever had since their friendship began.

It had been raining all night, a hot sticky downpour, and nobody in the house had slept well. The atmosphere was oppressive, and breathing became a conscious effort; so that the American members of the household were fretful and out of humor after a disagreeable and restless night. Even the most even-tempered and well-balanced natures are upset by a steaming, humid temperature which seems to creep into the soul and enshroud the brighter self with mist.

Billie felt the general depression and after breakfast she followed her friends in a disconsolate procession to the library.

"There are as many different kinds of rain as there are people," she observed. "The rain in Scotland was like a brisk scolding person. At least there was nothing monotonous and tiring about it. It had plenty of vigor and energy. But this Japanese summer rain is like a great, fat, stupid, lazy creature who never lifts a little finger to do anything but just rain and rain and turn into misty steam!"

"One hasn't even the energy to read a book," sighed Mary.

"As Reggie Carlton says, 'it's so infernally damp,'" put in Elinor, and the others smiled languidly. Elinor was indeed feeling the humidity to quote a semi-profane expression.

Nancy was really the most cheerful member of the party. She had an air of expecting something which appeared to give her a reason for existing.

After the outbursts of her three friends, there was a long and heavy silence broken only by the steady patter of the rain on the roof.

At last Nancy rose and smiling mysteriously, said:

"Excuse me, ladies. While your company is highly exciting, I must leave you to write letters."

"I can't imagine to whom," exclaimed Billie.

"I mailed four for you yesterday to your mother and father and 'Merry' and Percy St. Clair."

Billie knew Nancy's affairs quite as well as she knew her own; two sisters could hardly have been more intimately associated.

"Guess again, Miss Inquisitive," said Nancy. "And guess fifty times more if you like. You'll never guess the right person and I shan't tell you for punishment. So there!"

For some reason -- of course it was the weather -- Billie felt teased and hurt. Not for anything would she have kept Nancy in ignorance of any of her correspondence.

"I didn't mean to be inquisitive." she called, half apologetically. "I was merely surprised at your being so mysterious."

"When you get to be as old as I am," said Nancy in a lofty tone, "you'll know better than to tell all you know."

"I'll never get to be as old as you are, Miss Nancy-Bell," retorted Billie. "It's a physical impossibility, since you are two months older than I am."

Nancy departed from the room, calling out laughingly:

"Smarty! Smarty!"

Billie kicked off her slipper after her, and so the quarrel started with good natured raillery. But the memory of the letter lingered in Billie's mind all the morning, although why it should have connected itself with Onoye, who, an hour later, stepped out into the garden on high wooden clogs with an oiled paper umbrella, she could not say. Standing idly by the window, Billie watched the little figure disappear down the path.

"I suppose she's going to visit the Compassionate God again," Billie thought to herself absently. "I hope he'll be compassionate enough to clear the weather by to-morrow."

The next link in the chain of circumstances was forged when Onoye returned from her pilgrimage. Billie, who had drawn a stool to the window and was sitting with her face pressed against the glass, saw her walking slowly along the dripping path to the house. The Japanese girl was looking at something she held in her free hand, an envelope undoubtedly. Just as she reached the piazza, Onoye slipped the letter into the folds of her sash and hurried in.

Billie's mind gave a sudden leap of conjecture but she continued to sit quietly, her face against the window, peering into the mist-hung garden.

"Funny," she said to herself. "It couldn't have been a Japanese letter because those are rolled up on little sticks."

Not long afterwards, she encountered Onoye in the passage. The Japanese girl smiled lovingly into her face. Little by little her feeling for Billie was growing and expanding into a real devotion,

"And I'm sure I don't know why she should caress the hand that smote her," Billie had thought. "She's a dear, faithful little soul."

"Are you quite well again, Onoye?" she asked, pausing and slipping her arm around the Japanese girl's shoulders.

"Yes, honorable lady. Not any sickly arm no more."

"And have you been writing a letter to thank the Compassionate God Jizu for your recovery?" went on Billie.

A frightened look came into Onoye's eyes. The English had been too much for her comprehension, but the word "letter" she had understood perfectly.

"No understand," she said, bowing ceremoniously. And she hastened away, leaving Billie much puzzled and rather curious, too.

The day dragged slowly on, and still the rain poured and the mist steamed and there was no relief from the circumstances of the weather. Miss Campbell had been feeling rheumatic twinges in her "old joints," as she called them, and remained in bed reading an agreeable novel. Once more the four friends retired to the library where Mary read aloud and the others engaged in various characteristic pursuits. Elinor was embroidering a royal coat-of-arms in colored silks on a cushion cover; Nancy was darning a rent in a lace flounce and Billie was darning her father's socks. This task she undertook each week with extraordinary cheerfulness, although Onoye had offered to do it for her, and O'Haru had almost taken the darning needle and egg from her by force.

As the hands of the clock neared four, Nancy rose.

"Go on with your reading, Mary," she said. "I need some more thread and I shall have to look for it. So don't wait."

"What number do you want?" asked Elinor.

Nancy looked annoyed.

"Oh, something quite fine. I know you haven't it, Elinor."

"Will a hundred do?" asked Elinor, extracting the spool from her neat sewing bag.

"That's too fine."

"I have all sizes here."

"Never mind," exclaimed Nancy impatiently, and hastened from the room, taking her lace-flounced skirt with her.

"Stubborn person," observed Elinor and once more plunged into her aristocratic labors.

Billie grew more and more restless. The book Mary was reading aloud was a detective story, lately arrived from America. It had reached a thrilling point, but Billie could not fasten her attention.

"I think I'll just be obliged to get out and walk," she burst out unexpectedly. "I can't stand this life of inaction a minute longer. Don't stop reading on my account, Mary, dear. I don't suppose I could tempt either of you two hot-house plants to come with me, could I?"

"Since it's just as hot outside as inside, I don't think you could," answered Elinor.

"Perhaps Nancy will go," thought Billie, hastening down the long hall to their joint apartment.

But Nancy was not in the room. Her lace petticoat had been thrown hastily on the bed with her sewing box. Billie searched over the entire house for her friend without success.

"Funny," she thought, slipping on her over-shoes and raincoat and seizing an umbrella from the stand in the passage.

Presently she found herself in the mist-hung garden, and instinctively her steps turned toward the little bridge and the shrine to the Compassionate God. All the way, she kept thinking:

"What is Nancy-Bell up to? Not that, -- surely. Why should she write letters that way? Nobody would object to their coming by mail. It's just her romantic notions," her thoughts continued as she reached the bridge.

Taking the curved path to the foot of the small embankment, the next moment Billie came full upon Nancy and Yoritomo Ito talking earnestly together. There was something rather amusing in their appearance, because down the ribs of their two umbrellas rivulets of water dripped and poured in streams about them.

"Oh, I beg your pardon," exclaimed Billie, the prey to varying emotions: embarrassment, hurt feelings, surprise and, it must be confessed, a dash of anger.

"Oh, Billie," said Nancy, starting violently, "how you frightened me."

"How do you do, Mr. Ito," said Billie stiffly.

"How do you do, Miss Campbell. We seem to be having several unexpected encounters this afternoon. Here was Miss Brown out for a wet stroll on a day when ladies usually remain indoors, and now you come, too. American young ladies are very athletic."

"It isn't a case of exercise with me, Mr. Ito. I came out really to find Nancy," said Billie coldly.

"I shall bid you good afternoon," answered Yoritomo in his most formal manner. "I was just taking a short cut. Pardon my trespassing on your grounds."

Billie detested untruths and she knew quite well that Yoritomo was not speaking the real truth. She looked at Nancy reproachfully.

"Good-bye," she said and turned her back.

Yoritomo made an elaborate bow and departed and Nancy followed Billie slowly up the dripping path. Half way back, Billie stopped short and wheeled around.

"I should think you'd be ashamed of yourself, Nancy Brown," she exclaimed.

Nancy had never seen Billie really angry before and she was frightened at the new hard look that had come into the frank gray eyes. But Nancy was in no mood to be scolded. The truth is, she had reached a difficult age and it was not going to be easy to manage her by lecturing and argument. She had an enormous appetite for flattery and the power of her prettiness had intoxicated her.

"Oh, I don't suppose you would understand, Billie, even if I tried to explain," she answered hotly. "I haven't done anything to be ashamed of."

"Meeting people in the garden secretly isn't anything to be proud of," pursued Billie. "And exchanging letters by a servant," she burst out suddenly recalling Onoye's unaccountable trip that morning an the rain. "I have been told to warn you not to talk too much to Mr. Ito. He's not to be trusted, and I think this a very good time to do it."

Nancy flushed. She was angrier than Billie now. The two girls had turned and were facing each other furiously. Billie felt the pulse leap in her temples and something gripped her throat. The sensation was so new to her that she scarcely knew how to handle it. It was like trying to rein in a runaway horse.

"He's just as nice as Nicholas Grimm," cried Nancy. "I should think you'd be ashamed to spy on anyone. I never thought it of you."

This statement was so unjust that Billie's rage leaped out of all bounds and got beyond her control entirely.

"That is untrue. I did not spy on you. I merely put two and two together and guessed the rest. Can you deny it? And do you call it lady-like and honorable? I don't. I call it common and horrid."

Billie's voice in her extreme anger was very stern. She carefully avoided calling Nancy by name. She felt if she spoke the name of her friend, she must cry and not for anything did she want to humble herself just then.

"I tell you I won't explain," ejaculated Nancy. "I've done nothing wrong and I think you are very hard and unjust. It's because you are still a child about some things, Billie. When you are older and have had more experience, you will learn not to be a prig."

Older and more experienced! Now all the saints defend us! Billie laughed bitterly. Both girls were on the point of weeping and perhaps, if their anger had changed to tears at that moment, much bitterness might have been saved them. But they were interrupted by Mr. Campbell, who now appeared, walking at a leisurely gait up the path.

"Well, well, children! Here is devotion indeed," he exclaimed when he espied his daughter and her friend standing stock still in the pouring rain. "So intimate and absorbed in each other's society that you are oblivious to the weather! That's the right kind of friendship. I would not have it any other way. How are you, little daughter?" he asked, kissing Billie and shaking hands with Nancy at the same time. "And how's little daughter's friend?"

Not for worlds would they have disclosed the real truth to Mr. Campbell. Billie drew her arm through her father's and Nancy followed them to the house.

"Do you think the rain will ever let up, Papa?" asked Billie, resting her cheek against her father's shoulder.

Nancy felt suddenly frightfully homesick for her own bluff good-natured parent.

"Well, it once rained forty days and forty nights, you know," said Mr. Campbell. "And what's happened before may happen again."

Habitual wranglers regard quarrels as mere ripples on the surface and soon forget about them, but the two girls were unaccustomed to such scenes and their feelings were deeply lacerated.

"Let not the sun go down upon your wrath," Billie thought, as she lay beside Nancy that night, but she remembered that Nancy had called her a spy and her soul was filled with bitterness.



Chapter XIV.

A Letter That Came Though It Was Never Sent.


The two girls put the width of the bed between them that night. Each lay stiffly on the very edge of the mattress and silently pondered over the situation. Anger was not a self-indulgence with either of them and the attack was so unusual that it left them both unnerved and shaken. Nancy had only played with her food at dinner and Billie, who had eaten without an appetite, now felt the discomfort of a burning indigestion. At last, as the hours dragged on, they fell asleep, each profoundly unhappy.

Long ago the two friends had dropped the formality which usually exists between guest and hostess, no matter how intimate. Their relations were as those of two sisters. For the Motor Maids had become as one family in their wanderings together. But next morning, Nancy, still feeling the sting of fancied wrongs, suddenly recalled the fact that she was accepting hospitality from one who no longer liked her. It was all very absurd, but so does the young person at the awkward age between girlhood and womanhood often exaggerate trivial things and enlarge on fancied injustice.

Foolish, pretty Nancy permitted herself to slip into the most extreme state of wretchedness. She imagined that her friend, whom in her heart she loved devotedly, had treated her with unnecessary cruelty and sternness. She got it into her silly little head that Billie had confided the meeting in the garden to the others. She was ashamed and mortified and she felt indeed that the whole world had turned against her. Mr. Campbell was cold to her. Miss Helen Campbell hardly civil Mary and Elinor looked at her askance. There was not a word of truth in it, of course; it was just a figment of Nancy's morbid imaginings. Miss Campbell was bored to extinction with the continued rain. Mr. Campbell was preoccupied because of business engagements of great importance, and Mary and Elinor, if the truth must be told, were intensely homesick; and who would not have been with home on the other side of the world and rain pouring ceaselessly on this side? As for Billie, she tried to be exactly the same as usual, but the cloud of an unsettled disagreement hovered between them.

Therefore after a week of steady rain and black depression which did not seem more profound in Nancy than in anyone else, silly little Nancy took a bold step. Putting on her overshoes and mackintosh late one afternoon, she slipped out of the house and hastened down the avenue. On the road, she hailed an empty 'riksha returning from some suburban home and gave Mme. Fontaine's address in Tokyo.

Nancy was in search of sympathy and of someone who would tell her she had done right when she knew she had done wrong.

Mme. Fontaine was in and would be delighted to see Miss Brown, so she was informed at the widow's front door, and Nancy, a little frightened, now that the deed was done, was ushered into the beautiful drawing-room.

"Why, you sweet child, this is a great pleasure," exclaimed that lady herself, entering at the same moment by another door. "Where are your friends? Are you alone?" she added looking around for the others.

"Oh, yes," answered Nancy, embarrassed and agitated.

"Not even the austere old lady who chaperones you?" asked the other drawing the young girl down beside her on the couch and looking into the blue eyes which suddenly welled up with tears and overflowed,

"Why, my dear, are you unhappy? What is the matter? Tell me all about it," ejaculated Mme. Fontaine, unpinning Nancy's hat and drawing the curly head down on her shoulder.

So it happened that Nancy Brown unburdened herself to the sympathetic Widow of Shanghai, and gave an entirely biased and favorable-to-herself account of the incident in the garden.

Mme. Fontaine sat silent for a while after the story was finished, and Nancy wondered if the charming new friend had heard what she had been saying.

"Do you think Miss Campbell would consent to let you make a visit, Nancy?" she asked presently, calling her Nainsi, as if it were a French name.

Nancy drooped her long lashes.

"I don't know," she answered.

Mme. Fontaine gave one of her inscrutable Mona Lisa smiles and rose from the couch.

"We will try her and see. Does she know you were out walking?"

"No," answered Nancy struggling to keep back her tears.

"Does anyone in the house know?"

She shook her head.

The widow sat down at a carved desk inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and wrote the following note:

"My dear Miss Campbell:

"I trust you will not think I have been unpardonably presumptuous in keeping one of your girls over night with me. She had evidently set out for a long walk and chance brought us together. The child was wet and tired and I have kept her for tea. As the rain is still pouring, she has consented to remain over night with your permission which I cannot but feel sure will be granted under the circumstances. With the very kindest regards for you and your household, I am,

"Faithfully yours,

"Aniela Fontaine."

Never was cordial and polite note couched in more non-committal language. It was sent out by a messenger and Miss Campbell sat painfully up in bed to read it. Both knees and one wrist were swathed in bandages of wintergreen liniment and a hot water bottle lay against one hip,

"Why, I didn't know the child had left the house," she exclaimed, when she had finished reading the letter and passed it on to the three remaining Motor Maids. "How did she happen to go alone on a tramp like that? What am I to do? I can't order her to return without being exceedingly rude, but I do wish Nancy hadn't been so reckless. She ought never to have left the grounds alone. Surely the garden is quite large enough for exercising in, if anyone wanted to make the effort."

The little spinster groaned and slipped down among her pillows again.

The girls were silent. Mary secretly sympathized with Nancy. It would be rather fascinating to spend a night in the widow's interesting home. Elinor disapproved slightly at this unconventional visit, but it is doubtful if she would have declined the invitation if she had been in Nancy's place. As for Billie, she was puzzled and unhappy. She felt sure that there was something back of the departure of her friend. She wished with all her heart they had made up their differences. She yearned for Nancy and her soul was filled with forebodings. She felt somehow as if Nancy had died. That night, with the sheet over her head, she indulged in a fit of weeping and resolved to settle all differences the first moment they could get alone.

Why should Nancy Brown have unexpectedly grown up like this and become so independent and secretive? Elinor, the eldest of the four girls, had never shown a disposition to have affairs and write notes. For her part, Billie would have liked to go on in the same jolly old way forever, with or without beaux. It was all one to her. But Nancy was different. The society of her friends was no longer an unmixed pleasure and she was beginning to crave more excitement and admiration than was good for her.

The next day was like a dozen of its fellows, wet and muggy. The roads were too slippery for the "Comet," and as Miss Campbell still kept her bed with rheumatism, it was decided that Billie should go alone for Nancy in a 'riksha.

She was so eager to make up with her friend, that she felt as if the reconciliation had already taken place and her faithful heart was filled with happiness. She had made up her mind to humble herself by offering Nancy an apology. After all, was it the act of true friendship to pick out all the defects and flaws in a friend's nature?

"A real friend is blind to everything but the best in another friend," reasoned Billie, as her 'riksha splashed along the road, drawn by Komatsu.

So, prepared to embrace Nancy tenderly and let bygones be bygones, Billie could scarcely wait to leap down from the 'riksha and ring the widow's bell. The house had a shut-up appearance, but all Japanese houses look thus in rainy weather. Somehow, Billie's inflated enthusiasm received a prick when the bell echoed through the rooms with a hollow, empty sound. She waited impatiently but no one came to answer it. Usually Mme. Fontaine's well-trained maid was bowing and smiling almost before the vibrations of the bell had ceased. Billie rang again and again, and still there was no answer. She walked around the side of the house and peered through the slats of the Venetian blinds but all was dark within.

What could it mean? Where was Nancy? Where was Mme. Fontaine?

"Oh, dear; oh, dear," ejaculated Billie, wiping away the tears that would trickle down her cheeks.

But of course they had gone shopping, and the maid was at market, perhaps. That was the only explanation.

There was a bench on the piazza and Billie sat down to wait. Komatsu stood patiently under his oiled paper umbrella which he always placed in the bottom of the 'riksha in bad weather.

Exactly one hour they waited and at last Billie, disconsolate and disappointed, returned to the 'riksha and ordered Komatsu to take her to some of the shops. Everywhere she watched for the familiar gleam of Nancy's blue mackintosh, but there was no sign of it anywhere. Finally they returned to Mme. Fontaine's house, to find it still closed.

"Komatsu, where are they?" asked Billie desperately.

"Not know, but honorable young lady not look inside?"

"I can't get inside. The doors are locked. Besides, I don't like to break in on a private house like a burglar."

But to the Japanese the end justifies the means, and being on a search for Nancy, Komatsu was willing to go to any strategic lengths to find her.

"All same look and see," he said and together they followed the gallery around the entire house.

"Komatsu make to go up," he said after a fruitless search for an entrance. He pointed to one of the slender pillars which upheld the roof of the lower gallery forming the floor of the upper one. The next moment he had shinned up the pole and Billie could hear him walking softly on the wooden floor above. Presently he returned and placed in Billie's lap the fragments of a letter which had been pieced together and pasted on a sheet of paper.

"Top muchly more easy than bottom," he said smiling. "Empty house but all same muchly inside."

Billie glanced hastily at the scraps of paper and saw her own name in one corner.

"Why, it's to me," she exclaimed, and sitting on the bench, she began to decipher the pieced letter.

"Dear Billie:

"Since you all hate and disapprove of me, I do not wish to stay with you any longer. You have been anything but a friend to me, but I will not say anything more about that. I will only say that I can never forgive what you said to me the other day. I think I have outgrown you. You are just a child still and it will be a long time before you understand the ways of the world, or sympathize with me when I say that I want to broaden my life. Now, Mme. Fontaine, who knows everything, has promised -- "

Here the letter broke off.

On the other side of the sheet were some more fragments of paper carefully pieced together.

" -- do not wish to stay because -- father's work -- he should not -- Mme. Fontaine thinks -- "

Billie folded the paper and slipped it into her pocket. Tears were rolling down her cheeks and she felt suddenly stiff and tired. Komatsu regarded her from a distance with respectful sympathy.

"Back home," she ordered, and all the way she indulged in the bitterest weeping she had ever known in her life.

"Nancy, Nancy, how could you?" she kept repeating to herself.

Before she reached the house she dried her eyes and leaning out of the 'riksha let the rain beat against her face.

"I must think of something to tell them," she said to herself. "What did she mean about Papa's work?"

Again Billie read the last part of the note.

"I believe it's that woman who made her do this," she cried out suddenly. "She worked her up to the point -- 'broaden her life' -- 'papa's work,' and all that. How could Nancy have thought of such things? And then after Nancy wrote the letter she repented -- or perhaps the widow wouldn't let her send it -- but how did it happen to be pieced together like this?"

It was all very puzzling and strange. Billie wanted time to think about it and work it out in her own mind, and she was sorry when at last Komatsu came to a full stop at their own front door. Slowly she descended and walked into the house. Suddenly there was a cry of joy from the back. It was the other girls rushing to meet Nancy who had not come, Billie thought miserably.

And, lo, it was Nancy herself, laughing and crying at once and embracing her beloved Billie, as if they had been separated for a year and a day.

"Where did you come from?" Billie managed to gasp in a bewildered voice.

"I got back a little while ago and oh, I've been so homesick. Are you glad to see me, Billie, dearest?"

"I should think I was," said Billie, kissing Nancy's soft round cheek. "It seems an age instead of just one night."

"Mme. Fontaine invited me to make her a visit," went on Nancy, "but -- but I was too lonesome -- I never slept a wink last night."

"We are all of us quite jealous of you, Nancy," put in Mary, who, with Elinor, had come upon the scene a moment before.

Billie put her hand in her pocket and felt the pieced-together letter. It almost seemed like a bad dream now.

"So you decided to come back to us, Nancy?" she asked, trying to smile naturally.

"If I almost passed away from homesickness in one night, how should I have borne it for -- for longer?" answered Nancy, flushing.

"We missed you terribly," was all Billie could trust herself to say as she hurried to her room to take off her wet things.

Just then Onoye sounded the Japanese chimes to announce that luncheon was served and presently they were all assembled around the table.

But never a word did Nancy say about the torn letter which some one had so carefully pieced together.



Chapter XV.

The Ancient City Of Sleep.


"How would four young parties and another younger party, who claims to be old and rheumatic, but isn't, like to take a trip?" asked Mr. Campbell one evening at dinner.

Through the inky curtain of blackness that had for days overcast the skies the sun had at last burst with a radiance that seemed twice as great to unaccustomed eyes. From somewhere a life-giving breeze had sprung up and driven away the vapors. Back rolled the walls of mist and fog, and in a few hours the world became a smiling paradise of flowers and of grass and foliage of intensest green.

Immediately the aspect of life changed. Four young parties and a party who claimed to be old but wasn't were eager for anything that would furnish variety after the late monotony of existence.

"I feel," said Mr. Campbell, "that we have all been suffering from certain states of mind that about match the 'Comet's' disguise, and it occurred to me that a change of air would be beneficial."

"And will the 'Cornet' go, too?" asked Billie.

"I'm afraid the 'Comet' is not built for mountain roads in Japan, little daughter," answered her father. "We'll go by train and then by jinrikshas, much as I regret to leave your gasoline pet behind."

"But where are we going?" asked Miss Campbell, in a tone of noble resignation, so chastened were her high spirits by the pains of rheumatism.

"I am going to take you to Nikko to spend a few days, and in order to liven up things a bit the boys are coming, too, even old Mr. Buxton."

"Is -- " began Nancy, and checked herself.

"Well, Miss Nancy, 'is' what?" asked Mr. Campbell, smiling.

Billie knew perfectly well that Nancy was going to say: "Is Yoritomo going?" but had changed her mind, when she asked instead:

"Is Nikko a town?"

"It's a number of things. It's considered by some people to be the most beautiful place in the world, for one thing. It's a small town; it's a magnificent forest of cryptomerias; and it's a sacred mountain, and a collection of marvelous old temples and tombs and statues of Buddha. But first and foremost it is a cool, green, lovely spot with good, dry, pine-scented air for certain persons feeling in need of such."

If Mr. Campbell had a fault it was that when he decided to do a thing he wanted to do it at once. Having been a man of camps and considerable lonely wanderings about the world, he had been able to gratify this tendency to decide and act quickly. But it was not so simple with a party of women, and when he announced that they were to start next morning early there was some silent consternation among them.

However, such was the force of Mr. Campbell's personality when he announced a decision that not even that fearless and redoubtable woman, Helen Campbell, had the courage to raise any objections. It was true she had engaged a masseuse at eleven o'clock; the laundry had not been finished; certain persons had planned to shampoo heads, and Mme. Fontaine had asked permission to call in the afternoon.

"All of which things must be postponed and overlooked," thought Miss Campbell.

Mr. Campbell had hired a villa for their short stay. Komatsu was to go along as cook and to carry excess luggage. And they were to take a train at the unearthly hour of eight o'clock a.m., which meant rising at an even more unearthly hour; all of which to a great engineer was a mere trifle.

But who could be in a bad humor on such a glorious morning? Moreover, several funny things happened which set them all laughing as they started off. Komatsu appeared, strung with cooking utensils like a tin man.

"Not muchly good in a renting-house. Komatsu take honorable saucepan," he explained.

In his arms, beside the luncheon hamper, he bore also a beautiful bunch of lilies.

As they climbed into their 'rikshas they were aware of the sound of clipping, and glancing toward the summer-house, beheld twelve old women cutting the grass with large shears. Most of them were widows, as could readily be seen by their short hair. Their worn old faces were wreathed in smiles, when they presently touched their foreheads to the grass in profound obeisances.

"The dear old things," cried Miss Campbell. "O'Haru, do see that they have a good lunch."

No need to give such a command to O'Haru. Refreshments are always given to persons who come in for a day's work in a private place in Japan.

The next amusing incident was the appearance of the old gardener, Saiki, who came running around the house grasping a bunch of roses.

Giving Mr. Campbell the largest and most beautiful, he divided the others among the ladies.

"Honorable flower for looking on train," he said, with his inimitable smile.

And so, at last they started. All the servants lined up to bid them a respectful farewell. Billie, turning around, saw them gathered in a group on the piazza, fading into spots of bright color in the distance, with the old grass-cutters' robes making a splash of sky blue on the lawn.

"Oh, Nancy," she exclaimed, "there never were such people as the Japanese, so simple and adorable."

Nancy, engaged in pinning a rose on the lapel of her coat and looking at the effect with her pocket mirror, made no reply.

At the railroad station they were met by Reggie, Nicholas and Mr. Buxton. Everybody was in the wildest spirits because of the change in the weather, and as they crowded, laughing and jostling each other, into the train, the Japanese travelers smiled good-naturedly. They liked to see Americans enjoying the country.

Scarcely had they settled themselves in the train when they became aware that two Japanese women were smiling and bowing repeatedly in the most cordial manner.

"Why, it's Mme. Ito," exclaimed Miss Campbell.

"And O'Kami San," finished Mary, who remembered names for everybody.

"Are you going to Nikko, too, O'Kami San?" asked Billie, sitting beside the pretty little Japanese.

O'Kami San looked much embarrassed and hung her head.

"Make honorable journey to husband's home," she said in a low voice.

"Have you been getting married?" demanded Billie, astonished.

"Yesterdays passing four," answered O'Kami San.

"You mean four days ago?"

"Yes, honorable Mees Cam-el."

Both Japanese women were beautifully dressed and it came out during the conversation that the young bride was wearing no less than five elaborate kimonos.

"But why?" demanded Billie.

O'Kami San explained that it was to avoid the inconveniences of luggage. They were going to a little town in the hills and it would be difficult to carry trunks.

Around her head the bride wore a broad band of pink silk, almost covering her hair, to keep the horns of jealousy from growing.

Billie looked at her pityingly.

"Poor little thing," she thought. "Why doesn't that good-for-nothing brother teach her something? It doesn't seem to me that his schooling did him any good. He's so fanatical and bigoted."

"I hope you will be very happy, O'Kami San," said Mary. "I believe you said there was no mother-in-law."

"Not no mother-in-law," answered the bride, in the tone of one describing a great blessing. "Honorable husband of age like mother-in-law."

"You mean your husband is not young?"

O'Kami San nodded.

"Verily old," she said, with just the faintest quiver at the corners of her mouth.

Mary and Billie regarded her with compassion. How little romance there was in a Japanese girl's life! O'Kami San, so young and pretty and charming, too, was about to enter into years of drudgery perhaps; the wife of a cranky old man, and here she was accepting her fate as calmly as a novitiate about to take the vows for life and enter a convent.

"New husband much rich," she said. "Much old. Need attentionly young wife."

Only once did O'Kami San glance at the two handsome young men who belonged to the Campbell party. But Nicholas, always gallant and thoughtful, helped Mme. Ito and her daughter to alight at the way-station where they were to change cars, while Reggie carried their small belongings and placed them on the platform.

"God bless you, O'Kami San," called Billie, leaning far out of the window. And if the little Japanese girl did not understand the meaning of the salutation she comprehended the spirit of it.

"Receive thanks," she said formally, her eyes glistening suspiciously. Then she gave the Japanese farewell, "Sayonara" (since it must be), and waved her little hands until the train was out of sight.

Billie watched her sadly. The lines of the five kimonos, which could be distinctly counted where they crossed at her neck, seemed to symbolize the heavy marriage yoke the little bride had slipped so uncomplainingly over her head, and as for that pink silk head band to keep down the horns of jealousy, it might just as well have been an iron band with spikes in it, for all the sentiment and romance it represented. But little O'Kami San had gone up into the hills to her aged husband, and if she guessed that there was anything brighter and happier than just being an "attentionly wife" to an old man, she never murmured. No one has ever plumbed the depths of unselfishness and self-sacrifice of the little Japanese wife.

During the last few miles of the journey they left the train and took to jinrikshas. Along a magnificent avenue they rode, built through a forest of cryptomerias towering one hundred and eighty feet high, some of them with trunks thirty feet in diameter. They were like the columns of a gigantic cathedral of which the sky was the dome.

After refreshing themselves with tea at their little villa and removing the grime of the journey, the travelers wandered off into the ancient forest, cool and gray and very still, except for the sound of the wind whispering through the pine trees.

Terraced stairways of gray stone climb up the mountainside from temple to temple and court to court. Over a busy little river hung the scarlet bridge of beauty which no profane foot may ever touch, only the Emperor's consecrated feet. No human hand has mended the sacred bridge for nearly three centuries, but it is said to be in perfect repair.

Passing along the temples and shrines that crowded one another on the hillside, they came at last to a row of images of Buddha, innumerable stone statues of the god, his kindly, gentle face almost obliterated by spray from the river and a soft mantle of moss. There is a tradition which says that no two people have ever counted these images with the same results, and while the others wandered up the next terraced flight of steps, Billie and Mary remained to count the Buddhas.

The loud song of the little river rushing by them dazed their senses and when they reached the end Billie had counted eighty and Mary only seventy-five.

"Let's try again," said Billie; once more they followed the interminable line and once more there was a wide discrepancy between the results.

For the third time they started the count, and finally came as near as seventy-eight and seventy-nine; but the act of counting and recounting had a curious effect on their senses. It seemed to make them very sleepy, or perhaps it was the magic of that ancient place, the monotonous song of the torrent and the cool gray shadows in the depths of the forest where the sun never penetrated.

"Do you know, Billie, I think I'll have to rest a moment before we join the others," said Mary, leading the way up the hillside and sitting down under a giant pine tree. "I'm almost paralyzed with sleep."

"I feel the same way," answered Billie drowsily. "We can catch up with them later. Suppose we take a little repose, as a French lady I knew used to say."

The two girls removed their hats, and making pillows of their jackets they stretched themselves on the soft carpet of pine needles. Presently, lulled by the monotonous water song and the murmur of the wind through the trees, they dropped off into a sleep so profound and deep that they did not hear the voices of their friends returning to search for them.

The enchantment of centuries had woven its net about their feet and stilled their senses; for Nikko is called the "City of Rest," and an endless number of saints and holy men who once lived and prayed among its groves now sleep there.

The two young girls sank deeper and deeper into the peaceful sleep which the atmosphere of Nikko breathes. Their souls seemed to have entered the region of the most profound rest that may come to a living person.

And while they slept the sun sank and the twilight of the forest faded into night. But the searchers had taken the wrong path and their cries grew fainter and fainter as they ranged the mountainside for the lost girls. Among the trees their paper lanterns glowed like fireflies and occasionally there was a long cry: "A-hai!"

But Buddha himself must have placed the seal of sleep on the young girls' eyes.



Chapter XVI.

The Storm King.


While two of the Motor Maids slept in the sacred wood on the mountain two others rested in one of the bedrooms of the villa straining their ears for sounds of the returning search party. It was only eight o'clock, but Miss Campbell, worn out with excitement and fatigue, had already dropped off to sleep in the next room.

Nancy was quietly and softly weeping, her face buried in her pillow, and Elinor lay staring into the darkness. Mr. Campbell had assured them that the girls could not be lost for long, and that the only mishap that could possibly come to them in that holy place was sleeping under the pine trees; but he could not conceal the anxiety he really felt, the anxiety of a father for his only daughter, the being he loved best in all the world.

Nancy had felt the anxiety, too, and remorse had entered into her soul; not because she had met Yoritomo in the garden and exchanged notes with him in a romantic manner, the notes having been hidden under a stone near the old shrine, for she was beginning dimly to realize that such things were only silly and common. Her remorse was caused by something else more remote in her consciousness but looming bigger all the time. The cruel letter she had written to Billie in anger and then torn into pieces and thrown into a brass vase in Mme. Fontaine's drawing-room! Why had she been so angry? She could not understand it now. She only knew that the longer she poured her troubles into Mme. Fontaine's ears the more sympathetic the widow became until Nancy was worked into a perfect rage. As for the widow, she had said very little indeed, only a few words now and then, vague, suggestive remarks, but they had set Nancy thinking; had stirred her up so violently, indeed, that she had written that foolish letter. There had been no waste basket by the desk and Nancy, after a wretched sleepless night, had torn up the letter and dropped it in the nearest vase. Why had she not torn it into smaller bits? Why had she not burned it in a charcoal brazier? Why had she ever written it at all? Why -- why -- ? A dozen whys flashed through her troubled mind. She would never rest again until she knew the letter had been entirely destroyed, reduced to ashes. Out of this long train of unhappy thought a resolution came to Nancy to write to Mme. Fontame and ask her to find the letter and burn it up. This she accordingly did a few days after the visit to Nikko, and of what came of it more will be told later.

In the meantime, while Nancy, goaded by a troubled conscience was weeping abundantly into her pillow, Billie and little Mary Price lay sleeping peacefully in the great cathedral forest.

Precisely at the moment that Nancy's disturbed fancies had taken the form of a resolution Billie and Mary opened their eyes on a world of velvety blackness. Straight overhead through the lacework of intertwined boughs gleamed an occasional tiny star, like the light shining through a pin prick in a black curtain. Scarcely two hours had passed since they had slipped into the unknown, and now sitting up and rubbing their eyes, they wondered where in the world they were. Hearing Mary stirring beside her in the dark, Billie put out a hand and grasped Mary's groping to meet it. The two friends sat silently for a few minutes. At last Billie said softly:

"What are we going to do, Mary, dear?"

"I am thinking of what they are going to do," answered Mary. "How frightened they will be about us, Billie! As for me, I can't help feeling happy out in this dark peaceful place. I should like to lie here all night and watch the dawn come through the trees."

All of which was extremely poetic, but Billie had become suddenly prosaic at the thought of her father, wild with anxiety she was certain, searching the terraced mountainside for them at the risk of falling off a precipice or tumbling into the river. Besides, at that moment, she felt a puff of hot wind in her face, and immediately was conscious that she was very thirsty and that the palms of her hands were dry and burning.

"Don't you think it's very hot, Mary?" she whispered. "I feel as if I had been baked brown in an oven."

"The wind has changed," answered Mary. "It was cool and sweet when we dropped off, and now it's like a wind that's blown over a desert."

Through the forest came a murmur like thousands of voices gathering in strength and volume all the time. The gigantic pillars of the cathedral began swaying and tossing their arched boughs and the whole mountain seemed to resound with strange sounds, cries and calls, grindings and poundings. The pin prick stars disappeared and the place was as black as the pit.

The two girls rose quickly and clasped hands again.

"I think we'd better go straight down," said Billie. "We're obliged to strike a path somewhere and perhaps we may find a temple or a tomb or a pagoda or something. Anything to get away from that awful thing that's coming, whatever it is."

Fortunately the act of descending gave them a sense of direction. Many times they fell, skinning their shins and their foreheads against trees, but they picked themselves up again, entirely unconscious of bruises, and ran on as fast as they could go with the hot devastating wind behind them. Suddenly the whole mountainside was illuminated by a flash of lightning, like a jagged stream of fire stretching from heaven to earth. A deafening roar of thunder followed. Then all the forest seemed to be perfectly quiet. Such a stillness settled over the place that the girls stopped and held their breath.

"Look," whispered Billie, pointing to a strange looking light coming rapidly nearer, wobbling and undulating like the light on the bow of a ship in a rough ocean. Then came another terrifying flash of lightning, and thunder that seemed to rock the whole world. The two girls rushed toward the friendly light with one accord, and collided with the bearer with such force that three persons were precipitated with unintentionally devotional attitudes at the foot of a shrine of Buddha.

"By Jove, but this is luck," called a familiar voice.

It was Nicholas Grimm, who calmly picked up himself and then his oil-paper lantern attached to the end of a slender wand; next he helped the girls to their feet.

"Take an arm, each one of you. There's no time to lose. The thing that's coming, whatever it is, will get here in a minute now."

Running like mad, on the very wings of the wind, the three young people followed the windings of the path and presently came up short on a small temple, the tomb of some holy personage. Into this they rushed without ceremony just as the storm burst with all its fury, and crouching in a corner just out of reach of the rain, they listened to the howls and shrieks of the wind.

"It's just like some live thing," remarked Mary after a while. "I feel as if some terrible demon lived up in a cave in the mountain, and when he is angry he comes down and lashes the earth and shakes the mountain."

Mary's poetic notion of storms in that region was not so far removed from the Japanese legends.

"You struck the nail on the head that time, Miss Price," said Nicholas. "There is an extinct volcano over here in the northeast and in its side is a huge cavern. People around here used to believe that all these frightful storms issued from the cavern. Every spring and every fall there was a perfectly corking one that tore up the whole place, and they called the mountain 'Ni-Ko San,' or Two-Storm Mountain. Then an old party who was a saint, I believe, and very wise, placed a curse on the storm demon and named the place 'Nikko San,' Mountain of the Sun's Brightness."

"The demon seems to have returned," remarked Billie.

"Oh, he did. That was the point. The magic curse had to be repeated every year, and the saint gave the receipt to a priest and it was handed down from one generation to another in the priest's family for nearly nine hundred years, but the demon still pursued, as you have probably observed."

They were all silent for a while. Mary was making a picture in her mind of the aged priest in his white robes standing like a midget on the side of the vast mountain exorcising the storm king. That personage, she imagined, was a gigantic figure formed principally of black clouds with a terrifying human countenance. Every breath was a whirlwind or a hailstorm and when he struck the side of the mountain with his staff the lightning flashed -- 

Here Mary's thoughts were interrupted by just such a flash uncomfortably near.

Billie leaped to her feet.

"Oh, Nicholas," she cried, "do you think Papa could still be looking for me? Suppose he should be out now in all this frightful wind! I hadn't thought of it until this moment."

"He'll be all right, Miss Billie," answered Nicholas soothingly. "Don't you worry."

"Don't you tell me not to worry," cried Billie, almost angrily. "Do you think Papa would look after himself if he thought I was lost on the mountain? Oh, heavens, why did we count those old broken statues?"

Nicholas laughed.

"Excuse me," he said, choking back his amusement at sight of Billie's reproachful eyes which even the dim lantern light could not hide. "What are you going to do?" he added, as Billie seized the lantern from his hand.

"I'm going to wave this at the door and yell with all my strength until I haven't any voice left. If Papa is anywhere near he may see it and come straight here."

Nicholas, who, having also had much training in camps and outdoor life, had not felt the least uneasiness about Mr. Campbell's safety, now quietly took the lantern from Billie and began waving it to and fro at the door, while they both shouted again and again. But their voices were lost in the roar of the tempest. Billie stifled a sob.

"Papa!" she whispered to herself. "Dearest, dearest Papa!"

While she spoke a flash of lightning lit up the side of the mountain, and in that momentary illumination Billie saw her father toiling up the path against the wind and rain.

"Papa, Papa!" she shrieked, seizing the lantern and waving it wildly back and forth.

"Halloo!" yelled Nicholas, and then there came an answering shout, a really human cry this time, and after several breathless moments of waiting Mr. Campbell staggered into the temple.

Nicholas and Mary turned their faces away at sight of his emotion when he found his daughter in his arms. He actually buried his face on her shoulder and wept like a child.

"I was beginning to think I was never going to see you again, sweetheart," he said brokenly.

It gave Mary a lonesome, remote feeling. She drew away from the others into a corner of the temple and rested her chin on her hands.

"I wonder how it would feel to have some one big and strong and -- and handsome to love and protect one like that," she thought contemplatively.

Just then a figure staggered into the circle of light cast by the lantern. It was Mr. Buxton.

"Good evening," he said. "Delightful weather, isn't it? Suppose we shed a little light on Carlton's path," he added calmly, holding the light to the door. Reggie was close behind his friend, however, and with feelings of enormous relief, the little company proceeded to sit down on the floor and relate their experiences.

"It all really happened," remarked Mary, after Billie had confessed the cause of all the trouble, "because we tried to count the four hundred statues of Buddha and never got the same answer twice, and he naturally didn't like it, and I suppose he put us to sleep and summoned the Storm King -- "

"No, child," interrupted Mr. Buxton, "I am sorry to disabuse your romantic young mind, but it really happened because the pressure of the coming storm had a stupefying effect. Buddha was a very high-minded gentleman. He would never have taken offence over such a trivial matter."

"Don't contradict her, Buxton," said Mr. Campbell. "You have no imagination to comprehend the supernatural, anyhow."

"It would be supernatural for two women to count alike," answered the incorrigible bachelor, who would have the last word.

Gradually the storm spent its fury, and by midnight they were able to return to the little villa. Except for a few scratches and bruises, the only important result of the Storm King's visit was Nancy's determination to write a letter to Mme. Fontaine.



Chapter XVII.

A Visit Of Ceremony.


The most unhappy person in the whole of fair Japan was Miss Nancy Brown one lovely morning in July. At least she thought she was; which is very near to being the same thing. She had dispatched a letter to Mme. Fontaine and received an answer that the brass vase by the writing desk was now empty -- a curious way to put it, Nancy thought, and one which did not quiet her uneasiness in the least. In return for this bit of information the Widow of Shanghai asked a strange favor of Nancy, one which puzzled and troubled her considerably. But it was a simple request and Nancy could not see any reason for declining to grant it.

So, Mistress Nancy was the prey to indefinable anxieties and vague forebodings. Everybody had noticed her sadness. Mr. Campbell had spoken of it with concern and had promised to take them all on another trip to the mountains.

"The heat is too much for the child," he had remarked to his cousin. "I didn't realize she was such a fragile little thing. Even Mary Price seems more robust."

"She never was a fragile little thing before, Duncan," answered Miss Campbell. "I always thought that Billie and Nancy had unlimited endurance. The other girls are much more delicate. Do you suppose Nancy has anything on her mind?"

Mr. Campbell shook his head. It was impossible for him to think that any of those light-hearted creatures could have troubles. They had nothing to think about but their own pleasures; nothing to do but enjoy the house and the garden, the tea parties and excursions. Their happy laughter and gay chatter, floating to him through the open window of his library did not carry a single note of sadness; for Nancy had tried to cover her unhappiness under a cloak of forced gaiety; but she could not hide her tragic little face, nor the pathetic droop of her lips and the circles under her eyes.

"I can never look Billie in the face again," she had said to herself a hundred times. "I almost feel as if I had murdered somebody and hidden the body away. Nobody knows about the letter but it's just as bad as if they did. I believe I couldn't be more miserable if I had sent it to Billie. Thinking is just as bad as saying things out loud, and writing them seems to make it even worse."

Furthermore, Onoye had been acting very strangely toward Nancy lately. Twice she had come and stood before the American girl with downcast eyes and twice tried to say something, failed and slipped quietly away.

On this wonderful Sunday morning, when the world seemed indescribably fresh and fair after the recent rains, only Nancy was sad. Mary, who had blossomed into a flower herself in the soft warm air of Japan, was fairly dancing along the walk.

"There is so much to do," she cried. "I haven't a moment to spare. The red lilies are in bloom. They all live together in a place near the old shrine. Saiki says if the weather keeps on like this the lotus flowers in the pond will open. Over against the old south wall there is a climbing rose bush that is a perfect marvel. You see, Saiki tells me all the secrets of the garden. He and I are the most devoted friends."

The girls smiled indulgently at Mary, who seemed to them to have developed in a few weeks from a timid, shrinking little soul with a tinge of sadness in her nature into the most joyous being.

"Go on and tell us some more," put in Elinor. "I like to hear all this garden gossip. You'll be hearing the secret the white rose whispered to the red next; and how the sensitive plant shrank when she heard the news, and the lilies shut up -- "

"And the flags waved and the grasses drew their blades, and the trees barked and the cow slips and the bull rushes -- " cried Billie. And they all burst into absurd laughter, that is, all except Nancy, who felt immensely remote from this foolish, pleasant talk.

"It will never do for you to be a teacher, Mary, dearest," said Elinor. "You'd simply fade and droop in a schoolroom. We'll just have to look up some other occupation for you. If I had my way with Providence you should do nothing but play in a garden all your days in a land of perpetual summer."

"I am afraid I should have to pass into another world to accomplish anything so wonderful," laughed Mary. "It sounds a good deal like Paradise to me, and I haven't learned to play my harp yet. I would never be admitted into such a beautiful garden until I had learned to play real music on the harp, and not discords."

Mary often spoke in metaphors like this, which half puzzled, half amused her friends.

"I never heard you strike a discord, Mary, dear," Nancy observed sadly, when Billie interrupted:

"Canst tell me who that grand personage is riding up the avenue?"

In a jinriksha drawn by one man, while two others ran in front to clear the way of imaginary obstacles, since there were no real ones, sat a magnificent person clad in full Japanese regalia. He wore a robe of dark rich colors, but the girls could not see his face, which was hidden by a parasol.

"I think Nankipooh has come to call," whispered Billie, as the vehicle drew near.

The girls hid themselves behind a clump of shrubbery and peeped through the branches.

"He's bringing gifts," whispered Elinor.

The 'riksha had drawn up at the piazza and the two runners, after the personage in fancy dress had descended, lifted out a very aged and no doubt extremely costly dwarfed apple tree growing in a green vase, and a lacquered box.

One of the ever-watchful domestics opened the door and into the hall stalked the visitor, followed by his retainers.

"I think he must be a messenger from the Emperor, nothing less," said Billie. "He's so awfully grand."

"Perhaps he's the Mikado himself," said Mary.

The others laughed again and even Nancy forgot her troubles and joined in.

"I declare I feel as if I had settled down to live on a Japanese fan," continued Billie. "Everything is like a decoration. I can't imagine anything really serious ever happening, it's all so gay and pretty and the people are like dolls."

"Here comes one of your live dolls," observed Mary, pointing to Onoye, who was hastening toward them down the path, the skirts of her flowered kimono blowing about her ankles as she walked.

She made straight for the group of girls and falling on her knees before Nancy, touched her forehead to the ground.

"What is it, Onoye?" asked Nancy, blushing and paling and blushing again with some hidden emotion.

"Gracious lady, warn-ings," she began slowly, as if she had just learned the words from a book.

"What on earth?" Nancy asked.

"Gracious lady, warn-ings," repeated Onoye, in a monotonous voice.

"What do you mean, Onoye?" demanded Billie. "Don't kneel. Stand up and tell us all about it."

"No explaining words to make understanding. Make prayer to honorable Mees Nancee."

"But what about?" asked Nancy, puzzled and troubled at the same time.

"Dee-vorce," answered Onoye, and then touching her forehead to the ground, she rose quickly and glided away.

It was so absurd that they were obliged to laugh, and yet they felt that the Japanese girl was entirely serious in what she was trying to tell.

"Can't we call her back and ask her some more questions?" suggested Elinor.

"We might, but I doubt if she would say another word," answered Billie. "They never will tell more than they have to, you know, and I daresay she thinks she's told all that is necessary."

"I think she's got hold of the wrong words," put in Mary. "Do you remember how she called Miss Campbell 'the honorable old maid'?"

"She has had something on her mind a long time," said Billie thoughtfully. "She's a queer little soul. You don't think she could be a bit daffy, do you?"

"I never saw any signs of it," said Nancy. "But I do wish she had explained why I was to be warned. Perhaps she's got that word wrong, too."

"The truth is, the Japanese use synonyms instead of the words themselves. That's why their English is so queer," remarked Mary, better trained in English than any of the others and with a remarkably good vocabulary when she could be persuaded to talk. "Now a synonym of 'to warn' is 'to summon.' Maybe Onoye wanted to tell you that some one wished to see you."

Nancy was silent. She vaguely connected Onoye's visit with Mme. Fontaine and the note, because her thoughts constantly dwelt on those disquieting subjects.

The girls lingered for some time in the garden until they saw the Japanese gentleman in fancy dress riding away in his 'riksha, preceded by his two runners. Once more Onoye approached them down one of the shady garden walks. Once more she paused in front of Nancy and prostrating herself, announced:

"The honorable master in libraree to Mees Brown."

Nancy turned as white as a sheet.

"Why, Nancy, don't be frightened. I am sure it's nothing serious," said Billie, putting her arm around her friend's waist.

Except for that first greeting when Billie had returned after her search for Nancy, it was the first time the two girls had stood thus since the letter episode, and it was too much for poor, contrite Nancy, who burst into tears.

"She thinks it's bad news from home," said Mary, leaning a cheek sympathetically against Nancy's shoulder, while Elinor pressed her hand and exclaimed:

"Dearest, dearest Nancy, I'm sure it's nothing sad. Don't cry."

If anything could have made Nancy more wretched, it was the sympathy of her three friends.

"I don't deserve it, I don't deserve it!" she sobbed, and except for Billie, they had not the remotest idea what she meant.

And now in the midst of this highly emotional scene appeared Miss Helen Campbell accompanied by Messrs. Campbell, Buxton, Carlton and Grimm. There was an arch and knowing smile on Miss Campbell's face as she tripped along the walk holding a lavender parasol over her head, and the four men were grinning broadly. Nancy dried her tears quickly. They never left any traces on her face nor red rims around her eyelids as with most people, and except that she was unusually pale, no one would have guessed that her lachrymal ducts had been overflowing only a moment before.

"Well, well, Miss Nancy, I am afraid we shall have to put smoked glasses over those pretty blue eyes of yours before they cause any more mischief in Japan," exclaimed Mr. Campbell.

"Oh, you little witch," cried Miss Campbell, pinching Nancy's cheek, "what shall I do with you, making eyes at these Orientals who don't understand?"

"But what -- " began Nancy.

"I know," cried Mary, the gleam of romance in her eyes, "I know now. She's gone and got proposed to by a Japanese gentleman!"

"But who?" cried all the girls together, brimming over with curiosity.

"Why, Mr. Yoritomo Ito, of course," replied Miss Campbell. "He dressed up in his best Japanese fancy costume and brought presents and servants and came to ask formally for the hand of Mistress Anne Starbuck Brown."

"Why, the impudent thing," exclaimed Nancy. "Did he think -- could he imagine for a moment -- "

She broke off, too indignant to express herself. Then her eyes encountered Billie's and she dropped them in embarrassment. They were both thinking of the same thing; the two notes left under a stone at the shrine and the rainy meeting in the garden. After all, perhaps Yoritomo might have thought she liked him -- but the idea was intolerable and Nancy thrust it aside.

"How would you like to be mother-in-lawed by Mme. Ito, Nancy?" asked Elinor.

"And sleep with your head on a bench and eat with chop sticks?" continued Mary.

"You would probably have to do all those things if you married Mr. Yoritomo Ito," said Mr. Campbell. "It's very evident that he belongs to the most conservative Japanese class and clings to the old notions about wives and fancy dress costumes and such things."

"What did you say to him, Papa?" asked Billie.

"Oh, I was very polite, of course. I declined his offer, but that didn't surprise him, because in Japan they never stop to consult a young lady about her choice. They make it for her and then inform her afterward. Was I right in my method of dismissing your suitor, Miss Nancy?" he asked, turning to the young girl with a certain charming manner that was peculiarly his own, half humorous and half deferential.

"Oh, yes, Mr. Campbell," exclaimed Nancy, a flush spreading over her face. "I am ashamed that it ever happened. I'm sure I never meant him to think -- I'm sure I can't understand his presuming -- "

"Never mind, child. Men propose the world over without any more grounds than that. They are all alike, yellow skins and white ones, and red ones, too," said Miss Campbell.

"Don't be so hard on us, Madam," put in Mr. Buxton, seizing the lady's parasol by force and holding it firmly over her head. "It's not our fault if we fall victims to a pair of blue eyes. You notice I say 'victims.' One pair has many, I presume."

Billie and Nicholas brought up the procession which was now moving slowly toward the pavilion.

"It's queer that I just learned something about Yoritomo last night," said Nicholas, "and I was going to tell you to-day."

"What is it?" asked Billie.

"He's divorced. You know they get them here on the slightest provocation -- just change their minds after a few months or years and go to court, and one morning a wife finds herself without a husband, or children either, if he wants to take them."

"How perfectly outrageous for him to propose to Nancy!" cried Billie. "You don't know who his first wife was, do you, Nicholas?"

"No, I didn't hear."

"I think I do," said Billie, after a moment's pause.



Chapter XVIII.

The Magnet And The Silver Churn.


"Is it your head, dear? Are you sure nothing else is involved? No indigestion or pains at the neck or burning at the pit of the stomach?"

"Perfectly certain, Miss Campbell," answered Nancy, with a wan smile. "It's just one of those sick headaches like the one I had when I ate crab salad and peach ice cream that time. You mustn't stay at home on my account. O'Haru will look after me."

"But you haven't eaten crab salad and peach ice cream this time, child. You haven't eaten anything, in fact. Your appetite is getting smaller all the time."

"It's just the heat," said Nancy meekly. "I only want to stay in a darkened room and keep as cool as I can. I am sure I shall be all right by this evening and I wouldn't for anything interfere with the picnic to-day. It would make my head much worse. Really it would."

Each of the Motor Maids offered to stay home with Nancy, but she objected and protested so strongly that it looked as if she would work herself into a fever if they persisted. O'Haru was therefore left in charge of Nancy for the day, while the others, attired for an all-day picnic, gathered on the front piazza.

On the driveway stood the "Comet" and behind him at a respectful distance, like a servant behind his master, stood another car of an undistinguished character, hired in Tokyo. Into this last climbed Miss Campbell and Mr. Buxton, while Mr. Campbell took the front seat to run the car.

"Won't some little maid keep a lonely man company?" he called, and Mary Price responded promptly to this appeal. "I am the most honored man in the whole party," he said, gallantly jumping out and helping her in as if she were a small queen.

Mary smiled happily, but she felt in her heart that she was the most honored of all. No one had ever treated her with such deference and courtesy as this splendid big man who gazed down at her with a protecting air and listened to her rather timid conversation with absorbed interest.

It was a wonderful thing, Mary thought, almost too wonderful to be believed that a distinguished engineer who had been sent for by governments to build railroads and give advice about public improvements, would condescend even to notice a quiet little person like her. But the famous engineer was really a very simple man, as modest as she herself was and quite as gentle.

On the front seat beside Billie sat Nicholas, and Reginald was in the back with Elinor. Every laddie had a lassie that morning, and Billie, who was a bit skeptical over Nancy's headache, wondered vaguely if this could have been the reason for her staying at home. But she put the thought away from her at once as being unworthy. Billie sighed and gave herself an impatient little shake. Her heart yearned for the old Nancy of the early days who seemed so changed now. She was determined never to mention the letter, but somehow it seemed always to stand between them. Both girls thought of it constantly, Nancy with remorse and bitterness for her own disloyalty, and Billie with a kind of puzzled sadness. After all, the two friends had much to learn about each other's natures.

Nancy on her bed in the darkened room was saying:

"If I only could prove to Billie and to all of them that I am not disloyal!"

Billie, guiding the "Comet" along the country road, was thinking:

"If Nancy would only be frank and tell me what's on her mind! How can we go on like this when we are drifting farther and farther away?"

The excursion to-day was of special interest to Mr. Campbell and his guests. They were riding forth to see Fujiyama (or "Fuji San," as the Japanese call it, "yama," meaning simply "mountain"), the sacred mountain of perfect beauty and shining whiteness.

Once Saiki, their old gardener, had conducted them to a small elevation in the garden, and in a manner both reverential and proud, had pointed to a vista in the trees carefully made by lopping off certain branches. There, in the background of a long, narrow perspective loomed the great mountain, exactly as it does in thousands of Japanese scrolls. Here, many a time, Mary had sat and watched the white cone shining in the sunlight. She understood why it was called the "Peak of the White Lotus," The low green hills at its feet were the leaves of the flower and the eight sided crater, perfect in symmetry, formed the petals.

The beautiful Fuji San, the most precious and revered object in all Japan, is dedicated to a goddess, "the Princess who makes the blossoms of the trees to bear"; but pilgrims of every religious sect crowd its paths in warm weather and on its sides dwell holy men or "mountain worshippers," who practice great austerities.

It seemed a little unfeeling to be so gay and light-hearted with Nancy unhappy and ill at home, but there was gaiety in the warm dry air, and it bubbled into happy laughter and chatter as they flew along the road.

"Have we brought everything?" called Billie over her shoulder. "The guitar and the tea basket and the luncheon hamper -- "

"And the mackintoshes?" finished Nicholas.

Billie frowned and her face darkened.

"Everything but your raincoat, Billie," said Elinor, counting packages in the bottom of the car with the toe of her boot. "Did you forget it?"

"No, it had a torn place in it," answered Billie, still frowning.

An incident too trivial to mention, but too unusual to put lightly aside had caused her some annoyance that morning. She had closed the bureau drawer on a corner of her raincoat, hanging over her arm, and had torn the hem off one side.

"How stupid," she had exclaimed impatiently, tossing it into a chair. "You'll have to lend me your blue raincoat, Nancy-Bell. I've just done for mine completely."

Nancy, lying on the bed with her face turned to the wall, did not reply.

Billie tiptoed to the foot of the bed to see if she was asleep, but the blue eyes were wide open staring at the wall paper.

"Will you lend me your raincoat, Miss Nancy?" repeated Billie, trying to be jocular to overcome the peculiar sensation of annoyance that had crept into her thoughts.

"I'm sorry, but I can't," answered Nancy, in a low voice.

"Why not?"

"I just can't. That's all."

Billie felt as if a rough hand had seized her by her collar and given her a good shaking.

"Oh, very well, Nancy" she said, and went softly out of the room.

"I am sure she must be really ill," she thought, trying to put a charitable interpretation on this act of selfishness, but even illness could hardly account for anything so entirely remote from their usual relations. And, apparently, Nancy had no fever and was only a little under the weather with a headache.

Therefore, when the subject of her raincoat had come under discussion, Billie quickly changed it.

"Do look at that queer-looking crowd," she ejaculated, pointing to a group of people walking in couples along the roadside. Their white kirtles were girded high about their waists and they carried staffs.

As the company marched along, always facing Fuji, they began singing a weird chant. When the motors drew nearer the tourists saw that each man wore a huge mushroom hat made of lightest pith and from his neck hung a piece of matting suspended by a cord.

"That must be one of the Pilgrim Clubs," announced Nicholas. "There are hundreds of them in Japan and they are fearfully expensive to join. The dues are from eight to fifteen cents a year. Every summer a club selects a delegate to take a nice little walking trip to a shrine and bring back blessings for the other members. His expenses are paid and lots of the other members go on their own hook. All the inns make special rates and it's come to be a jolly way to spend one's vacation, combining pleasure and religion. You see they've got the costume down to the finest point," he continued. "They wear umbrellas on their heads, and the matting hanging around their necks serves as a raincoat, seat and bed. It's the coolest, lightest and most complete walking equipment I ever saw."

"They make me feel terribly worldly-minded and luxurious," exclaimed Billie. "I never thought of bringing back a holy blessing to a friend."

"We can take back a blessing for Miss Nancy, if you like," said Nicholas, smiling. "A flask of water from a spring on the sacred mountain would do, wouldn't it?"

"But we haven't any flask."

"We have the thermos bottle," put in Elinor. "That would keep it cool enough for her to drink."

"She shouldn't drink it. She should sprinkle herself with it, or bathe in it," said Nicholas, amused at this ultra-modern way of carrying back a heavenly blessing.

But Billie recalled the suggestion later and actually did fill the thermos bottle from a little spring that bubbled at the foot of Fuji and trickled down a green slope where the company had stopped for luncheon.

"I do wish Nancy had come," she found herself saying while she spread the white cloth on the grass and opened the treasures of the luncheon hamper, which consisted of cold chicken and sandwiches and eggs prepared in a peculiar pickly way, as some one had described it. "It was a shame for her to miss this lovely trip. I am sure Fuji would have cured anybody's headache. It's so beautiful and so majestic."

"It's cured mine," remarked Mr. Buxton, "either Fuji or something even more potent." Here he cast a languishing and eloquent glance toward Miss Campbell who flicked the grass with the end of her parasol and pretended not to have heard a word.

Nicholas and Reggie grinned openly. Mr. Campbell stifled a smile behind a large sandwich and the girls carefully avoided each other's eyes.

"He's got it bad, Miss Billie," whispered Nicholas. "Is this a common occurrence with Miss Campbell?"

"It is, indeed," answered Billie. "There is always one and sometimes several wherever we go. Once, in Salt Lake City, it saved us no end of trouble and brought two lovers together, because a horrid old Mormon gentleman caught the fever. He had it so badly that we thought he would just carry Cousin Helen off by force, but he was deathly afraid of her."

"Remember your promise, Miss Elinor," called Mr. Campbell presently. "Where's your guitar?"

Some one fetched the guitar from the car and Elinor, leaning against a tree, struck several chords and smiled mischievously.

"Shall it be a love song?" she asked.

"Something religious would be more appropriate in this sacred spot," observed Miss Campbell severely. But Elinor, ignoring the suggestion, began to sing:

"'O, My Luve's like a red, red rose, That's newly sprung in June. My Luve's like the melodie That's sweetly played in tune.

"'As fair thou art, my bonnie lass, So deep in luve am I, And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry.

"'Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, And rocks melt wi' the sun, I will luve thee still, my dear, While the sands of life shall run.

"'And fare thee weel, my only Luve, And fare thee weel a while, And I will come again My Luve, Tho' it were ten thousand mile.'"

While Elinor sang this charming song Mr. Buxton regarded Miss Helen Campbell with an expression so abjectly adoring that Mr. Campbell gave a roar of boyish laughter and laid himself flat on the ground in the ecstasy of his amusement. They all laughed, indeed. Even Miss Campbell joined in, in spite of her annoyance.

"I should think you might sing your own songs, Buxton, instead of letting a young lady do it for you," said Mr. Campbell at last.

"Allow me," answered the bachelor calmly.

He seized the guitar, re-tuned it with great care, and began strumming lightly on the strings. Suddenly he lifted up his voice in song and nobody attempted to keep a serious countenance because he seemed entirely oblivious to all jests at his expense. Here is the song he sang:

"A Magnet hung in a hardware shop, And all around was a loving crop Of scissors and needles, nails and knives, Offering love for all their lives; But for iron the Magnet felt no whim; Though he charmed iron, it charmed not him; From needles and nails and knives he'd turn, For he'd set his heart on a Silver Churn!

"A Silver Churn! A Silver Churn! His most esthetic Very magnetic Fancy took this turn: If I can wheedle A knife or a needle, Why not a Silver Churn?

"And Iron and Steel expressed surprise; The needles opened their well-drilled eyes, The penknives felt shut up, no doubt; The scissors declared themselves cut out. The kettles, they boiled with rage, 'tis said; While every nail went off its head And hither and thither began to roam, Till a hammer came up and drove them home.

"It drove them home! It drove them home! While this magnetic, Peripatetic Lover, he lived to learn, By no endeavor Can a Magnet ever Attract a Silver Churn!"

"Well, really," cried Mr. Campbell, at the end of the song when the laughter had somewhat died down, "really, I think Buxton, you are the most shameless old soul I ever met in my life. Come along and start home. A shower is coming up, and we'd better get the cars into the valley before it catches us and wets the Silver Churn, and the scissors, and needles, and nails, and knives."

A shower did come up, a big one that lasted most of the way home, and Billie's gray linen suit was wet through, but the weather was warm and except that she looked extremely bedraggled, she was none the worse and refused to accept the loan of Nicholas' coat. They left the three guests in Tokyo with the hired motor car, and Mr. Campbell with Miss Helen and Mary joined the others in the "Comet." So it was that the subject of the raincoat came up again. Miss Campbell, seeing her young cousin's wet suit, exclaimed:

"Child! Where is your raincoat? How often have I told you never to leave it behind, especially in this country where it rains more than it shines."

"It's torn, Cousin Helen," answered Billie meekly.

"But why, pray, didn't you take Nancy's?"

Billie considered a moment what she should say and ended by saying nothing at all.

"Why didn't you borrow Nancy's, Billie?" asked Elinor.

"Nancy didn't seem willing to lend it," answered Billie at last, slowly.

There was a strained silence. Then Miss Campbell remarked:

"I believe the child must be seriously ill. It sounds like typhoid fever. I think we'd better send for the doctor as soon as we reach home."

However, this was not necessary. There was Nancy waiting for them on the piazza. Her headache had gone, she said, and she looked quite well and much more cheerful than usual. She did not notice the faintest tinge of coldness in their greetings. Even Mr. Campbell was not so cordial as usual.

"You must have been caught in the worst of the rain," she said, looking at Billie's dripping clothes.

"We were," put in Mary quickly, trying to cover the silence of the others.

Somehow Billie felt just a bit savage at the moment.

"I've brought you some sacred water from Fujiyama, Nancy," she said presently, in order to hide her hurt feelings.

"Oh, thanks. What am I to do with it? Drink it down?"

"Oh, no. Anoint yourself with it. Sprinkle it over the top of your head for luck."

"Better put on your mackintosh first, Nancy," broke in Elinor coldly. "You'll be wetter than Billie if you don't."

Nancy's face flushed scarlet and she turned and walked into the house without a word.

"Oh, Elinor, I wish you hadn't said that," said Billie. "See how you hurt her."

"She needed to be hurt," replied Elinor. "She needs to be brought to her senses."

All the world was topsy turvy. The Motor Maids were quarreling among themselves and there was mystery in the air. Their happy little kingdom was being destroyed by internecine wars, and for what reason, Billie could not understand. It was inevitable that Mary and Elinor would come over to her side, now, that is, if Nancy persisted in this strange behavior.

That night, lying beside Nancy in the dark, Billie's hand crept out to meet her unhappy friend's. But Nancy's hands were clasped in front of her and she lay quite still, staring at the wall, the most miserable young person in all the universe.



Chapter XIX.

Father And Daughter.


The first thing Billie saw next morning when she opened her eyes on a beautiful but heated world, was Nancy seated by the window reading a book, and at a second glance, she recognized it as her own prayer book. If it had been Mary or Elinor who had risen at dawn to read the prayer book, Billie would not have been in the least surprised, for one was deeply religious, and the other also, though she never talked much about it.

Nancy, however, little frivolous butterfly, was not given to reading her testament or prayer book either, except at very infrequent intervals, certainly never early in the morning when other people were asleep. Billie wondered and wondered what more could have happened to turn Nancy's thought into this unusual channel.

"She must be unhappy," she decided, "or she never would have got up at this time of day," and there was a kind of sad humor in the thought which Billie did not appreciate at the moment.

When Nancy heard Billie stir, she closed the book hastily and crept back to bed and Billie pretended not to be awake. She was sure Nancy would rather not have been caught at this act of unusual devotion, and she disliked the idea of being an eavesdropper, as it were, to Nancy's innermost thoughts. Nevertheless, when some time later, Nancy had dressed and gone out of the room, Billie could not resist the temptation to open the prayer book at the purple ribbon; it had been placed at "Prayers for Fair Weather," which begins:

"Almighty and most merciful Father, we humbly beseech thee of thy great goodness to restrain those immoderate rains wherewith for our sins thou hast afflicted us."

Billie could scarcely keep from smiling when she followed Nancy into the dining-room.

"It's about the queerest state of affairs that ever existed," she thought, casting a covert glance at her unhappy friend who was munching dry toast.

Mr. Campbell came in late. He looked flustered and disturbed about something.

"What is the matter with this household?" Billie's thoughts continued. "One would think an earthquake had shaken us out of our senses. Even Papa is out of sorts. I don't think I ever saw him quite this way before. As for me, I can't seem to pull out of the general depression. It's just closing in on us and drawing us down. Papa," she exclaimed out loud, "I believe we need a trip. When are you going to take us to the mountains? Nancy is terribly run down, and Cousin Helen is feeling the heat, and Elinor and Mary and I are going to be run down, too, if you don't hustle us off somewhere."

"Very soon now, daughter. Just one more piece of business to transact and -- er -- a question to settle, and I'll pack you all off to a cool, dry place."

"It will be the very opposite to this one, then," announced Billie. "Hot and damp are the words to use about Tokyo, and they do say the long rains are coming on -- " she stopped short and looked at Nancy.

Everybody was looking at Nancy, in fact.

Mary and Elinor were wondering why Nancy looked so conscious. Miss Campbell was thinking how pale the girl looked, and Mr. Campbell was thinking of something quite different, but very important, concerning Nancy Brown.

Billie tried to cover the uncomfortable silence by adding with a forced cordiality:

"Nancy-Bell needs the change more than any of us."

"Very well, if agreeable to your Royal Highness, I will let you know tonight when we shall break up camp and march for the hills."

"Good," cried Billie. "The Court is prepared to move on a moment's notice."

Mr. Campbell beckoned to his daughter to follow him to his library after breakfast. Billie had already had a foreboding that something was the matter, and she was sure of it as soon as she had entered the room and closed the door.

Her father was standing at his desk frowning as he looked thoughtfully into space, and Mr. Campbell never frowned unless he had something to frown about.

"What's the matter, Papa?"

"Where are the others?"

"Gone to their rooms, I suppose, or in the garden. I didn't notice."

He drew an easy chair up by the open window and Billie took her seat on the arm and rested her cheek against his.

"Papa, is there any trouble brewing in this house?" she asked presently.

Mr. Campbell blew out a long column of smoke from his morning cigar.

"What makes you think so, sweetheart?" he asked.

"I can feel it. It's in the air -- it's all about us. It's like a sort of plague. Nancy's got it, and now you are getting it, and I have a feeling I shall catch it, too."

"Has Nancy got it?"

"She got it first and she's giving it to all the rest of us. Oh, Papa, it's the very first time anything like this has ever happened on any of our trips. It's making me quite wretched."

"But what is it, little girl?"

"I don't know, at least, not exactly."

"Not exactly? Then you do know something?"

Billie did not wish to tell her father about the letter Nancy had written. She felt that her father might not take such a charitable view of it as she had, and she had a feeling she must protect poor Nancy, wounded as she had been by her strange behavior.

"Then you do know something?" repeated Mr. Campbell.

"Oh, just the littlest something, but I don't want to tell you, Papa."

Mr. Campbell settled himself into the depths of his chair and drew his arm around his daughter's waist.

"That's right, little daughter. I'd rather you'd be loyal than anything else in the world," he said, stroking her hand. "But I'm going to tell you a little bit of something. I want to ask your advice. I don't know what to do. You must help your old father decide."

"Fire away, Papa."

"Yesterday a very strange thing happened in this house while we were away -- a very serious thing, I may say, and one which gives me considerable uneasiness. Last night I came into the library to work, just after dinner. I opened the safe and found that some one had been rummaging among the papers in there."

"Oh, Papa," ejaculated Billie anxiously, knowing the value of those documents.

"They were all there, but they had been disturbed. There had been an attempt made to trace off some of the drawings. The specifications and descriptions had been tampered with, too. I never dreamed such a thing could be managed in the daytime with the house full of servants. The two watchmen would prevent even a possibility of it at night. Whoever did it must have laid his plans well, or else -- "

Mr. Campbell paused and looked at his daughter very hard.

"Nancy has been greatly troubled about something lately, hasn't she, little daughter?"

"Yes, Papa, she has, but it's nothing serious," said Billie stoutly. "Just the heat and that absurd business about Yoritomo. You know she did really make eyes at him a good deal."

"Where was she yesterday?"

"In her room, I suppose?"

"Billie, I called several of the servants in last night and questioned them about this business here," he pointed to the safe in the corner. "I called them in separately and each one made the same statement. Nancy spent most of the day in this room."

Billie started.

"I can't believe it. I won't believe it," she cried, rising to her feet in her excitement.

"They told a pretty straight story and they had no reason, as far as I can see, for telling any other kind."

"But what does Nancy know about opening a safe, Papa? It's absurd. And besides what would she want with plans for government improvements or whatever they are?"

"I'm just as much in the dark as you are, Billie. I'm only telling you what O'Haru and Onoye and Komatsu told me. She went into the library twice during the day; once for a little while in the morning, and after lunch when the servants were in the back of the house, Onoye saw her come out of the garden in a pouring rain. She marched straight to this room and locked the door behind her and here she remained until not long before we returned."

"Papa, I'll never go back on Nancy," cried Billie. "I'll never believe she did it -- even -- well, even if she were to tell me so herself! I know her as well as I know myself. I know all her ins and outs, you might say. She's simply incapable of doing a dishonest thing. Besides, what earthly use could she have with those papers?"

"Do you think she could be doing it for some one else?" asked Mr. Campbell.

"No," burst out Billie, almost angrily. "Why, Papa, I'm ashamed of you,"

Mr. Campbell drew his daughter to him and kissed her.

"You are a good friend, Billie, and I'm going to give your friend the benefit of every doubt in her favor. I'm going to assume that she is innocent and that there is some big mistake somewhere. But I want you to help me because it will be necessary to get at the bottom of the business immediately. Now, Yoritomo Ito is one great big fanatic. I discovered that the other day when he called here in his foolish garb and demanded the hand of Miss Nancy. He was very angry over being turned down and just a bit threatening in his manner. Of course he resents outside people being called in for the work I am doing. He resents my presence in his country, in fact."

"I don't like him, Papa," broke in Billie, "and -- you didn't know that he has been married and divorced?"

Mr. Campbell looked surprised.

"No, indeed, I did not know it. He has colossal nerve, I must say. But divorce is pretty common over here. Most anybody can get one who wants to."

"And, Papa," went on Billie, "I believe that our little maid, Onoye, was his wife, and when her father lost his money, Yoritomo got a divorce, and she and her mother were so poor they had to go to work."

Mr. Campbell was even more shocked at this disclosure.

"And, Papa, I believe she would do most any favor for Yoritomo in order to get to see her little boy who lives with Mme. Ito. Onoye and her mother are mad about him, and -- and -- " went on Billie, slowly working out the complication in her mind -- "they were the ones who laid the blame on Nancy, weren't they?"

"I didn't know I had a detective for a daughter," said Mr. Campbell, smiling.

"I'm just putting two and two together," said Billie. "You see it works out like a jigsaw puzzle."

"So I see," said Mr. Campbell gravely. "There is only one bright spot in the whole business," he added, with something very like a chuckle. "For once in my life I've out-tricked a trickster and I've really enjoyed doing it. Buxton informed me the very night you shot somebody here -- "

"There you are," interrupted Billie. "That was Onoye, remember."

"Yes, there is no doubt about that. Well, Buxton informed me that they were after my papers and the safe would be the place they would look for them. So that very night I substituted some old drawings and put the important ones in another place. Now a Japanese, when he's after something, is as crafty and shrewd as a fox. That's why I'm patting myself on my back for having outwitted one."

"Where do you keep the real papers, Papa?"

"Down where the pistol is under some stationery in the back of the desk drawer, and in the big vase in the corner."

Billie went straight to the desk and opened the drawer. She drew out the pistol as she had done that dark night, removed several layers of envelopes and paper, and came at last to a layer of drawings.

"Are these the ones?" she asked, placing them on the desk and then shoving the drawer back with her knee. Something stuck and she pulled it all the way out in her effort to discover what the trouble was. In the very back, caught between the drawer and the framework was a handkerchief. It was small and sheer and in one corner was an embroidered butterfly.

Mr. Campbell jumped up in much excitement.

"By Jove," he exclaimed, "did you find that among my papers?"

Billie nodded her head sadly. "It's Nancy's, too," she said.

Mr. Campbell began looking over the papers.

"She may have dropped her handkerchief," he said, "but I don't think she got down to these. They are exactly as I left them. I suppose she rummaged around with her handkerchief in her lap and it fell in and was shoved back when I took out my papers later."

The papers in a leather portfolio in the vase were safe, also.

For some time the father and daughter sat together, turning over the events of the morning in their minds.

"Papa," said Billie, after a while, "let's send Cousin Helen and Nancy and Elinor to the mountains, because they need the trip more than the rest of us, and suppose you and Mary Price and I stay here and ferret out the whole thing. Of course the person who did it, and I know Nancy had nothing to do with it," she added almost fiercely, "but the real person will be coming back for the rest of the drawings, and that will be our chance. A detective in the house would give the alarm, but Mary and I might turn watchmen without arousing any suspicion, especially if some of the servants are mixed in it."

Mr. Campbell ended by taking his daughter's advice.

The very next morning Miss Campbell and two of the Motor Maids were packed off to Myanoshita, a summer resort in the mountains, with Komatsu to look after them, while the other two Motor Maids remained with Mr. Campbell.

"We'll follow you by the end of the week," he said. "I hope you don't begrudge a lonely man his daughter for that short time, Cousin."

"I hope you won't keep her in this awful heat any longer than you can help," was his cousin's reply. For Miss Campbell had grown to regard Billie as her especial property.



Chapter XX.

The Typhoon.


The three conspirators had formed no particular plan for a campaign. Mr. Campbell was certain of only one thing: if poor Nancy Brown had foolishly got herself involved in this business, it would be better to keep the secret in the family, as it were.

"We'll just give the child a good lecture and take her home," he said to himself, biting off the end of his cigar and frowning at the disquieting thought. "Whatever she did was through innocence, I am certain of that. She may have been flattered or cajoled into it. Who knows? The little thing is miserable enough without being made more unhappy. I suppose I should have sent for her and asked for a confession, but I hadn't the nerve and that's the truth."

Several uneventful days passed after the departure of the others. It was very hot and the girls kept indoors until after sunset. But it was a dull, dispiriting time, and one morning they decided to take a spin in the "Comet," leaving Mr. Campbell at home to look after things. They had hardly gone when he was summoned to Tokyo by a messenger, and there was no one but the servants left in the house.

The girls motored into town and spent the morning shopping. From one curio shop to another they wandered in the quest of nothing except diversion.

"There is no end to the beautiful things here," sighed Mary, wishing in her heart that she could carry the most beautiful and priceless thing in Tokyo home to her mother.

"Yes, everything is beautiful except the weather," remarked Billie, pointing to the black clouds which had gathered while they were in a shop. "We are going to have one of those red-letter storms, Mary. I think we'd better hurry home as fast as we can."

But the "Comet," who never had any luck all the time he was in Japan, proceeded to burst one of his tires and the explosion mingled threateningly with a low roll of thunder in the distance.

"We'd better take him to a garage and go back in a 'riksha," announced Billie, much annoyed. "Poor old 'Comet,' it wasn't his fault, but the prologues of these storms do put one in a bad temper."

"They frighten me," said Mary. "They give me evil forebodings."

The "Comet" was accordingly left at the garage to be repaired, and the girls were well on their way home in a jinriksha before anything worse had happened than rumblings and strange mutterings at what seemed a great distance away. It sometimes takes hours for a great storm in Japan to reach a head; which, in a way, is rather fortunate, because it gives people a chance to prepare for the struggle. A house is usually completely closed with storm shutters. Not even the smallest opening is left, through which the demon wind can find its way and so carry off the roof, or even the house itself. Every detachable object out of doors is taken inside. The gardener is seen hurrying about protecting his most valuable plants, and by the time the storm bursts upon the scene, filled with demoniacal shrieks and howls like an army of barbarians pursuing the enemy, it finds its victims prepared for the attack.

When the 'riksha turned in at the Campbell gate, it had grown so dark that only the dim outlines of the house were visible at the end of the driveway. No one saw them arrive. The servants were probably at the back putting on the storm shutters, which were all in place at the front.

Billie invited the 'riksha man to go around to the servants' quarters and wait until the storm had passed, but he nodded cheerfully and took his way down the road.

"Let's go in by the passage door," suggested Mary. "Everything is closed up here."

Billie followed her wearily. The heat and oppression were almost beyond endurance. She felt she might be suffocated at any moment. It was like trying to breathe under a feather mattress or in a total vacuum, for that matter.

"Shall we put on our kimonos and lie on the floor in the library?" she suggested as they slipped into the passage. And this they accordingly did without another word or a moment's delay. It was too hot to think or sleep or eat or speak. All they desired was to stretch out on the rug in a cool dark room and keep perfectly still.

There was a deadly quiet in the house when presently two little kimonoed forms stole through the halls and crept to the library door. Billie felt for the knob in the darkness and turned it. The door was locked. In the dense atmosphere it was difficult for them to realize what this meant at first.

"Mary, it's -- it's the-what-do-you-call-'em," said Billie incoherently.

Mary nodded silently. She might have shrieked her answer aloud, for the storm had arrived with a great howling of wind and rain, and with flashes of lightning followed by repeated and deafening cannonades of thunder.

The rain rattled on the roof like iron and all the demons in bedlam seemed to be besieging the house. Then a most sickening thing happened. The floor appeared to be heaving under their feet. Doors all over the house banged to with loud reports like revolvers shooting off. There was a crash in the library, a loud cry from within, the door flew open and a figure rushed past. Mary, kneeling on the floor at the threshold, involuntarily reached out her hands and seized the flying skirts of the apparition, or whatever it was, which disappeared like a shadow through the passage door, leaving Mary still holding the substance of the shadow which seemed to be the skirt she had grasped.

A second shock followed almost immediately, less violent than the first but quite as sickening. For one instant the house tossed and pitched like a ship on a choppy sea. Then it settled down on its foundations. Most Japanese houses are built on wooden supports, stout square pillars rounded off at the base and resting in a round socket of stone. This gives a certain elasticity for resisting shocks which a firmly built house would not endure.

The girls lay side by side on the floor of the passage, too frightened to speak. There is a horror about an earthquake that is indescribable to those who have never felt it; a feeling of sickening inefficiency and helplessness.

After a while they plucked up courage to rise and totter weakly into the library, where Billie, her hand shaking with nervous excitement, struck a match and lit a candle. The room was in dire confusion. Chairs were upset, books had fallen off the shelves and lay scattered about the floor, and the iron safe had crashed over on its face. On the desk and the floor about it were numbers of loose sheets of paper and a narrow roll of tracing paper, which had uncoiled itself and lay half on the desk, half on the floor like a long white serpent.

Mechanically they began to put things to rights. Mary gathered up the books and set them back on the shelves and Billie stood the chairs on their legs and collected the papers. They were not important ones, she knew, only decoys, as her father had called them. In the mean time the house rocked in the clutches of the storm.

"I don't know why we bother to do this," said Billie laughing hysterically. "We may be flying through the air any minute ourselves along with the chairs and papers and everything else."

"The storm at Nikko was mere child's play to this; just an infant babe in arms," answered Mary, weeping softly while she worked.

It seemed better to be doing something than to sit still and listen to the terrifying fury of the tempest, as again and again it hurled itself against the house.

"It wouldn't have done any good even if we had caught the thief or spy or whatever he is," observed Billie after a while. "There would have been no one to help us."

Suddenly Mary's perturbed mind harked back to what had happened in the hall.

"Billie," she cried, "it wasn't a man; it was a woman. That skirt I caught -- that -- that something -- where is it?"

"What are you talking about, Mary?"

"I tell you I caught hold of something. It came off in my hands."

She ran into the hall and, groping about on the floor, presently found what seemed to be a long coat. Rushing back she spread it on the desk. Billie held the candle high and the two girls stood gazing at it for some moments without speaking. Then Billie slowly placed the candle on the desk and sat down.

"I don't understand, Billie," said Mary, clasping and unclasping her hands in her excitement and surprise, "it's Nancy's blue raincoat, but -- but I don't understand."

Billie covered her eyes with one hand as if she would like to hide from Mary what they might tell of her feelings and thoughts. There was nothing to say. It was Nancy's blue raincoat, but she refused to think what the explanation might be.

After a long time, it seemed, O'Haru came into the room. She was amazed to find the girls in the library until they explained how they had just escaped the storm.

"Oh, much terrible," ejaculated the housekeeper. "Much terrible more worse than since," from which they gathered that it was one of the worst storms ever seen in Tokyo. O'Haru brought in lights and presently returned at the head of a procession of maids with trays of food; though whether it was luncheon or supper time it was impossible to tell. The clocks had all stopped in the earthquake and it was still as black as night. It might have been midnight or midday for all they knew.

The girls preferred to remain in the library, which seemed to them more protection than the other rooms, and O'Haru drew up three tables and arranged the trays with great deftness and celerity.

"Papa didn't come?" asked Billie, noticing the third table.

"No, honorable lady."

"For whom is the other tray, then?"

"Mees Brown," answered O'Haru, rather surprised.

"But she is in the mountains," said Billie, growing very red and uneasy. "Oh, Nancy, Nancy," she groaned inwardly, "could it have really been you and are you out there in the typhoon?"

"Pardon grant," said O'Haru. "Mees Brown arriving at morning. Mees Brown within."

"I think not, O'Haru," said Billie.

"Her honorable rainy coat," said Onoye, pointing to the fated blue mackintosh.

"Mary, what shall I say?" asked Billie in a low voice. "I don't know what to do."

"Ask them questions," said Mary.

From Onoye they gathered that Miss Brown had arrived soon after Mr. Campbell had left the house, and had gone straight to her room. She was very tired, she said, and would lie down until lunch time. Then she had gone to the library. Just before the storm they had tried to go in and close the shutters, but had found the door locked.

Billie formed a resolution to protect Nancy no matter what was to pay.

"It wasn't the real Miss Brown," she announced firmly. "It was some one dressed like her. The real Miss Brown is far away from here in the mountains."

The two Japanese women withdrew presently, and if they felt any curiosity about Nancy's strange appearance at the villa, they were careful to hide it.

The storm lasted all night and many times the two girls lying side by side on Billie's bed were prepared for the house to fall on top of them or to be carried away on the wind like chips of wood. But toward morning the wind died down and while the rain continued to flood the earth, they knew the worst was over. Billie drew back the bolts of their storm shutters and the fresh air came pouring in to revive their drooping spirits.

"Mary," she said, creeping back to bed, "I'll never believe it was Nancy. No, never, never."

At last they went to sleep, and when they waked the rain had ceased altogether. The lawn in front of the house was a muddy lake and many trees lay prone on the ground. It was a scene of devastation that greeted Mr. Campbell as he hurried home at daylight in a 'riksha. He had dispatched a messenger in the night, paying a large fee, to see if the girls were safe at home and had spent the night in Tokyo with Mr. Buxton.

It was not until much later in the day that Billie plucked up courage to inform her father of what had happened.

"Why on earth didn't you tell me about it immediately?" he exclaimed. "The best way to settle that, is to telegraph to Cousin Helen right off."

But with the "Comet" in town and Komatsu in the mountains this was not so easy to manage, and it looked as if Mr. Campbell would have to walk back to Tokyo. He had got half way down the drive, in fact, when a messenger appeared running at full speed as fast as a horse; such is the endurance of a Japanese runner. He had been sent with a telegram from Mr. Campbell's office, but it had been written in Japanese and had to be translated.

Mr. Campbell hurried back to the house and called Onoye:

"Read this for me if you can," he ordered.

Onoye looked at the strange script a long time. Then she read slowly:

"'O'Nainci San gone Tokyo. No honorable telling before for why she make those journey -- '"

There were a few more words, but Onoye had reached the limit of her knowledge of the English language.

Mr. Campbell sighed. Billie was the only girl in the world who wasn't any trouble, he thought.



Chapter XXI.

Conundrums And Answers.


"I tell you Nancy is on her way, now, Papa," said Billie emphatically. "She would never have had time to get here as soon as yesterday. The storm would have delayed her. She couldn't have reached here."

Mr. Campbell shook his head anxiously as he paced up and down the piazza waiting for the 'riksha the messenger was to send back from Tokyo.

Billie's faith in her friend was wonderful. He admired it, but he was obliged to say he felt rather skeptical himself, all things considered.

"There comes the 'riksha," announced Mary at last.

Mr. Campbell went into the house for his hat and cane and Billie followed him. She looked so pale and miserable that he stooped to kiss her and then led her into the library.

"Come in here a moment, little daughter," he said, "and we'll talk things over a bit."

"How are you going to find her, Papa?" Billie asked, wiping away the tears that would well in her eyes every few minutes and trickle down her cheeks.

"I'll do everything within human power. The police are excellent and so are the detectives."

"Why do you think she ran away?" sobbed Billie, breaking down entirely.

"I don't know, my child. I can't make out what the reason was and we'd never get anywhere by guessing."

"Papa, do you think she could have gone to that widow? I never told you, but she did once before when we had a quarrel. She was awfully sorry after the first night and came back."

Mr. Campbell gave a low whistle. He had forgotten the Widow of Shanghai's very existence until that moment.

"I hope she's there. That will make it much simpler. But you mustn't take on so, little daughter. Nancy is like lots of headstrong girls. She resents criticism. Probably she had a falling out with Cousin Helen and ran away -- "

"I did run away," said a voice at the door, "but that wasn't the reason."

"Nancy!" cried Billie and the two girls rushed into each other's arms and embraced like sisters long separated. In the doorway stood Mary and Mr. Buxton. Mary's face was beaming with joy and Mr. Buxton wore his old expression of humorous tolerance.

"Where did you find her, Buxton?" asked Mr. Campbell gravely.

"I didn't find her. She found me this morning at an unconscionably early hour, too, and a fine time we've had of it, I can tell you. We've chased a widow back to Shanghai and we've placed a fanatic under bond for good behavior."

Nancy laughed her old natural laugh with a ripple of gaiety in it. Her eyes were sparkling and the color flooded her cheeks. She was prettier than ever, it seemed, and all because she was so happy! Her jaunty little traveling hat was over one eye and her dress was crushed and wrinkled, but her charming face was radiant.

"The morning we left for the mountains," she began, "two letters came for me by mail but I didn't read them until I got on the train. One of them was from that awful woman and it frightened me terribly. It seemed cordial enough on the surface but my eyes have been opened to her. I don't know just what she is, but she is dangerous I am certain, -- like a cat ready to spring. She said she had taken such a fancy to me that she must see me again and she thought it would be advisable for me to come to her home at once. The other letter was from that horrid Yoritomo and he simply threatened in so many words to blow up the house and everybody in it unless I listened to him. I didn't think much about the letters until we were settled in the hotel. Then I began to get more and more uneasy and I thought the best thing for me to do was to come back to Tokyo and see Mr. Campbell. I knew, of course, that Miss Helen would never let me go alone, so I just ran away."

"And very glad we are to see you, Miss Nancy," broke in Mr. Campbell in the tone of one who felt enormously relieved.

"We were all night on the train," continued Nancy. "The storm had washed the track away in places and we had to wait many times while it was repaired. As soon as I arrived, I took a 'riksha to Mr. Buxton's lodgings and then we went to see Mme. Fontaine and Yoritomo -- "

"Oh, that widow woman," interrupted Mr. Buxton. "She's a sly one, I can tell you. As we entered the front door, she departed at the back. We left several policemen waiting for her to return but I wouldn't be surprised if she were well on her way to Shanghai by now."

"I don't understand," said Billie.

"The time we quarreled, Billie, and I behaved like such a silly little goose," Nancy explained, "you remember I went to see her. I don't know what made me do it, except that I wanted to air my troubles. I've been so unhappy since, that I feel years older now. I was only a child then, but I'm quite an old person now. She talked to me a long time that night and got me all stirred up and believing that I had been badly treated. It was not what she really said but what she hinted. She seemed to know a good deal about Mr. Campbell's work. She implied that what he was doing for the Japanese government was disloyal to America. I was so fascinated with the way she put things and the way she looked at me, too, that I didn't seem to have any power over myself any more. It was like being hypnotized, I suppose. It came into my head to write you a terrible letter, Billie, -- " Nancy's eyes filled with tears and her voice choked -- "I can hardly think of it now without crying. She knew I was writing it but she didn't ask what was in it, only occasionally, while I wrote, she would look over at me and say 'Poor darling! Poor pretty darling!' After I got to bed, I came to my senses and began to realize what I had done. I was terribly frightened and unhappy and in the middle of the night I crept into the drawing-room, tore up the letter and threw the pieces into a vase. Next morning, you remember, I came home. But the letter was so heavy on my conscience, I couldn't be happy. I had a feeling it had never been destroyed and would somehow get to you, Billie. I wrote to the widow and asked her to send me back the pieces if she could find them, so that I could burn them myself. In her reply, she simply said the vase was empty and I gradually began to understand that she had got the letter and intended to keep it. There was a threatening sound to the note, and she ended by asking to borrow my blue raincoat. I had to let her have it, but I knew she didn't want it for any good reason and I was more and more miserable. I began to pray that it wouldn't rain. People don't wear raincoats in good weather. I tried to argue with myself about her reasons for wanting my raincoat and even now I don't know what they were unless it was to involve me in something. But we've frightened her away, anyhow, and she can have the raincoat if she'll only stay."

"She certainly did want to get you into a peck of trouble, Miss Nancy," said Mr. Campbell bringing the famous raincoat from the passage where it hung on the hat rack. "Here's your coat. She left it behind as a souvenir yesterday when she broke into the house to steal my drawings. I fooled her, though," he added, smiling sweetly. "If she thinks she can ever make anything out of those papers, she'll soon find she has been losing time."

"It's the third time she's been here masquerading as you, Nancy." broke in Billie. "She must have managed the disguise perfectly because the servants were fooled each time."

"She did," said Mary. "I asked Onoye exactly what she looked like. She evidently had on a brown curly wig and a hat like Nancy's with a blue veil around her head."

At this juncture in the conversation, Onoye announced a visitor who proved to be a detective. He was a quiet, self-contained young Japanese who spoke excellent English. He had been sent out in a motor car by the Chief of Police to find out all he could from the Americans regarding Mme. Fontaine.

The Widow of Shanghai, he informed them, was the child of a Russian father and a Japanese mother. She was considered to be one of the most accomplished and brilliant spies in the Orient and could assume almost any disguise and speak most languages. It was a pity a woman of such wonderful talents should stoop to work like that, and the strange part of it was that she was sometimes treacherous to Russia and in favor of Japan: so that it was difficult to tell for which side she worked. Just now her sympathies were with Russia, since she was trying to get plans for harbor defenses in Japan. The Chief of Police wished to thank Miss Brown in behalf of the City of Tokyo for driving the so-called Mme. Fontaine out of town. She had entered it so quietly that until that very morning it was not known that Mme. Fontaine and the famous Russian spy were one and the same person.

"Of course it was she who was in here the night of your birthday party. Papa," said Billie. "I must have shot two people instead of one."

This was actually the case, as Onoye explained to her later. Onoye had hidden herself behind the curtain that night to watch the couples strolling about in the moonlight. Mme. Fontaine came very swiftly into the room and blew out the lights. She carried a little electric dark lantern. Onoye was too frightened to make her presence known, and had crept along the edge of the room hoping to reach the door. Then Billie had come in and somehow they had all drifted together in the dark and the pistol had gone off. The bullet must have pierced Mme. Fontaine's arm and lodged in Onoye's wrist. How she managed to hide the wound with a scarf until she got her long wrap from one of the bedrooms was a marvel to them all.

"Anyhow the mystery is all cleared away now," cried Nancy joyfully. "I suppose you must have thought strange things about me, Mr. Campbell?"

"We had every reason to think them, Miss Nancy, but this loyal young person here wouldn't let us. It looked like some pretty convincing evidence for a while, but she wouldn't budge from the stand she had taken."

Once again the two friends embraced. They were radiantly happy. It was just as if Nancy had died and come to life again.

"I think I've learned a good lesson," she admitted at last. "It all happened because I wanted to be silly and romantic and meet people in the garden and write notes."

"People?" asked Mary.

Nancy laughed and dimpled in her old charming way and everybody laughed, even the reserved young detective. Old Nedda, who had followed them into the room, carne tottering over to where Nancy sat beside Billie. The aged animal whined and wagged her tail, as if she, too, wished to take part in the general thanksgiving.

"Dearest old great-grandmama," cried Nancy, kneeling beside the aged pug and hiding her face in the tawny coat, "are you really glad to see me, too?"



Chapter XXII.

Good-Bye, Summer.


A string of glowing lanterns festooned the piazza of the Campbell villa, while within the warm reflection of wood fires and shaded lamps made each window a square of hospitable brightness. The house inside was a blaze of color. Splendid bunches of scarlet maple leaves and chrysanthemums of amazing size and beauty filled the vases and jars.

The Motor Maids, dressed in their very best party frocks, had gathered in the drawing-room early before the arrival of the three guests. Each maid sat in a large chair and gazed about her from side to side. The riot of color, the scarlets and oranges, the tawny browns, pale pinks and delicate yellows seemed to bewilder them.

"I suppose it wasn't truly Japanese to decorate a room with all these masses of flowers and leaves," said Billie. "But I don't care. It's the most gorgeous thing I've ever seen and since this is our last night here we want to make it a festive one."

Their last night! Was it possible that time had slipped by so fast? Here it was already November, the season of greatest beauty in Japan, when Nature has dipped her brush into the most brilliant colors on the palette and touched the foliage with red and gold, the skies with deepest blue, and the chrysanthemums, favorite flower of the Emperor, with every gorgeous shade.

After a good rest in the mountains broken by excursions to various interesting places about the country, the Campbell party had returned to Tokyo in time to marvel at the wonders of the chrysanthemum festival, which is a national affair.

Away off at the other side of the world a certain High School was now in full swing. But even Mary Price had lost all scruples concerning her education.

"I don't care," she remarked recklessly. "I think all this beauty is just as good for the mind as bare plastered walls and plain geometry."

"It's better," exclaimed Nancy, "because it makes one so much happier to look at chrysanthemums and red maples than to try and understand why the sum of the three angles of a triangle of any old size must always equal two right angles. What makes one happy is far more educational than what makes one aggravated."

Here was a Pagan theory that Elinor felt inclined to doubt.

"We shall have to study double time all during the Christmas holidays," she said.

"It will be rather fun, I think," put in Billie, always the optimist of the quartette. "We'll all just have a small private school of four and jump in and work together. To me, working together is almost as nice as playing together. I suppose I appreciate it more than the rest of you because I had to work and play alone for so many years."

"Billie, you are a perfect dear," ejaculated Nancy. "You furnish all the amusement and fun and thank us for sharing it with you."

Billie looked as pleased and happy as if she had never had a compliment before in her life. The joy of having regained Nancy after that brief eclipse into shadow was still too recent to be forgotten. The two girls exchanged one of those telegraphic glances of intimate friends who need no words to express their meaning.

"We've had a wonderful time," broke in Mary. "There is something about the land that makes one forget the realities. If poor little Kenkyo hadn't died -- "

"Be careful! Onoye is in the next room," interrupted Billie, lifting a warning finger.

Onoye had indeed been the wife of Yoritomo as Billie had guessed. No doubt it was poor old O'Haru who had thrown the stone into the summer house that day. Billie had mercifully never inquired. And now the little son, for whom the two women had yearned with a passion that is extraordinarily deep in Japanese women, had been gathered to his forefathers. Onoye was dumb and silent with misery during his brief illness. When he died, she had disappeared for a few days and returned at last calm and still. No one had seen her shed a tear. Yoritomo, it was said, was stricken with the wildest grief. But sorrow had cleared his brain and brought him to his senses. He had made a really manly apology to Mr. Campbell and had even asked that Onoye might be restored to him. But this was not to be. Miss Campbell had taken Onoye under her wing.

"I want you to go back to America with me and be educated, child," said the kind little lady, "and after a few years, you may return to Japan and teach the women here how to be independent."

Onoye had joyfully and gratefully consented to this arrangement, providing she might act as Miss Campbell's maid in the meantime.

O'Haru had made an heroic effort to be glad, also. She would continue to be the Spears' housekeeper, she said, and wait for her daughter to return to Japan with "muchly honorable learning."

During the hot weeks when Miss Campbell and the Motor Maids were sojourning in the mountains, old "great grandmama Nedda" had also passed into another sphere. Her ending was peaceful, they said; she had slipped quietly away one day at sunset. The faithful servants buried the gentle creature in the garden not far from the shrine of the Compassionate God. When the girls returned they set up a little wooden monument in her memory on which Mary printed in India ink the following inscription:

"Nedda"

Died August 27, 19 -- 

Aged 21.

"Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting; The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting And cometh from afar."

"Here comes someone," announced Billie, peering from the window of the drawing-room. "It's Mr. Buxton, I think, and he's heavily laden with parcels, apparently."

In another moment, the bachelor himself stood in the doorway regarding the charming picture with his half-humorous, half-grave expression.

"There were only three Graces, were there not?" he asked. "I've forgotten. It's been so long since I met them. But there should have been four."

"And why not five, since you are adding to the number," asked Mary.

"Meaning for the fifth the beauteous lady who lingers in her room?" he demanded.

"She out-graces us all," exclaimed Billie. "But what did you bring with you? Do tell us. We are dying of curiosity."

The bachelor's lips twitched with a crafty smile and he shook one finger at them like the sly old comedian he was.

"Walt!" he said, disappearing into the hall and reappearing in a moment with an aged, gnarled dwarf apple tree growing in a green vase, and a lacquered box beautifully inlaid with mother-of-pearl.

"Do you think I have the ghost of a chance?" he asked them in a whisper.

The girls were consumed with giggles.

"Not the ghost," laughed Billie. "She wouldn't stay in Japan, not if you brought her all the Emperor's chrysanthemums in a single bunch."

"But what's in the box, Mr. Buxton?" demanded Nancy.

"You shall see," he answered. "Wait until the Fifth Grace appears."

"Here she is," they cried in a chorus, as Miss Campbell swept into the room, resplendent in mauve satin covered with billows of fine lace.

"Madame, you blind me with your magnificence," exclaimed the bachelor, making a low bow.

"I'm glad you like my dress," said the elegant little lady.

"It's not the dress but the eyes," he corrected her, just as Mr. Campbell, followed by Reggie Carlton and Nicholas Grimm, appeared.

"We meet to meet again," cried Nicholas, joyfully.

The two young men were sailing for America on the same ship with the Campbells, and many a long happy day they were all to have together.

"And I am to be the only figure left on the Japanese screen," said Mr. Buxton sadly. "I shall have to walk across the curved bridges alone and consume tea for two under the flowering cherry tree."

"I am afraid you will, sir," said Miss Campbell.

"Madam, permit me," he said solemnly, placing the apple tree at her feet. "Is this any inducement?"

"Not the slightest," answered Miss Helen with a laugh.

Mr. Buxton gazed sadly from one smiling face to another.

Then he opened the lacquered box and presented each of the Motor Maids with a beautiful embroidered silk robe.

"Have an empty box, then, Madam," he announced, placing the casket in her lap, and because of the riotous and unseemly laughter, no one heard her reply.

So ended the last day of the Motor Maids in their pretty Japanese villa. It was as happy and beautiful an evening as that land of flowers and hospitality could make it. We should not be sorry ourselves to linger with them on those lovely shores, but the winter is at land and the season of dreams has passed.

Komatsu and O'Haru and old Saiki, the gardener, the four little maids, the grandmothers and the children remain picturesque figures in a picturesque land; and behind them, glistening In the sunlight, looms Fujiyama, sacred mountain of dazzling whiteness and perfect beauty.

For the Motor Maids this memory will live as the type of all the experiences and scenes of fair Japan. Above the remembrance of stormy crises -- within and without -- of their sojourn there, rises the happy consciousness of a firmer, larger friendship which they may take with them as the choicest souvenir of the summer.

And in their homeland, if we wish, we may join them again to find what another year of life has revealed to them. In the meantime, let us anticipate the pleasure in store for us with "The Motor Maids at Sunrise Camp."

<eob>

Tom Slade: Motorcycle Dispatch-Bearer

By

Percy K. Fitzhugh



Chapter I

For Service As Required


Swiftly and silently along the moonlit road sped the dispatch-rider. Out of the East he had come, where the battle line runs between blue mountains and the country is quiet and peaceful, and the boys in khaki long for action and think wistfully of Picardy and Flanders. He was a lucky young fellow, this dispatch-rider, and all the boys had told him so.

"We'll miss you, Thatchy," they had said.

And "Thatchy" had answered characteristically, "I'm sorry, too, kind of, in a way."

His name was not Thatchy, but they had called him so because his thick shock of light hair, which persisted in falling down over his forehead and ears, had not a little the appearance of the thatched roofs on the French peasant's cottages. He, with a loquacious young companion, had blown into the Toul sector from no one seemed to know exactly where, more than that he had originally been a ship's boy, had been in a German prison camp, and had escaped through Alsace and reached the American forces after a perilous journey.

Lately he had been running back and forth on his motorcycle between the lines and points south in a region which had not been defiled by the invader, but now he was going far into the West "for service as required."

That was what the slip of paper from headquarters had said, and he did not speculate as to what those services would be, but he knew that they would not be exactly holding Sunday-School picnics in the neighborhood of Montdidier. Billy Brownway, machine gunner, had assured Thatchy that undoubtedly he was wanted to represent the messenger service on the War Council at Versailles. But Thatchy did not mind that kind of talk.

West of Revigny, he crossed the old trench line, and came into the area which the Blond Beast had crossed and devastated in the first year of the war. Planks lay across the empty trenches and as he rode over first the French and then the enemy ditches, he looked down and could see in the moonlight some of the ghastly trophies of war. Somehow they affected him more than had the fresher results of combat which he had seen even in the quiet sector he had left.

Silently he sped along the thirty-mile stretch from Revigny to Châlons, where a little group of French children pressed about him when he paused for gasoline.

"Yankee!" they called, chattering at him and meddling with his machine.

"Le cheveu!" one brazen youngster shouted, running his hand through his own hair by way of demonstrating Thatchy's most conspicuous characteristic.

Thatchy poked him good-humoredly. "La route, est-belle bonne?" he asked.

The child nodded enthusiastically, while the others broke out laughing at Thatchy's queer French, and poured a verbal torrent at him by way of explaining that the road to the South would take him through Vertus and Montmirail, while the one to the north led to Epernay.

"I'll bump my nose into the salient if I take that one," he said more to himself than to them, but one little fellow, catching the word salient took a chance on nose and jumped up and down in joyous abandon, calling, "Bump le nez -- le salient!" apparently in keen appreciation of the absurdity of the rider's phrase.

He rode away with a clamoring chorus behind him and he heard one brazen youngster boldly mimicking his manner of asking if the roads were good. These children lived in tumble-down houses which were all but ruins, and played in shell holes as if these cruel, ragged gaps in the earth had been made by the kind Boche for their especial entertainment.

A mile or two west of Châlons the rider crossed the historic Marne on a makeshift bridge built from the materials of a ruined house and the remnants of the former span.

On he sped, along the quiet, moonlit road, through the little village of Thibie, past many a quaint old heavily-roofed brick cottage, over the stream at Chaintrix and into Vertus, and along the straight, even stretch of road for Montmirail. Not so long ago he might have gone from Châlons in a bee-line from Montdidier, but the big, ugly salient stuck out like a huge snout now, as if it were sniffing in longing anticipation at that tempting morsel, Paris; so he must circle around it and then turn almost straight north.

At La Ferte, among the hills, he paused at a crossroads and, alighting from his machine, stood watching as a long, silent procession of wagons passed by in the quiet night, moving southward. He knew now what it meant to go into the West. One after another they passed in deathlike stillness, the Red Cross upon the side of each plainly visible in the moonlight. As he paused, the rider could hear the thunder of great guns in the north. Many stretchers, borne by men afoot, followed the wagons and he could hear the groans of those who tossed restlessly upon them.

"Look out for shell holes," he heard someone say. So there were Americans in the fighting, he thought.

He ran along the edge of the hills now on the fifteen-mile stretch to Meaux, where he intended to follow the road northward through Senlis and across the old trenches near Clermont. He could hear the booming all the while, but it seemed weary and spent, like a runner who has slackened his pace and begun to pant.

At Meaux he crossed the path of another silent cavalcade of stretchers and ambulances and wounded soldiers who were being supported as they limped along. They spoke in French and one voice came out of an ambulance, seeming hollow and far off, as though from a grave. Then came a lot of German prisoners tramping along, some sullen and some with a fine air of bravado sneering at their guards.

The rider knew where he was going and how to get there and he did not venture any inquiries either as to his way or what had been going on.

Happenings in Flanders and Picardy are known in America before they are known to the boys in Alsace. He knew there was fighting in the West and that Fritz had poked a big bulge into the French line, for his superiors had given him a road map with the bulge pencilled upon it so that he might go around it and not bump his nose into it, as he had said. But he had not expected to see such obvious signs of fighting and it made him realize that at last he was getting into the war with a vengeance.

Instead of following the road leading northwest out of Meaux, he took the one leading northeast up through Villers-Cotterets, intending to run along the edge of the forest to Campiegne and then verge westward to the billet villages northwest of Montdidier, where he was to report.

This route brought him within ten miles of the west arm of the salient, but the way was quiet and there was no sign of the fighting as he rode along in the woody solitude. It reminded him of his home far back in America and of the woods where he and his scout companions had camped and hiked and followed the peaceful pursuits of stalking and trailing.

He was thinking of home as he rode leisurely along the winding forest road, when suddenly he was startled by a rustling sound among the trees.

"Who goes there?" he demanded in pursuance of his general instructions for such an emergency, at the same time drawing his pistol. "Halt!"

He was the scout again now, keen, observant. But there was no answer to his challenge and he narrowed his eyes to mere slits, peering into the tree-studded solitude, waiting.

Then suddenly, close by him he heard that unmistakable sound, the clanking of a chain, and accompanying it a voice saying, "Kamerad."



Chapter Two

Aid And Comfort To The Enemy


Tom Slade, dispatch-rider, knew well enough what kamerad meant. He had learned at least that much of German warfare and German honor, even in the quiet Toul sector. He knew that the German olive branch was poisoned; that German treachery was a fine art -- a part of the German efficiency. Had not Private Coleburn, whom Tom knew well, listened to that kindly uttered word and been stabbed with a Prussian bayonet in the darkness of No Man's Land?

"Stand up," said Tom. "Nobody can talk to me crouching down like that."

"Ach!" said the voice in the unmistakable tone of pain. "Vot goot -- see!"

Tom turned on his searchlight and saw crawling toward him a German soldier, hatless and coatless, whose white face seemed all the more pale and ghastly for the smear of blood upon it. He was quite without arms, in proof of which he raised his open hands and slapped his sides and hips. As he did so a long piece of heavy chain, which was manacled to his wrist clanged and rattled.

"Ach!" he said, shaking his head as if in agony.

"Put your hands down. All right," said Tom. "Can you speak English?"

"Kamerad," he repeated and shrugged his shoulders as if that were enough.

"You escape?" said Tom, trying to make himself understood. "How did you get back of the French lines?"

"Shot broke -- yach," the man said, his face lapsing again into a hopeless expression of suffering.

"All right," said Tom, simply. "Comrade -- I say it too. All right?"

The soldier's face showed unmistakable relief through his suffering.

"Let's see what's the matter," Tom said, though he knew the other only vaguely understood him. Turning the wheel so as the better to focus the light upon the man, he saw that he had been wounded in the foot, which was shoeless and bleeding freely, but that the chief cause of his suffering was the raw condition of his wrist where the manacle encircled it and the heavy chain pulled. It seemed to Tom as if this cruel sore might have been caused by the chain dragging behind him and perhaps catching on the ground as he fled.

"The French didn't put that on?" he queried, rather puzzled.

The soldier shook his head. "Herr General," said he.

"Not the Americans?"

"Herr General -- gun."

Then suddenly there flashed into Tom's mind something he had heard about German artillerymen being chained to their guns. So that was it. And some French gunner, or an American maybe, had unconsciously set this poor wretch free by smashing his chain with a shell.

"You're in the French lines," Tom said. "Did you mean to come here? You're a prisoner."

"Ach, diss iss petter," the man said, only half understanding.

"Yes, I guess it is," said Tom. "I'll bind your foot up and then I'll take that chain off if I can and bind your wrist. Then we'll have to find the nearest dressing station. I suppose you got lost in this forest. I been in the German forest myself," he added; "it's fine -- better than this. I got to admit they've got fine lakes there."

Whether he said this by way of comforting the stranger -- though he knew the man understood but little of it -- or just out of the blunt honesty which refused to twist everything German into a thing of evil, it would be hard to say. He had about him that quality of candor which could not be shaken even by righteous enmity.

Tearing two strips from his shirt, he used the narrower one to make a tourniquet, which he tied above the man's ankle.

"If you haven't got poison in it, it won't be so bad," he said. "Now I'll take off that chain."

He raised his machine upon its rest so that the power wheel was free of the ground. Then, to the wounded Boche's puzzled surprise, he removed the tire and fumbling in his little tool kit he took out a piece of emery cloth which he used for cleaning his plugs and platinum contact points, and bent it over the edge of the rim, binding it to the spokes with the length of insulated wire which he always carried. It was a crude and makeshift contrivance at best, but at last he succeeded, by dint of much bending and winding and tying of the pliable copper wire among the spokes of the wheel, in fastening the emery cloth over the fairly sharp rim so that it stayed in place when he started his power and in about two revolutions it cut a piece of wire with which he tested the power of his improvised mechanical file.

"Often I sharpened a jackknife that way on the fly-wheel of a motor boat," he said. The Boche did not understand him, but he was quick to see the possibilities of this whirling hacksaw and he seemed to acknowledge, with as much grace as a German may, the Yankee ingenuity of his liberator.

"Give me your wrist," said Tom, reaching for it; "I won't hurt it any more than I have to; here -- here's a good scheme."

He carefully stuffed his handkerchief around under the metal band which encircled the soldier's wrist and having thus formed a cushion to receive the pressure and protect the raw flesh, he closed his switch again and gently subjected the manacle to the revolving wheel, holding it upon the edge of the concave tire bed.

If the emery cloth had extended all the way around the wheel he could have taken the manacle off in less time than it had taken Kaiser Bill to lock it on, for the contrivance rivalled a buzzsaw. As it was, he had to stop every minute or two to rearrange the worn emery cloth and bind it in place anew. But for all that he succeeded in less than fifteen minutes in working a furrow almost through the metal band so that a little careful manipulating and squeezing and pressing of it enabled him to break it and force it open.

"There you are," he said, removing the handkerchief so as to get a better look at the cruel sore beneath; "didn't hurt much, did it? That's what Uncle Sam's trying to do for all the rest of you fellers -- only you haven't got sense enough to know it."



Chapter Three

The Old Compass


Tom took the limping Boche, his first war prisoner, to the Red Cross station at Vivieres where they had knives and scissors and bandages and antiseptics, but nothing with which to remove Prussian manacles, and all the king's horses and all the king's men and the willing, kindly nurses there could have done little for the poor Boche if Tom Slade, alias Thatchy, had not administered his own particular kind of first aid.

The French doctors sent him forth with unstinted praise which he only half understood, and as he sped along the road for Compiegne he wondered who could have been the allied gunner who at long range had cut Fritzie loose from the piece of artillery to which he had been chained.

"That feller and I did a good job anyway," he thought.

At Compiegne the whole town was in a ferment as he passed through. Hundreds of refugees with mule carts and wheelbarrows laden with their household goods, were leaving the town in anticipation of the German advance. They made a mournful procession as they passed out of the town along the south road with babies crying and children clamoring about the clumsy, overladen vehicles. He saw many boys in khaki here and there and it cheered and inspired him to know that his country was represented in the fighting. He had to pause in the street to let a company of them pass by on their way northward to the trench line and it did his heart good to hear their cheery laughter and typical American banter.

"Got any cigarettes, kiddo?" one called.

"Where you going -- north?" asked another.

"To the billets west of Montdidier," Tom answered. "I'm for new service. I came from Toul sector."

"Good-night! That's Sleepy Hollow over there."

From Compiegne he followed the road across the Aronde and up through Mery and Tricot into Le Cardonnois. The roads were full of Americans and as he passed a little company of them he called,

"How far is  --  -- ?" naming the village of his destination.

"About two miles," one of them answered; "straight north."

"Tell 'em to give 'em Hell," another called.

This laconic utterance was the first intimation which Tom had that anything special was brewing in the neighborhood, and he answered with characteristic literalness, "All right, I will."

The road northward from Le Cardonnois was through a hilly country, where there were few houses. About half a mile farther on he reached the junction of another road which appeared also to lead northward, verging slightly in an easterly direction. He had made so many turns that he was a little puzzled as to which was the true north road, so he stopped and took out the trusty little compass which he always carried, and held it in the glare of his headlight, thinking to verify his course. Undoubtedly the westward road was the one leading to his destination for as he walked a little way along the other road he found that it bent still more to the eastward and he believed that it must reach the French front after another mile or two.

As he looked again at the cheap, tin-encased compass he smiled a little ruefully, for it reminded him of Archibald Archer, with whom he had escaped from the prison camp in Germany and made his perilous flight through the Black Forest into Switzerland and to the American forces near Toul.

Archibald Archer! Where, in all that war-scourged country, was Archibald Archer now, Tom wondered. No doubt, chatting familiarly with generals and field marshals somewhere, in blithe disregard of dignity and authority; for he was a brazen youngster and an indefatigable souvenir hunter.

So vivid were Tom's thoughts of Archer that, being off his machine, he sat down by the roadside to eat the rations which his anxiety to reach his destination had deterred him from eating before.

"That's just like him," he thought, holding the compass out so that it caught the subdued rays of his dimmed headlight; "always marking things up, or whittling his initials or looking for souvenirs."

The particular specimen of Archer's handiwork which opened this train of reminiscence was part and parcel of the mischievous habit which apparently had begun very early in his career, when he renovated the habiliments of the heroes and statesmen in his school geography by pencilling high hats and sunbonnets on their honored heads and giving them flowing moustaches and frock coats.

In the prison camp from which they had escaped he had carved his initials on fence and shack, but his masterpiece was the conversion of the N on this same glassless compass into a very presentable S (though turned sideways) and the S into a very presentable N.

The occasion of his doing this was a singular experience the two boys had had in their flight through Germany when, after being carried across a lake on a floating island while asleep, they had swum back and retraced their steps northward supposing that they were still going south.

"Either we're wrong or the compass is wrong, Slady," the bewildered Archer had said, and he had forthwith altered the compass points before they discovered the explanation of their singular experience.

After reaching the American forces Archer had gone forth to more adventures and new glories in the transportation department, the line of his activities being between Paris and the coast, and Tom had seen him no more. He had given the compass to Tom as a "souvenir," and Tom, whose sober nature had found much entertainment in Archer's sprightliness, had cherished it as such. It was useful sometimes, too, though he had to be careful always to remember that it was the "wrong way round."

"He'll turn up like a bad penny some day," he thought now, smiling a little. "He said he'd bring me the clock from a Paris cathedral for a souvenir, and he'd change the twelve to twenty-two on it."

He remembered that he had asked Archer what cathedral in Paris, and Archer had answered, "The Cathedral de la Plaster of Paris."

"He's a sketch," thought Tom.



Chapter Four

The Old Familiar Faces


"That's the way it is," thought Tom, "you get to know fellers and like 'em, and then you get separated and you don't see 'em any more."

Perhaps he was the least bit homesick, coming into this new sector where all were strangers to him. In any event, as he sat there finishing his meal he fell to thinking of the past and of the "fellers" he had known. He had known a good many for despite his soberness there was something about him which people liked. Most of his friends had taken delight in jollying him and he was one of those boys who are always being nicknamed wherever they go. Over in the Toul sector they "joshed" and "kidded" him from morning till night but woe be to you if you had sought to harm him!

He had been sorry, in a way, to leave the Toul sector, just as he had been sorry to leave Bridgeboro when he got his first job on a ship. "That's one thing fellers can't understand," he thought, "how you can be sorry about a thing and glad too. Girls understand better -- I'll say that much for 'em, even though I -- even though they never had much use for me --  -- "

He fell to thinking of the scout troop of which he had been a member away back in America, of Mr. Ellsworth, the scoutmaster, who had lifted him out of the gutter, and of Roy Blakeley who was always fooling, and Peewee Harris. Peewee must be quite a boy by now -- not a tenderfootlet any more, as Roy had called him.

And then there was Rossie Bent who worked in the bank and who had run away the night before Registration Day, hoping to escape military service. Tom fell to thinking of him and of how he had traced him up to a lonely mountain top and made him go back and register just in time to escape disgrace and punishment.

"He thought he was a coward till he got the uniform on," he thought. "That's what makes the difference. I bet he's one of the bravest soldiers over here now. Funny if I should meet him. I always liked him anyway, even when people said he was conceited. Maybe he had a right to be. If girls liked me as much as they did him maybe I'd be conceited. Anyway, I'd like to see him again, that's one sure thing."

When he had finished his meal he felt of his tires, gave his grease cup a turn, mounted his machine and was off to the north for whatever awaited him there, whether it be death or glory or just hard work; and to new friends whom he would meet and part with, who doubtless would "josh" him and make fun of his hair and tell him extravagant yarns and belittle and discredit his soberly and simply told "adventures," and yet who would like him nevertheless.

"That's the funny thing about some fellers," he thought, "you never can tell whether they like you or not. Rossie used to say girls were hard to understand, but, gee, I think fellers are harder!"

Swiftly and silently along the moonlit road he sped, the dispatch-rider who had come from the blue hills of Alsace across the war-scorched area into the din and fire and stenching suffocation and red-running streams of Picardy "for service as required." Two miles behind the straining line he rode and parallel with it, straight northward, keeping his keen, steady eyes fixed upon the road for shell holes. Over to the east he could hear the thundering boom of artillery and once the air just above him seemed to buzz as if some mammoth wasp had passed. But he rode steadily, easily, without a tremor.

When he dismounted in front of headquarters at the little village of his destination his stolid face was grimy from his long ride and the dust of the blue Alsatian mountains mingled with the dust of devastated France upon his khaki uniform (which was proper and fitting) and his rebellious hair was streaky and matted and sprawled down over his frowning forehead.

A little group of soldiers gathered about him after he had given his paper to the commanding officer, for he had come a long way and they knew the nature of his present service if he did not. They watched him rather curiously, for it was not customary to bring a dispatch-rider from such a distance when there were others available in the neighborhood. He was the second sensation of that memorable night, for scarcely two hours before General Pershing himself had arrived and he was at that very minute in conference with other officers in the little red brick cottage. Even as the group of soldiers clustered about the rider, officers hurried in and out with maps, and one young fellow, an aviator apparently, suddenly emerged and hurried away.

"What's going to be doing?" Tom asked, taking notice of all these activities and speaking in his dull way.

Evidently the boys had already taken his measure and formulated their policy, for one answered,

"Peace has been declared and they're trying to decide whether we'd better take Berlin or have it sent C.O.D."

"A soldier I met a couple of miles back," said Tom, "told me to tell you to give 'em Hell."

It was characteristic of him that although he never used profanity he delivered the soldier's message exactly as it had been given him.



Chapter Five

Getting Ready


Tom wheeled his machine over to a long brick cottage which stood flush with the road and attended to it with the same care and affection as a man might show a favorite horse. Then he sat down with several others on a long stone bench and waited.

There was something in the very air which told him that important matters were impending and though he believed that they had not expected him to arrive just at this time he wondered whether he might not be utilized now that he was here. So he sat quietly where he was, observant of everything, but asking no questions.

There was a continuous stream of officers entering and emerging from the headquarters opposite and twice within half an hour companies of soldiers were brought into formation and passed silently away along the dark road.

"You'll be in Germany in a couple of hours," called a private sitting alongside Tom as some of them passed.

"Cantigny isn't Germany," another said.

"Sure it is," retorted a third; "all the land they hold is German soil. Call us up when you get a chance," he added in a louder tone to the receding ranks.

"Is Cantigny near here?" Tom asked.

"Just across the ditches."

"Are we going to try to take it?"

"Try to? We're going to wrap it up and bring it home."

Tom was going to ask the soldier if he thought there would be any chance for him, though he knew well enough that his business was behind the lines and that the most he could hope for was to carry the good news (if such it proved to be) still farther back, away from the fighting.

"This is going to be the first offensive of your old Uncle Samuel and if we don't get the whole front page in the New York papers we'll be peeved," Tom's neighbor condescended to inform him.

Whatever Uncle Samuel was up to he was certainly very busy about it and very quiet. On the little village green which the cottage faced groups of officers talked earnestly.

An enormous spool on wheels, which in the darkness seemed a mile high, was rolled silently from somewhere or other, the wheels staked and bound to the ground, and braces were erected against it. Very little sound was made and there were no lights save in the houses, which seemed all to be swarming with soldiers. Not a civilian was to be seen. Several soldiers walked away from the big wheel and it moved around slowly like one of those gigantic passenger-carrying wheels in an amusement resort.

Presently some one remarked that Collie was in and there was a hurrying away -- toward the rear of the village, as it seemed to Tom.

"Who's Collie?" he ventured to ask.

"Collie? Oh, he's the Stormy Petrel; he's been piking around over the Fritzies' heads, I s'pose."

Evidently Collie, or the Stormy Petrel, was an aviator who had alighted somewhere about the village with some sort of a report.

"Collie can't see in the daylight," his neighbor added; "he and the Jersey Snipe have got Fritzie vexed. You going to run between here and the coast?"

"I don't know what I'm going to do," said Tom. "I don't suppose I'll go over the top, I'd like to go to Cantigny."

"Never mind, they'll bring it back to you. Did you know the old gent is here?"

"Pershing?"

"Yup. Going to run the show himself."

"Are you going?"

"Not as far as I know. I was in the orchestra -- front row -- last week. Got a touch of trench fever."

"D'you mean the front line trenches?" Tom asked.

"Yup. Oh, look at Bricky!" he added suddenly. "You carrying wire, Bricky? There's a target for a sniper for you -- hair as red as --  -- "

"Just stick around at the other end of it," interrupted "Bricky" as he passed, "and listen to what you hear."

"Here come the tanks," said Tom's neighbor, "and there's the Jersey Snipe perched on the one over at the other end. Good-night, Fritzie!"

The whole scene reminded Tom vaguely of the hasty, quiet picking up and departure of the circus in the night which, as a little boy, he had sat up to watch. There were the tanks, half a dozen of them (and he knew there were more elsewhere), covered with soldiers and waiting in the darkness like elephants. Troops were constantly departing, for the front trenches he supposed.

Though he had never yet been before the lines, his experience as a rider and his close touch with the fighting men had given him a pretty good military sense in the matter of geography -- that is, he understood now without being told the geographical relation of one place to another in the immediate neighborhood. Dispatch-riders acquire this sort of extra sense very quickly and they come to have a knowledge of the lay of the land infinitely more accurate than that of the average private soldier.

Tom knew that this village, which was now the scene of hurried preparation and mysterious comings and goings, was directly behind the trench area. He knew that somewhere back of the village was the artillery, and he believed that the village of Cantigny stood in the same relation to the German trenches that this billet village stood to the Allied trenches; that is, that it was just behind the German lines and that the German artillery was still farther back. He had heard enough talk about trench warfare to know how the Americans intended to conduct this operation.

But he had never seen an offensive in preparation, either large or small, for there had been no American offensives -- only raids, and of course he had not participated in these. It seemed to him that now, at last, he was drawn to the very threshold of active warfare only to be compelled to sit silent and gaze upon a scene every detail of which aroused his longing for action. The hurried consultation of officers, the rapid falling in line in the darkness, the clear brisk words of command, the quick mechanical response, the departure of one group after another, the thought of that aviator alighting behind the village, the sight of the great, ugly tanks and the big spool aroused his patriotism and his craving for adventure as nothing else had in all the months of his service. He was nearer to the trenches than ever before.

"If you're riding to Clermont," he heard a soldier say, apparently to him, "you'd better take the south road; turn out when you get to Airian. The other's full of shell holes from the old trench line."

"Best way is to go down through Estrees and follow the road back across the old trench line," said another.

Tom listened absently. He knew he could find the best way, that was his business, but he did not want to go to Clermont. It seemed to him that he was always going away from the war while others were going toward it. While these boys were rushing forward he would be rushing backward. That was always the way.

"There's a lot of skeletons in those old trenches. You can follow the ditches almost down to Paris."

"They won't send him farther than Creil," another said. "The wires are up all the way from Creil down."

"You never can tell whether they'll stay up or not -- not with this seventy-five mile bean-shooter Fritzie's playing with. Ever been to Paris, kid?"

"No, but I s'pose I'll be sent there now -- maybe," Tom answered.

"They'll keep you moving up this way, all right. You were picked for this sector -- d'you know that?"

"I don't know why."

"Don't get rattled easy -- that's what I heard."

This was gratifying if it was true. Tom had not known why he had been sent so far and he had wondered.

Presently a Signal Corps captain came out of Headquarters, spoke briefly with two officers who were near the big wire spool, and then turned toward the bench on which Tom was sitting. His neighbors arose and saluted and he did the same.

"Never been under fire, I suppose?" said the captain, addressing Tom to his great surprise.

"Not before the lines, I haven't. The machine I had before this one was knocked all out of shape by a shell. I was riding from Toul to --  -- "

"All right," interrupted the captain somewhat impatiently. Tom was used to being interrupted in the midst of his sometimes rambling answers. He could never learn the good military rule of being brief and explicit. "How do you feel about going over the top? You don't have to."

"It's just what I was thinking about," said Tom eagerly. "If you'd be willing, I'd like to."

"Of course you'd be under fire. Care to volunteer? Emergency work."

"Often I wished --  -- "

"Care to volunteer?"

"Yes, sir, I do."

"All right; go inside and get some sleep. They'll wake you up in about an hour. Machine in good shape?"

This was nothing less than an insult. "I always keep it in good shape," said Tom. "I got extra --  -- "

"All right. Go in and get some sleep; you haven't got long. The wire boys will take care of you."

He strode away and began to talk hurriedly with another man who showed him some papers and Tom watched him as one in a trance.

"Now you're in for it, kiddo," he heard some one say.

"R. I. P. for yours," volunteered another.

Tom knew well enough what R. I. P. meant. Often in his lonely night rides through the towns close to the fighting he had seen it on row after row of rough, carved wooden crosses.

"There won't be much resting in peace to-night. How about it, Toul sector?"

"I didn't feel very sleepy, anyway," said Tom.

He slept upon one of the makeshift straw bunks on the stone floor of the cellar under the cottage. With the first streak of dawn he arose and went quietly out and sat on a powder keg under a small window, tore several pages out of his pocket blank-book and using his knee for a desk, wrote:

"Dear Margaret:

"Maybe you'll be surprised, kind of, to get a letter from me. And maybe you won't like me calling you Margaret. I told Roy to show you my letters, cause I knew he'd be going into Temple Camp office on account of the troop getting ready to go to Camp and I knew he'd see you. I'd like to be going up to camp with them, and I'd kind of like to be back in the office, too. I remember how I used to be scared of you and you said you must be worse than the Germans 'cause I wasn't afraid of them. I hope you're working there yet and I'd like to see Mr. Burton, too.

"I was going to write to Roy but I decided I'd send a letter to you because whenever something is going to happen the fellows write letters home and leave them to be mailed in case they don't get back. So if you get this you'll know I'm killed. Most of them write to girls or their mothers, and as long as I haven't got any mother I thought I'd write to you. Because maybe you'd like to hear I'm killed more than anybody. I mean maybe you'd be more interested.

"I'm going to go over the top with this regiment. I got sent way over to this sector for special service. A fellow told me he heard it was because I got a level head. I can't tell you where I am, but this morning we're going to take a town. I didn't have to go, 'cause I'm a non-com., but I volunteered. I don't know what I'll have to do.

"I ain't exactly scared, but it kind of makes me think about home and all like that. I often wished I'd meet Roscoe Bent over here. Maybe he wrote to you. I bet everybody likes him wherever he is over here. It's funny how I got to thinking about you last night. I'll -- there goes the bugle, so I can't write any more. Anyway, you won't get it unless I'm killed. Maybe you won't like my writing, but every fellow writes to a girl the last thing. It seems kind of lonely if you can't write to a girl.

"Your friend,

"Tom Slade."



Chapter Six

Over The Top


The first haze of dawn was not dispelled when the artillery began to thunder and Tom knew that the big job was on. Stolid as he was and used to the roar of the great guns, he made hasty work of his breakfast for he was nervous and anxious to be on the move.

Most of the troops that were to go seemed to have gone already. He joined the two signal corps men, one of whom carried the wire and the other a telephone apparatus, and as they moved along the road other signal corps men picked up the wire behind them at intervals, carrying it along.

Tom was as proud of his machine as a general could be of his horse, and he wheeled it along beside him, keeping pace with the slow advance of his companions, his heart beating high.

"If you have to come back with any message, you'll remember Headquarters, won't you?" one asked him.

"I always remember Headquarters," said Tom.

"And don't get rattled."

"I never get rattled."

"Watch the roads carefully as we go, so you can get back all right. Noise don't bother you?"

"No, I'm used to artillery -- I mean the noise," said Tom.

"You probably won't have much to do unless in an emergency. If Fritzie cuts the wire or it should get tangled and we couldn't reach the airmen quick enough you'd have to beat it back. There's two roads out of Cantigny. Remember to take the south one. We're attacking on a mile front. If you took --  -- "

"If I have to come back," said Tom, "I'll come the same way. You needn't worry."

His advisor felt sufficiently squelched. And indeed, he had no cause to worry. The Powers that Be had sent Thatchy into the West where the battle line was changing every day and roads were being made and destroyed and given new directions; where the highway which took one to Headquarters one day led into the lair of the Hun on the next, and all the land was topsy-turvy and changing like the designs in a kaleidoscope -- for the very good reason that Thatchy invariably reached his destination and could be depended upon to come back, through all the chaos, as a cat returns to her home. The prison camps in Germany were not without Allied dispatch-riders who had become "rattled" and had blundered into the enemy's arms, but Thatchy had a kind of uncanny extra sense, a bump of locality, if you will, and that is why they had sent him into this geographical tangle where maps became out of date as fast as they were made.

The sun was not yet up when they reached a wider road running crossways to the one out of the village and here many troops were waiting as far up and down the road as Tom could see. A narrow ditch led away from the opposite side of the road through the fields beyond, and looking up and down the road he could see that there were other ditches like it.

The tanks were already lumbering and waddling across the fields, for all the world like great clumsy mud turtles, with soldiers perched upon them as if they were having a straw ride. Before Tom and his companions entered the nearest ditch he could see crowds of soldiers disappearing into other ditches far up the road.

The fields above them were covered with shell holes, a little cemetery flanked one side of the zigzag way, and the big dugouts of the reserves were everywhere in this backyard of the trench area. Out of narrow, crooked side avenues soldiers poured into the communication trench which the wire carriers were following, falling in ahead of them.

"We'll get into the road after the boys go over and then you'll have more room for your machine. Close quarters, hey?" Tom's nearest companion said.

When they reached the second-line trench the boys were leaving it, by hundreds as it seemed to Tom, and crowding through the crooked communication trenches. The wire carriers followed on, holding up the wire at intervals. Once when Tom peeped over the edge of the communication trench he saw the tanks waddling along to right and left, rearing up and bowing as they crossed the trench, like clumsy, trained hippopotamuses. And all the while the artillery was booming with continuous, deafening roar.

Tom did not see the first of the boys to go over the top for they were over by the time he reached the second-line trench, but as he passed along the fire trench toward the road he could see them crowding over, and when he reached the road the barbed wire entanglements lay flat in many places, the boys picking their way across the fallen meshes, the clumsy tanks waddling on ahead, across No Man's Land. As far as Tom could see along the line in either direction this shell-torn area was being crossed by hundreds of boys in khaki holding fixed bayonets, some going ahead of the tanks and some perching on them.

Above him the whole district seemed to be in pandemonium, men shouting and their voices drowned by the thunder of artillery.

His first real sight of the attack was when he clambered out of the trench where it crossed the road and faced the flattened meshes of barbed wire with its splintered supporting poles all tangled in it. Never was there such a wreck.

"All right," he shouted down. "It's as flat as a pancake -- careful with the machine -- lift the back wheel -- that's right!"

He could hardly hear his own voice for the noise, and the very earth seemed to shake under the heavy barrage fire which protected them. In one sweeping, hasty glance he saw scores of figures in khaki running like mad and disappearing into the enemy trenches beyond.

"Do you mean to let the wire rest on this?" he asked, as his machine was lifted up and the first of the wire carriers came scrambling up after it; "it might get short-circuited."

"We'll run it over the poles, only hurry," the men answered.

They were evidently the very last of the advancing force, and even as Tom looked across the shell-torn area of No Man's Land, he could see the men picking their way over the flattened entanglements and pouring into the enemy trenches. The tanks had already crossed these and were rearing and waddling along, irresistible yet ridiculous, like so many heroic mud turtles going forth to glory. Here and there Tom could see the gray-clad form of a German clambering out of the trenches and rushing pell-mell to the rear.

But it was no time to stand and look. Hurriedly they disentangled a couple of the supporting poles, laying them so that the telephone wire passed over them free of the barbed meshes and Tom, mounting his machine, started at top speed along the road across No Man's Land, dragging the wire after him. Scarcely had he started when he heard that wasplike whizzing close to him -- once, twice, and then a sharp metallic sound as a bullet hit some part of his machine. He looked back to see if the wire carriers were following, but there was not a sign of any of them except his companion who carried the apparatus, and just as Tom looked this man twirled around like a top, staggered, and fell.

The last of the Americans were picking their way across the tangle of fallen wire before the German fire trench. He could see them now and again amid dense clouds of smoke as they scrambled over the enemy sandbags and disappeared.

On he sped at top speed, not daring to look around again. He could feel that the wire was dragging and he wondered where its supporters could be; but he opened his cut-out to get every last bit of power and sped on with the accumulating train of wire becoming a dead weight behind him.

Now, far ahead, he could see gray-coated figures scrambling frantically out of the first line trench, and he thought that the Americans must have carried the attack successfully that far, in any event. Again came that whizzing sound close to him, and still again a sharp metallic ring as another bullet struck his machine. For a moment he feared least a tire had been punctured, but when neither collapsed he took fresh courage and sped on.

The drag on the wire was lessening the speed of his machine now and jerking dangerously at intervals. But he thought of what one of those soldiers had said banteringly to another -- Stick around at the other end of it and listen to what you hear, and he was resolved that if limited horse power and unlimited will power could get this wire to those brave boys who were surging and battling in the trenches ahead of him, could drag it to them wherever they went, for the glorious message they intended to send back across it, it should be done.

There was not another soul visible on that road now nor in the shell-torn area of No Man's Land through which it ran. But the lone rider forged ahead, zig-zagging his course to escape the bullets of that unseen sharpshooter and because it seemed to free the dragging, catching wire, affording him little spurts of unobstructed speed.

Then suddenly the wire caught fast, and his machine stopped and strained like a restive horse, the power wheel racing furiously. Hurriedly he looked behind him where the sinuous wire lay along the road, far back -- as far as he could see, across the trampled entanglements and trenches. Where were the others who were to help carry it over? Killed?

Alone in the open area of No Man's Land, Tom Slade paused for an instant to think. What should he do?

Suddenly there appeared out of a shell hole not twenty feet ahead of him a helmeted figure. It rose up grimly, uncannily, like a dragon out of the sea, and levelled a rifle straight at him. So that was the lair of the sharpshooter!

Tom was not afraid. He knew that he had been facing death and he was not afraid of what he had been facing. He knew that the sharpshooter had him at last. Neither he nor the wire were going to bear any message back.

"Anyway, I'm glad I wrote that letter," he muttered.



Chapter Seven

A Shot


Then, clear and crisp against the sound of the great guns far off, there was the sharp crack of a rifle and Tom was surprised to find himself still standing by his machine uninjured, while the Boche collapsed back into his shell hole like a jack-in-the-box.

He did not pause to think now. Leaving his machine, he rushed pell-mell back to the barbed wire entanglement where the line was caught, disengaged it and ran forward again to his wheel. Shells were bursting all about him, but as he mounted he could see two figures emerge, one after the other, from the American trench where it crossed the road, and take up the burden of wire. He could feel the relief as he mounted and rode forward and it lightened his heart as well as his load. What had happened to delay the carriers he did not know. Perhaps those who followed him now were new ones and his former companions lay dead or wounded within their own lines. What he thought of most of all was his extraordinary escape from the Boche sharpshooter and he wondered who and where his deliverer could be.

He avoided looking into the shell hole as he passed it and soon he reached the enemy entanglements which the tanks had flattened. Even the flat meshes had been cleared from the road and here several regulars waited to help him. They were covered with dirt and looked as if they had seen action.

"Bully for you, kid!" one of them said, slapping Tom on the shoulder.

"You're all right, Towhead!"

"Lift the machine," said Tom; "they always put broken glass in the roads. I thought maybe they'd punctured my tire out there."

"They came near puncturing you, all right! What's your name?"

"Thatchy is mostly what I get called. My motorcycle is named Uncle Sam. Did you win yet?"

For answer they laughed and slapped him on the shoulder and repeated, "You're all right, kid!"

"Looks as if Snipy must have had his eye on you, huh?" one of them observed.

"Who's Snipy?" Tom asked.

"Oh, that's mostly what he gets called," said someone, mimicking Tom's own phrase. "His rifle's named Tommy. He's probably up in a tree somewheres out there."

"He's a good shot," said Tom simply. "I'd like to see him."

"Nobody ever sees him -- they feel him," said another.

"He must have been somewhere," said Tom.

"Oh, he was somewhere all right," several laughed.

A couple of the Signal Corps men jumped out of the trench near by and greeted Tom heartily, praising him as the others had done, all of which he took with his usual stolidness. Already, though of course he did not know it, he was becoming somewhat of a character.

"You've got Paul Revere and Phil Sheridan beat a mile," one of the boys said.

"I don't know much about Sheridan," said Tom, "but I always liked Paul Revere."

He did not seem to understand why they laughed and clapped him on the shoulder and said, "You'll do, kiddo."

But it was necessary to keep moving, for the other carriers were coming along. The little group passed up the road, Tom pushing his wheel and answering their questions briefly and soberly as he always did. Planks had been laid across the German trenches where they intersected the road and as they passed over them Tom looked down upon many a gruesome sight which evidenced the surprise by the Americans and their undoubted victory. Not a live German was to be seen, nor a dead American either, but here and there a fallen gray-coat lay sprawled in the crooked topsy-turvy ditch. He could see the Red Cross stretcher-bearers passing in and out of the communication trenches and already a number of boys in grimy khaki were engaged in repairing the trenches where the tanks had caved them in. In the second line trench lay several wounded Americans and Tom was surprised to see one of these propped up smoking a cigarette while the surgeons bandaged his head until it looked like a great white ball. Out of the huge bandage a white face grinned up as the little group passed across on the planks and seeing the men to be wire carriers, the wounded soldier called, "Tell 'em we're here."

"Ever hear of Paul Revere?" one of the Signal men called back cheerily. And he rumpled Tom's hair to indicate whom he meant.

Thus it was that Thatchy acquired the new nickname by which he was to be known far and wide in the country back of the lines and in the billet villages where he was to sit, his trusty motorcycle close at hand, waiting for messages and standing no end of jollying. Some of the more resourceful wits in khaki even parodied the famous poem for his benefit, but he didn't care. He would have matched Uncle Sam against Paul Revere's gallant steed any day, and they could jolly him and "kid" him as their mood prompted, but woe be to the person who touched his faithful machine save in his watchful presence. Even General Pershing would not have been permitted to do that.



Chapter Eight

In The Woods


Beyond the enemy second line trench the road led straight into Cantigny and Tom could see the houses in the distance. Continuous firing was to be heard there and he supposed that the Germans, routed from their trenches, were making a stand in the village and in the high ground beyond it.

"They'll be able to 'phone back, won't they?" he asked anxiously.

"They sure will," one of the men answered.

"It ain't that I don't want to ride back," Tom explained, "but a feller's waiting on the other end of this wire, 'cause I heard somebody tell him to, and I wouldn't want him to be disappointed."

"He won't be disappointed."

The road, as well as the open country east and west of it, was strewn with German dead and wounded, among whom Tom saw one or two figures in khaki. The Red Cross was busy here, many stretchers being borne up toward the village where dressing stations were already being established. Then suddenly Tom beheld a sight which sent a thrill through him. Far along the road, in the first glare of the rising sun, flew the Stars and Stripes above a little cottage within the confines of the village.

"Headquarters," one of his companions said, laconically.

"Does it mean we've won?" Tom asked.

"Not exactly yet," the other answered, "but as long as the flag's up they probably won't bother to take it down," and he looked at Tom in a queer way. "There's cleaning up to do yet, kid," he added.

As they approached the village the hand-to-hand fighting was nearing its end, and the Germans were withdrawing into the woods beyond where they had many machine gun nests which it would be the final work of the Americans to smoke out. But Tom saw a little of that kind of warfare which is fought in streets, from house to house, and in shaded village greens. Singly and in little groups the Americans sought out, killing, capturing and pursuing the diminishing horde of Germans. Two of these, running frantically with apparently no definite purpose, surrendered to Tom's group and he thought they seemed actually relieved.

At last they reached the little cottage where the flag flew and were received by the weary, but elated, men in charge.

"All over but the shouting," someone said; "we're finishing up back there in the woods."

The telephone apparatus was fastened to a tree and Tom heard the words of the speaker as he tried to get into communication with the village which lay back across that shell-torn, trench-crossed area which they had traversed. At last he heard those thrilling words which carried much farther than the length of the sinuous wire:

"Hello, this is Cantigny."

And he knew that whatever yet remained to be done, the first real offensive operation of the Americans was successful and he was proud to feel that he had played his little part in it.

He was given leave until three o'clock in the afternoon and, leaving Uncle Sam at the little makeshift headquarters, he went about the town for a sight of the "clean-up."

Farther back in the woods he could still hear the shooting where the Americans were searching out machine gun nests and the boom of artillery continued, but although an occasional shell fell in the town, the place was quiet and even peaceful by comparison with the bloody clamor of an hour before.

It seemed strange that he, Tom Slade, should be strolling about this quaint, war-scarred village, which but a little while before had belonged to the Germans. Here and there in the streets he met sentinels and occasionally an airplane sailed overhead. How he envied the men in those airplanes!

He glanced in through broken windows at the interiors of simple abodes which the bestial Huns had devastated. It thrilled him that the boys from America had dragged and driven the enemy out of these homes and would dig their protecting trenches around the other side of this stricken village, like a great embracing arm. It stirred him to think that it was now within the refuge of the American lines and that the arrogant Prussian officers could no longer defile those low, raftered rooms.

He inquired of a sentinel where he could get some gasoline which he would need later.

"There's a supply station along that road," the man said; "just beyond the clearing."

Tom turned in that direction. The road took him out of the village and through a little clump of woods to a clearing where several Americans were guarding a couple of big gasoline tanks -- part of the spoils of war. He lingered for a few minutes and then strolled on toward the edge of the denser wood beyond where the firing, though less frequent, could still be heard.

He intended to go just far enough into this wood for a glimpse of the forest shade which his scouting had taught him to love, and then to return to headquarters for his machine.

Crossing a plank bridge across a narrow stream, he paused in the edge of the woods and listened to the firing which still occurred at intervals in the higher ground beyond. He knew that the fighting there was of the old-fashioned sort, from behind protecting trees and wooded hillocks, something like the good old fights of Indians and buckskin scouts away home in the wild west of America. And he could not repress his impulse to venture farther into the solitude.

The stream which he had crossed had evidently its source in the more densely wooded hills beyond and he followed it on its narrowing way up toward the locality where the fighting seemed now to be going on. Once a group of khaki-clad figures passed stealthily among the trees, intent upon some quest. The sight of their rifles reminded Tom that he was himself in danger, but he reflected that he was in no greater danger than they and that he had with him the small arm which all messengers carried.

A little farther on he espied an American concealed behind a tree, who nodded his head perfunctorily as Tom passed, seeming to discourage any spoken greeting.

The path of the stream led into an area of thick undergrowth covering the side of a gentle slope where the water tumbled down in little falls. He must be approaching very near to the source, he thought, for the stream was becoming a mere trickle, picking its way around rocky obstacles in a very jungle of thick underbrush.

Suddenly he stopped at a slight rustling sound very near him.

It was the familiar sound which he had so often heard away back in the Adirondack woods, of some startled creature scurrying to shelter.

He was the scout again now, standing motionless and silent -- keenly waiting. Then, to his amazement, a clump of bushes almost at his feet stirred slightly. He waited still, watching, his heart in his mouth. Could it have been the breeze? But there was no breeze.

Startled, but discreetly motionless, he fixed his eyes upon the leafy clump, still waiting. Presently it stirred again, very perceptibly now, then moved, clumsily and uncannily, and with a slight rustling of its leaves, along the bank of the stream!



Chapter Nine

The Mysterious Fugitive


Suddenly the thing stopped, and its whole bulk was shaken very noticeably. Then a head emerged from it and before Tom could realize what had happened a German soldier was fully revealed, brushing the leaves and dirt from his gray coat as he stole cautiously along the edge of the stream, peering anxiously about him and pausing now and again to listen.

He was already some distance from Tom, whom apparently he had not discovered, and his stealthy movements suggested that he was either in the act of escaping or was bent upon some secret business of importance.

Without a sound Tom slipped behind a tree and watched the man who paused like a startled animal at every few steps, watching and listening.

Tom knew that, notwithstanding his non-combatant status, he was quite justified in drawing his pistol upon this fleeing Boche, but before he had realized this the figure had gone too far to afford him much hope of success with the small weapon which he was not accustomed to. Moreover, just because he was a "non-com" he balked at using it. If he should miss, he thought, the man might turn upon him and with a surer aim lay him low.

But there was one thing in which Tom Slade felt himself to be the equal of any German that lived, and that was stalking. Here, in the deep woods, among these protecting trees, he felt at home, and the lure of scouting was upon him now. No one could lose him; no one could get away from him. And a bird in the air would make no more noise than he!

Swiftly, silently, he slipped from one tree to another, his keen eye always fixed upon the fleeting figure and his ears alert to learn if, perchance, the Boche was being pursued. Not a sound could he hear except that of the distant shooting.

It occurred to him that the precaution of camouflaging might be useful to him also, and he silently disposed one of the leafy boughs which the German had left diagonally across his breast with the fork over his shoulder so that it formed a sort of adjustable screen, more portable and less clumsy than the leafy mound which had covered the Boche.

With this he stole along, sometimes hiding behind trees, sometimes crouching among the rocks along the bank, and keeping at an even distance from the man. His method with its personal dexterity was eloquent of the American scout, just as the Boche, under his mound of foliage, had been typical of the German who depends largely upon device and little upon personal skill and dexterity.

The scout from Temple Camp had his ruses, too, for once when the German, startled by a fancied sound, seemed about to look behind him, Tom dexterously hurled a stone far to the left of his quarry, which diverted the man's attention to that direction and kept it there while Tom, gliding this way and that and raising or lowering his scant disguise, crept after him.

They were now in an isolated spot and the distant firing seemed farther and farther away. The stream, reduced to a mere trickle, worked its way down among rocks and the German followed its course closely. What he was about in this sequestered jungle Tom could not imagine, unless, indeed, he was fleeing from his own masters. But surely open surrender to the Americans would have been safer than that, and Tom remembered how readily those other German soldiers had rushed into the arms of himself and his companions.

Moreover, the more overgrown the brook became and the more involved its path, the more the hurrying German seemed bent upon following it and instead of finding any measure of relief from anxiety in this isolated place, he appeared more anxious than ever and peered carefully about him at every few steps.

At length, to Tom's astonishment, he stepped across the brook and felt of a clump of bush which grew on the bank. Could he have expected to find another camouflaged figure, Tom wondered?

Whatever he was after, he apparently thought he had reached his destination for he now moved hurriedly about, feeling the single bushes and moving among the larger clumps as if in quest of something. After a few moments he paused as if perplexed and moved farther up the stream. And Tom, who had been crouching behind a bush at a safe distance, crept silently to another one, greatly puzzled but watching him closely.

Selecting another spot, the Boche moved about among the bushes as before, carefully examining each one which stood by itself. Tom expected every minute to see some grim, gray-coated figure step out of his leafy retreat to join his comrade, but why such a person should wait to be discovered Tom could not comprehend, for he must have heard and probably seen this beating through the bushes.

An especially symmetrical bush stood on the brink of the stream and after poking about this as usual, the German stood upon tiptoe, apparently looking down into it, then kneeled at its base while Tom watched from his hiding-place.

Suddenly a sharp report rang out and the German jumped to his feet, clutched frantically at the brush which seemed to furnish a substantial support, then reeled away and fell headlong into the brook, where he lay motionless.

The heedless current, adapting itself readily to this grim obstruction, bubbled gaily around the gray, crumpled form, accelerating its cheery progress in the narrow path and showing little glints of red in its crystal, dancing ripples.



Chapter Ten

The Jersey Snipe


Tom hurried to the prostrate figure and saw that the German was quite dead. There was no other sign of human presence and not a sound to be heard but the rippling of the clear water at his feet.

For a few moments he stood, surprised and silent, listening. Then he fancied that he heard a rustling in the bushes some distance away and he looked in that direction, standing motionless, alert for the slightest stir.

Suddenly there emerged out of the undergrowth a hundred or more feet distant a strange looking figure clad in a dull shade of green with a green skull cap and a green scarf, like a scout scarf, loosely thrown about his neck. Even the rifle which he carried jauntily over his shoulder was green in color, so that he seemed to Tom to have that general hue which things assume when seen through green spectacles. He was lithe and agile, gliding through the bushes as if he were a part of them, and he came straight toward Tom, with a nimbleness which almost rivalled that of a squirrel.

There was something about his jaunty, light step which puzzled Tom and he narrowed his eyes, watching the approaching figure closely. The stranger removed a cigarette from his mouth to enable him the better to lay his finger upon his lips, imposing silence, and as he did so the movement of his hand and his way of holding the cigarette somehow caused Tom to stare.

Then his puzzled scrutiny gave way to an expression of blank amazement, as again the figure raised his finger to his lips to anticipate any impulse of Tom's to call. Nor did Tom violate this caution until the stranger was within a dozen feet or so.

"Roscoe -- Bent!" he ejaculated. "Don't you know me? I'm Tom Slade."

"Well -- I'll -- be --  -- " Roscoe began, then broke off, holding Tom at arm's length and looking at him incredulously. "Tom Slade -- I'll be -- jiggered!"

"I kinder knew it was you," said Tom in his impassive way, "as soon as I saw you take that cigarette out of your mouth, 'cause you do it such a swell way, kind of," he added, ingenuously; "just like the way you used to when you sat on the window-sill in Temple Camp office and jollied Margaret Ellison. Maybe you don't remember."

Still Roscoe held him at arm's length, smiling all over his handsome, vivacious face. Then he removed one of his hands from Tom's shoulder and gave him a push in the chest in the old way.

"It's the same old Tom Slade, I'll be --  --  And with the front of your belt away around at the side, as usual. This is better than taking a hundred prisoners. How are you and how'd you get here, you sober old tow-head, you?" and he gripped Tom's hand with impulsive vehemence. "This sure does beat all! I might have known if I found you at all it would be in the woods, you old pathfinder!" and he gave Tom another shove, then rapped him on the shoulder and slipped his hand around his neck in a way all his own.

"I -- I like to hear you talk that way," said Tom, with that queer dullness which Roscoe liked; "it reminds me of old times."

"Kind of?" prompted Roscoe, laughing. "Is our friend here dead?"

"Yes, he's very dead," said Tom soberly, "but I think there are others around in the bushes."

"There are some enemies there," said Roscoe, "but we won't kill them. Contemptible murderers!" he muttered, as he hauled the dead Boche out of the stream. "I'll pick you off one by one, as fast as you come up here, you gang of back-stabbers! Look here," he added.

"I got to admit you can do it," said Tom with frank admiration.

Roscoe pulled away the shrubbery where the German had been kneeling when he was struck and there was revealed a great hogshead, larger, Tom thought, than any he had ever seen.

"That's the kind of weapons they fight with," Roscoe said, disgustedly. "Look here," he added, pulling the foliage away still more. "Don't touch it. See? It leads down from another one. It's poison."

Tom, staring, understood well enough now, and he peered into the bushes about him in amazement as he heard Roscoe say,

"Arsenic, the sneaky beasts."

"See what he was going to do?" he added, startling Tom out of his silent wondering. "There's half a dozen or more of these hogsheads in those bushes. As fast as this one empties it fills up again from another that stands higher. There's a whole nest of them here. See how the pipe from this one leads into the stream?"

"What's the wire for?" said Tom.

"Oh, that's so's they can open this little cock here, see? Start the thing going. Don't pull away the camouflage. There may be another chap up here in a little while, to see what's the matter. Tommy'll take care of them all right, won't you, Tommy?"

"Do you mean me?" Tom asked.

"I mean your namesake here," Roscoe said, slapping his rifle. "I named it after you, you old glum head. Remember how you told me a feller couldn't aim straight, kind of" (he mimicked Tom's tone). "You said a feller couldn't aim straight, kind of, if he smoked cigarettes."

"I got to admit I was wrong," said Tom.

"You bet you have! Jingoes, it's good to hear you talk!" Roscoe laughed. "How in the world did you get here, anyway?"

"I'll tell you all about it," said Tom, "only first tell me, are you the feller they call the Jersey Snipe?"

"Snipy, for short," said Roscoe.

"Then maybe you saved my life already," said Tom, "out in No Man's Land."

"Were you the kid on that wheel?" Roscoe asked, surprised.

"Yes, and I always knew you'd make a good soldier. I told everybody so."

"Kind of? Tommy, old boy, don't forget it was you made me a soldier," Roscoe said soberly. "Come on back to my perch with me," he added, "and tell me all about your adventures. This is better than taking Berlin. There's only one person in this little old world I'd rather meet in a lonely place, and that's the Kaiser. Come on -- quiet now."

"You don't think you can show me how to stalk, do you?" said Tom.



Chapter Eleven

On Guard


"You see it was this way," said Roscoe after hie had scrambled with amazing agility up to his "perch" in a tree several hundred feet distant but in full view of the stream. Tom had climbed up after him and was looking with curious pleasure at the little kit of rations and other personal paraphernalia which hung from neighboring branches. "How do you like my private camp? Got Temple Camp beat, hey?" he broke off in that erratic way of his. "All the comforts of home. Come on, get into your camouflage."

"You don't seem the same as when you used to come up to our office from the bank downstairs -- that's one sure thing," said Tom, pulling the leaves about him.

"You thought all I was good for was to jolly Margaret Ellison, huh?"

"I see now that you didn't only save my life but lots of other fellers', too," said Tom. "Go on, you started to tell me about it."

It was very pleasant and cosy up there in the sniper's perch where Roscoe had gathered the thinner branches about him, forming a little leafy lair, in which his agile figure and his quick glances about reminded Tom for all the world of a squirrel. He could hardly believe that this watchful, dexterous creature, peering cautiously out of his romantic retreat, was the same Roscoe Bent who used to make fun of the scouts and sneak upstairs to smoke cigarettes in the Temple Camp office; who thought as much of his spotless high collar then as he seemed to think of his rifle now.

"I got to thank you because you named it after me," said Tom.

"And I got to thank you that you gave me the chance to get it to name after you, Tommy. Well, you see it was this way," Roscoe went on in a half whisper; "there were half a dozen of us over here in the woods and we'd just cleaned out a machine gun nest when we saw this miniature forest moving along. I thought it was a decorated moving van."

"That's the trouble with them," agreed Tom; "they're no good in the woods; they're clumsy. They're punk scouts."

"Scouts!" Roscoe chuckled. "If we had to fight this gang of cut-throats and murderers in the woods where old What's-his-name -- Custer -- had to fight the Indians, take it from me, we'd have them wiped up in a month. That fellow's idea of camouflaging was to bury himself under a couple of tons of green stuff and then move the whole business along like a clumsy old Zeppelin. I can camouflage myself with a branch with ten leaves on it by studying the light."

"Anybody can see you've learned something about scouting -- that's one sure thing," said Tom proudly.

"One sure thing!" Roscoe laughed inaudibly. "It's the same old Tommy Slade. Well, I was just going to bean this geezer when my officer told me I'd better follow him."

"I was following him, too," said Tom; "stalking is the word you ought to use."

"Captain thought he might be up to something special. So I followed -- stalked -- how's that?"

"All right."

"So I stalked him and when I saw he was following the stream I made a detour and waited for him right here. You see what he was up to? Way down in Cantigny they could turn a switch and start this blamed poison, half a dozen hogsheads of it, flowing into the stream. They waited till they lost the town before they turned the switch, and they probably thought they could poison us Americans by wholesale. Maybe they had some reason to think the blamed thing hadn't worked, and sent this fellow up. I beaned him just as he was going to turn the stop-cock."

"Maybe you saved a whole lot of lives, hey?" said Tom proudly.

Roscoe shrugged his shoulder in that careless way he had. "I'll be glad to meet any more that come along," he said.

It was well that Tom Slade's first sight of deliberate killing was in connection with so despicable a proceeding as the wholesale poisoning of a stream. He could feel no pity for the man who, fleeing from those who fought cleanly and like men instead of beasts, had sought to pour this potent liquid of anguish and death into the running crystal water. Such acts, it seemed to him, were quite removed from the sphere of honorable, manly fighting.

As a scout he had learned that it was wrong even to bathe in a stream whence drinking water was obtained, and at camp he had always scrupulously observed this good rule. He felt that it was cowardly to defile the waters of a brook. It was not a "mailed fist" at all which could do such things, but a fist dripping with poison.

And Tom Slade felt no qualm, as otherwise he might have felt, at hiding there waiting for new victims. He was proud and thrilled to see his friend, secreted in his perch, keen-eyed and alert, guarding alone the crystal purity of this laughing, life-giving brook, as it hurried along its pebbly bed and tumbled in little gushing falls and wound cheerily around the rocks, bearing its grateful refreshment to the weary, thirsty boys who were holding the neighboring village.

"I used to think I wouldn't like to be a sniper," he said, "but now it seems different. I saw two fellers in the village and one had a bandage on his arm and the other one who was talking to him -- I heard him say a long drink of water would go good -- and -- I -- kind of -- now --  -- "

The Jersey Snipe winked at Tom and patted his rifle as a man might pat a favorite dog.

"It's good fresh water," said he.



Chapter Twelve

What's In A Name?


In Tom's visions of the great war there had been no picture of the sniper, that single remnant of romantic and adventurous warfare, in all the roar and clangor of the horrible modern fighting apparatus.

He had seen American boys herded onto great ships by thousands; and, marching and eating and drilling in thousands, they had seemed like a great machine. He knew the murderous submarine, the aeroplane with its ear-splitting whir, the big clumsy Zeppelin; and he had handled gas masks and grenades and poison gas bombs.

But in his thoughts of the war and all these diabolical agents of wholesale death there had been no visions of the quiet, stealthy figure, inconspicuous in the counterfeiting hues of tree and rock, stealing silently away with his trusty rifle and his week's rations for a lonely vigil in some sequestered spot.

There was the same attraction about this freelance warfare which there might have been about a privateer in contrast with a flotilla of modern dreadnaughts and frantic chasers, and it reminded him of Daniel Boone, and Kit Carson, and Davy Crockett, and other redoubtable scouts of old who did not depend on stenching suffocation and the poisoning of streams. It was odd that he had never known much about the sniper, that one instrumentality of the war who seems to have been able to preserve a romantic identity in all the bloody mélée of the mighty conflict.

For Tom had been a scout and the arts of stealth and concealment and nature's resourceful disguises had been his. He had thought of the sniper as of one whose shooting is done peculiarly in cold blood, and he was surprised and pleased to find his friend in this romantic and noble rôle of holding back, single-handed, as it were, these vile agents of agonizing death.

Arsenic! Tom knew from his memorized list of poison antidotes that if one drinks arsenic he will be seized with agony unspeakable and die in slow and utter torture. The more he thought about it, the more the cold, steady eye of the unseen sniper and his felling shot seemed noble and heroic.

Almost unconsciously he reached out and patted the rifle also as if it were some trusted living thing -- an ally.

"Did you really mean you named it after me -- honest?" he asked.

Roscoe laughed again silently. "See?" he whispered, holding it across, and Tom could distinguish the crudely engraved letters, TOMMY.

" -- Because I never had anything named after me," he said in his simple, dull way. "There's a place on the lake up at Temple Camp that the fellers named after Roy Blakeley -- Blakeley Isle. And there's a new pavilion up there that's named after Mr. Ellsworth, our scoutmaster. And Mr. Temple's got lots of things -- orphan asylums and gymnasiums and buildings and things -- named after him. I always thought it must be fine. I ain't that kind -- sort of -- that fellers name things after," he added, with a blunt simplicity that went to Roscoe's heart; and he held the rifle, as the sniper started to take it back, his eyes still fixed upon the rough scratches which formed his own name. "In Bridgeboro there was a place in Barrell Alley," he went on, apparently without feeling, "where my father fell down one night when he was -- when he'd had too much to drink, and after that everybody down there called it Slade's Hole. When I got in with the scouts, I didn't like it -- kind of --  -- "

Roscoe looked straight at Tom with a look as sure and steady as his rifle. "Slade's Hole isn't known outside of Barrell Alley, Tom," he said impressively, although in the same cautious undertone, "but Tom Slade is known from one end of this sector to the other."

"Thatchy's what they called me in Toul sector, 'cause my hair's always mussed up, I s'pose, and --  -- "

"The first time I ever saw you to really know you, Tom, your hair was all mussed up -- and I hope it'll always stay that way. That was when you came up there in the woods and made me promise to go back and register."

"I knew you'd go back 'cause --  -- "

"I went back with bells on, and here I am. And here's Tom Slade that's stuck by me through this war. It's named Tom Slade because it makes good -- see? Look here, I'll show you something else -- you old hickory nut, you. See that," he added, pulling a small object from somewhere in his clothing.

Tom stared. "It's the Distinguished Service Cross," he said, his longing eyes fixed upon it.

"That's what it is. The old gent handed me that -- if anybody should ask you."

Tom smiled, remembering Roscoe's familiar way of speaking of the dignified Mr. Temple, and of "Old Man" Burton, and "Pop" this and that.

"General Pershing?"

"The same. You've heard of him, haven't you? Very muchly, huh?"

"Why don't you wear it?" Tom asked.

"Why? Well, I'll tell you why. When your friend, Thatchy, followed me on that crazy trip of mine he borrowed some money for railroad fare, didn't he? And he had a Gold Cross that he used to get the money, huh? So I made up my mind that this little old souvenir from Uncle Samuel wouldn't hang on my distinguished breast till I got back and paid Tom Slade what I owed him and made sure that he'd got his own Cross safely back and was wearing it again. Do you get me?"

"I got my Cross back," said Tom, "and it's home. So you can put that on. You got to tell me how you got it, too. I always knew you'd make a success."

"It was Tommy Slade helped me to it, as usual. I beaned nine Germans out in No Man's Land, and got away slightly wounded -- I stubbed my toe. Old Pop Clemenceau gave me a kiss and the old gent slipped me this for good luck," Roscoe said, pinning on the Cross to please Tom. "When Clemmy saw the name on the rifle, he asked what it meant and I told him it was named after a pal of mine back home in the U.S.A. -- Tom Slade. Little I knew you were waltzing around the war zone on that thing of yours. I almost laughed in his face when he said, 'M'soo Tommee should be proud.'"

So the Premier of France had spoken the name of Tom Slade, whose father had had a mud hole in Barrell Alley named after him.

"I am proud," he stammered; "that's one sure thing. I'm proud on account of you -- I am."



Chapter Thirteen

The Fountains Of Destruction


As Tom had the balance of the day to himself he cherished but one thought -- that of remaining with Roscoe as long as his leave would permit. If he had been in the woods up at Temple Camp, away back home in his beloved Catskills, he could hardly have felt more at home than he felt perched in this tree near the headwaters of the running stream; and to have Roscoe Bent crouching there beside him was more than his fondest dreams of doing his bit had pictured.

At short intervals they could hear firing, sometimes voices in the distance, and occasionally the boom of artillery, but except for these reminders of the fighting the scene was of that sort which Tom loved. It was there, while the sniper, all unseen, guarded the source of the stream, his keen eye alert for any stealthy approach, that Tom told him in hushed tones the story of his own experiences; how he had been a ship's boy on a transport, and had been taken aboard the German U-boat that had torpedoed her and held in a German prison camp, from which he and Archer had escaped and made their way through the Black Forest and across the Swiss border.

"Some kid!" commented Roscoe, admiringly; "the world ain't big enough for you, Tommy. If you were just back from Mars I don't believe you'd be excited about it."

"Why should I be?" said literal Tom. "It was only because the feller I was with was born lucky; he always said so."

"Oh, yes, of course," said Roscoe sarcastically. "I say he was mighty lucky to be with you. Feel like eating?"

It was delightful to Tom sitting there in their leafy concealment, waiting for any other hapless German emissaries who might come, bent on the murderous defilement of that crystal brook, and eating of the rations which Roscoe never failed to have with him.

"You're kind of like a pioneer," he said, "going off where there isn't anybody. They have to trust you to do what you think best a lot, I guess, don't they? A feller said they often hear you but they never see you. I saw you riding on one of the tanks, but I didn't know it was you. Funny, wasn't it?"

"I usually hook a ride. The tanks get on my nerves, though, they're so slow."

"You're like a squirrel," said Tom admiringly.

"Well, you're like a bulldog," said Roscoe. "Still got the same old scowl on your face, haven't you? So they kid you a lot, do they?"

"I don't mind it."

So they talked, in half whispers, always scanning the woods about them, until after some time their vigil was rewarded by the sight of three gray-coated, helmeted figures coming up the bank of the stream. They made no pretence of concealment, evidently believing themselves to be safe here in the forest. Roscoe had hauled the body of the dead German under the thick brush so that it might not furnish a warning to other visitors, and now he brought his rifle into position and touching his finger to his lips by way of caution he fixed his steady eye on the approaching trio.

One of these was a tremendous man and, from his uniform and arrogant bearing, evidently an officer. The other two were plain, ordinary "Fritzies." Tom believed that they had come to this spot by some circuitous route, bent upon the act which their comrade and the mechanism had failed to accomplish. He watched them in suspense, glancing occasionally at Roscoe.

The German officer evidently knew the ground for he went straight to the bush where the hogshead stood concealed, and beckoned to his two underlings. Tom, not daring to stir, looked expectantly at Roscoe, whose rifle was aimed and resting across a convenient branch before him. The sniper's intent profile was a study. Tom wondered why he did not fire. He saw one of the Boches approach the officer, who evidently would not deign to stoop, and kneel at the foot of the bush. Then the crisp, echoing report of Roscoe's rifle rang out, and on the instant the officer and the remaining soldier disappeared behind the leaf-covered hogshead. Tom was aware of the one German lying beside the bush, stark and motionless, and of Roscoe jerking his head and screwing up his mouth in a sort of spontaneous vexation. Then he looked suddenly at Tom and winked unmirthfully with a kind of worried annoyance.

"Think they can hit us from there? Think they know where we are?" Tom asked in the faintest whisper.

"'Tisn't that," Roscoe whispered back. "Look at that flat stone under the bush there. Shh! I couldn't get him in the right light before. Shh!"

Narrowing his eyes, Tom scanned the earth at the foot of the bush and was just able to discern a little band of black upon a gray stone there. It was evidently a wet spot on the dusty stone and for a second he thought it was blood; then the staggering truth dawned upon him that in shooting the Hun in the very act of letting loose the murderous liquid Roscoe had shot a hole in the hogshead and the potent poison was flowing out rapidly and down into the stream.

And just in that moment there flashed into Tom's mind the picture of that weary, perspiring boy in khaki down in captured Cantigny, who had mopped his forehead, saying, "A drink of water would go good now."



Chapter Fourteen

Tom Uses His First Bullet


It had been a pet saying of Tom's scoutmaster back in America that you should wait long enough to make up your mind and not one second longer.

Tom knew that the pressure of liquid above that fatal bullet hole near the bottom of the hogshead was great enough to send the poison fairly pouring out. He could not see this death-dealing stream, for it was hidden in the bush, but he knew that it would continue to pour forth until several of these great receptacles had been emptied and the running brook with its refreshing coolness had become an instrument of frightful death.

Safe behind the protecting bulk of the hogshead crouched the two surviving Germans, while Roscoe, covering the spot, kept his eyes riveted upon it for the first rash move of either of the pair. And meanwhile the poison poured out of the very bulwark that shielded them and into the swift-running stream.

"I don't think they've got us spotted," Tom whispered, moving cautiously toward the trunk of the tree; "the private had a rifle, didn't he?"

"What are you going to do?" Roscoe breathed.

"Stop up that hole. Give me a bullet, will you?"

"You're taking a big chance, Tom."

"I ain't thinking about that. Give me a bullet. All you got to do is keep those two covered."

With a silent dexterity which seemed singularly out of keeping with his rather heavy build, Tom shinnied down the side of the tree farthest from the brook, and lying almost prone upon the ground began wriggling his way through the sparse brush, quickening his progress now and again whenever the diverting roar of distant artillery or the closer report of rifles and machine guns enabled him to advance with less caution.

In a few minutes he reached the stream, apparently undiscovered, when suddenly he was startled by another rifle report, close at hand, and he lay flat, breathing in suspense.

It was simply that one of that pair had made the mistake so often made in the trenches of raising his head, and had paid the penalty.

Tom was just cautiously crossing the brook when he became aware of a frantic scramble in the bush and saw the German private rushing pell-mell through the thick undergrowth beyond, hiding himself in it as best he might and apparently trying to keep the bush-enshrouded hogshead between himself and the tree where the sniper was. Evidently he had discovered Roscoe's perch and, there being now no restraining authority, had decided on flight. It had been the officer's battle, not his, and he abandoned it as soon as the officer was shot. It was typical of the German system and of the total lack of individual spirit and resource of the poor wretches who fight for Kaiser Bill's glory.

Reaching the bush, Tom pulled away the leafy covering and saw that the poisonous liquid was pouring out of a clean bullet hole as he had suspected. He hurriedly wrapped a bit of the gauze bandage which he always carried around the bullet Roscoe had given him and forced it into the hole, wedging it tight with a rock. Then he waved his hand in the direction of the tree to let Roscoe know that all was well.

Tom Slade had used his first bullet and it had saved hundreds of lives.

"They're both dead," he said, as Roscoe came quickly through the underbrush in the gathering dusk. "Did the officer put his head up?"

"Mm-mm," said Roscoe, examining the two victims.

"You always kill, don't you?" said Tom.

"I have to, Tommy. You see, I'm all alone, mostly," Roscoe added as he fumbled in the dead officer's clothing. "There are no surgeons or nurses in reach. I don't have stretcher-bearers following me around and it isn't often that even a Hun will surrender, fair and square, to one man. I've seen too much of this 'kamarad' business. I can't afford to take chances, Tommy. But I don't put nicks in my rifle butt like some of them do. I don't want to know how many I beaned after it's all over. We kill to save -- that's the idea you want to get into your head, Tommy boy."

"I know it," said Tom.

The officer had no papers of any importance and since it was getting dark and Tom must report at headquarters, they discussed the possibility of upsetting these murderous hogsheads, and putting an end to the danger. Evidently the woods were not yet wholly cleared of the enemy who might still seek to make use of these agents of destruction.

"There may be stragglers in the woods even to-morrow," Roscoe said.

"S'pose we dig a little trench running away from the brook and then turn on the cock and let the stuff flow off?" suggested Tom.

The idea seemed a good one and they fell to, hewing out a ditch with a couple of sticks. It was a very crude piece of engineering, as Roscoe observed, and they were embarrassed in their work by the gathering darkness, but at length they succeeded, by dint of jabbing and plowing and lifting the earth out in handfuls, in excavating a little gully through the rising bank so that the liquid would flow off and down the rocky decline beyond at a safe distance from the stream.

For upwards of an hour they remained close by, until the hogsheads had run dry, and then they set out through the woods for the captured village.



Chapter Fifteen

The Gun Pit


"I think the best way to get into the village," said Roscoe, "is to follow the edge of the wood around. That'll bring us to the by-path that runs into the main road. They've got the woods pretty well cleared out over that way. There's a road a little north of here and I think the Germans have withdrawn across that. What do you say?"

"You know more about it than I do," said Tom. "I followed the brook up. It's pretty bad in some places."

"There's only two of us," said Roscoe, "and you've no rifle. Safety first."

"I suppose there's a lot of places they could hide along the brook; the brush is pretty thick all the way up," Tom added.

Roscoe whistled softly in indecision. "I like the open better," said he.

"I guess so," Tom agreed, "when there's only two of us."

"There's three of us, though," said Roscoe, "and Tommy here likes the open better. I'd toss up a coin only with these blamed French coins you can't tell which is heads and which is tails."

Roscoe was right about the Germans having withdrawn beyond the road north of the woods. Whether he was right about its being safer to go around the edge of the forest remained to be determined.

This wood, in which they had passed the day, extended north of the village (see map) and thinned out upon the eastern side so that one following the eastern edge would emerge from the wood a little east of the main settlement. Here was the by-path which Roscoe had mentioned, and which led down into the main road.

Running east and west across the northern extremity of the woods was a road, and the Germans, driven first from their trenches, then out of the village, and then out of the woods, were establishing their lines north of this road.

If the boys had followed the brook down they would have reached the village by a much shorter course, but Roscoe preferred the open country where they could keep a better lookout. Whether his decision was a wise one, we shall see.

Leaving the scene of their "complete annihilation of the crack poison division," as Roscoe said, they followed the ragged edge of the woods where it thinned out to the north, verging around with it until they were headed in a southerly direction.

"There's a house on that path," said Roscoe, "and we ought to be able to see a light there pretty soon."

"There's a little piece of woods ahead of us," said Tom; "when we get past that we'll see it, I guess. We'll cut through there, hey?"

"Wait a minute," said Roscoe, pausing and peering about in the half darkness. "I'm all twisted. There's the house now."

He pointed to a dim light in the opposite direction to that which they had taken.

"That's north," said Tom in his usual dull manner.

"You're mistaken, my boy. What makes you think it's north?"

"I didn't say I thought so," said Tom. "I said it is."

Roscoe laughed. "Same old Tom," he said. "But how do you know it's north?"

"You remember that mountain up in the Catskills?" Tom said. "The first time I ever went to the top of that mountain was in the middle of the night. I never make that kind of mistakes. I know because I just know."

Roscoe laughed again and looked rather dubiously at the light in the distance. Then he shook his head, unconvinced.

"We've been winding in and out along the edge of this woods," said Tom, "so that you're kind of mixed up, that's all. It's always those little turns that throw people out, just like it's a choppy sea that upsets a boat; it ain't the big waves. I used to get rattled like that myself, but I don't any more."

Roscoe drew his lips tight and shook his head skeptically. "I can't understand about that light," he said.

"I always told you you made a mistake not to be a scout when you were younger," said Tom in that impassive tone which seemed utterly free of the spirit of criticism and which always amused Roscoe, "'cause then you wouldn't bother about the light but you'd look at the stars. Those are sure."

Roscoe looked up at the sky and back at Tom, and perhaps he found a kind of reassurance in that stolid face. "All right, Tommy," said he, "what you say, goes. Come ahead."

"That light is probably on the road the Germans retreated across," said Tom, as they picked their way along. His unerring instinct left him entirely free from the doubts which Roscoe could not altogether dismiss. "I don't say there ain't a light on the path you're talking about, but if we followed this one we'd probably get captured. I was seven months in a German prison. I don't know how you'd like it, but I didn't."

Roscoe laughed silently at Tom's dry way of putting it. "All right, Tommy, boy," he said. "Have it your own way."

"You ought to be satisfied the way you can shoot," said Tom, by way of reconciling Roscoe to his leadership.

"All right, Tommy. Maybe you've got the bump of locality. When we get past that little arm of the woods just ahead we ought to see the right light then, huh?"

"Spur is the right name for it, not arm," said Tom. "You might as well say it right."

"The pleasure is mine," laughed Roscoe; "Tommy, you're as good as a circus."

They made their way in a southeasterly direction, following the edge of the woods, with the open country to the north and east of them. Presently they reached the "spur," as Tom called it, which seemed to consist of a little "cape" of woods, as one might say, sticking out eastward. They could shorten their path a trifle by cutting through here, and this they did, Roscoe (notwithstanding Tom's stolid self-confidence) watching anxiously for the light which this spur had probably concealed, and which would assure them that they were heading southward toward the path which led into Cantigny village.

Once, twice, in their passage through this little clump of woods Tom paused, examining the trees and ground, picking up small branches and looking at their ends, and throwing them away again.

"Funny how those branches got broken off," he said.

Roscoe answered with a touch of annoyance, the first he had shown since their meeting in the woods.

"I'm not worrying about those twigs," he said; "I don't see that light and I think we're headed wrong."

"They're not twigs," said Tom literally; "they're branches, and they're broken off."

"Any fool could tell the reason for that," said Roscoe, rather scornfully. "It's the artillery fire."

Tom said nothing, but he did not accept Roscoe's theory. He believed that some one had been through here before them and that the branches had been broken off by human hands; and but for the fact that Roscoe had let him have his own way in the matter of direction he would have suggested that they make a detour around this woody spur. However, he contented himself by saying in his impassive way, "I know when branches are broken off."

"Well, what are we going to do now?" Roscoe demanded, stopping short and speaking with undisguised impatience. "You can see far beyond those trees now and you can see there's no light. They'll have us nailed upon a couple of crosses to-morrow. I don't intend to be tortured on account of the Boy Scouts of America."

He used the name as being synonymous with bungling and silly notions and star-gazing, and it hit Tom in a dangerous spot. He answered with a kind of proud independence which he seldom showed.

"I didn't say there'd be a light. Just because there's a house it doesn't mean there's got to be a light. I said the light we saw was in the north, and it's got nothing to do with the Boy Scouts. You wouldn't let me point your rifle for you, would you? They sent me to this sector 'cause I don't get lost and I don't get rattled. You said that about the Scouts just because you're mad. I'm not hunting for any light. I'm going back to Cantigny and I know where I'm at. You can come if you want to or you can go and get caught by the Germans if you want to. I went a hundred miles through Germany and they didn't catch me -- 'cause I always know where I'm at."

He went on for a few steps, Roscoe, after the first shock of surprise, following silently behind him. He saw Tom stumble, struggle to regain his balance, heard a crunching sound, and then, to his consternation, saw him sink down and disappear before his very eyes.

In the same instant he was aware of a figure which was not Tom's scrambling up out of the dark, leaf-covered hollow and of the muzzle of a rifle pointed straight at him.

Evidently Tom Slade had not known "where he was at" at all.



Chapter Sixteen

Prisoners


Apparently some of the enemy had not yet withdrawn to the north, for in less than five seconds Roscoe was surrounded by a group of German soldiers, among whom towered a huge officer with an eye so fierce and piercing that it was apparent even in the half darkness. He sported a moustache more aggressively terrible than that of Kaiser Bill himself and his demeanor was such as to make that of a roaring lion seem like a docile lamb by comparison. An Iron Cross depended from a heavy chain about his bull neck and his portly breast was so covered with the junk of rank and commemoration that it seemed like one of those boards from which street hawkers sell badges at a public celebration.

Poor Tom, who had been hauled out of the hole, stood dogged and sullen in the clutch of a Boche soldier, and Roscoe, even in his surprise at this singular turn of affairs, bestowed a look of withering scorn upon him.

"I knew those branches were broken off," Tom muttered, as if in answer. "They're using them for camouflage. It's got nothing to do with the other thing about which way we were going."

But Roscoe only looked at him with a sneer.

Wherever the wrong and right lay as to their direction, they had run plunk into a machine-gun nest and Roscoe Bent, with all his diabolical skill of aim, could not afford his fine indulgence of sneering, for as an active combatant, which Tom was not, he should have known that these nests were more likely to be found at the wood's edge than anywhere else, where they could command the open country. The little spur of woods afforded, indeed, an ideal spot for secreting a machine gun, whence a clear range might be had both north and south.

If Tom had not been a little afraid of Roscoe he would have acted on the good scout warning of the broken branches and made a detour in time to escape this dreadful plight. And the vain regret that he had not done so rankled in his breast now. The pit was completely surrounded and almost covered with branches, so that no part of the guns and their tripods which rose out of it was discoverable, at least to Roscoe.

"Vell, you go home, huh?" the officer demanded, with a grim touch of humor.

Roscoe was about to answer, but Tom took the words out of his mouth.

"We got lost and we got rattled," he said, with a frank confession which surprised Roscoe; "we thought we were headed south."

The sniper bestowed another angrily contemptuous look upon him, but Tom appeared not to notice it.

"Vell, we rattle you some more -- vat?" the officer said, without very much meaning. His voice was enough to rattle any captive, but Tom was not easily disconcerted, and instead of cowering under this martial ferocity and the scorning looks of his friend, he glanced about him in his frowning, lowering way as if the surroundings interested him more than his captors. But he said nothing.

"You English -- no?" the officer demanded.

"We're Americans," said Roscoe, regaining his self-possession.

"Ach! Diss iss good for you. If you are English, ve kill you! You have kamerads -- vere?"

"There's only the two of us," said Roscoe. Tom seemed willing enough to let his companion do the talking, and indeed Roscoe, now that he had recovered his poise, seemed altogether the fitter of the two to be the spokesman. "We got rattled, as this kid says." "If we'd followed that light we wouldn't have happened in on you. We hope we don't intrude," he added sarcastically.

The officer glanced at the tiny light in the distance, then at one of the soldiers, then at another, then poured forth a gutteral torrent at them all. Then he peered suspiciously into the darkness.

"For treachery, ve kill," he said.

"I told you there are only two of us," said Roscoe simply.

"Ach, two! Two millions, you mean! Vat? Ach!" he added, with a deprecating wave of his hands. "Vy not billions, huh?"

Roscoe gathered that he was sneering skeptically about the number of Americans reported to be in France.

"Ve know just how many," the officer added; "vell, vat you got, huh?"

At this two of the Boches proceeded to search the captives, neither of whom had anything of value or importance about them, and handed the booty to the officer.

"Vat is diss, huh?" he said, looking at a small object in his hand.

Tom's answer nearly knocked Roscoe off his feet.

"It's a compass," said he.

So Tom had had a compass with him all the time they had been discussing which was the right direction to take! Why he had not brought it out to prove the accuracy of his own contention Roscoe could not comprehend.

"A compass, huh. Vy you not use it?"

"Because I was sure I was right," said Tom.

"Always sure you are right, you Yankees! Vat?"

"Nothing," said Tom.

The officer examined the trifling haul as well as he could in the darkness, then began talking in German to one of his men. And meanwhile Tom watched him in evident suspense, and Roscoe, unmollified, cast at Tom a look of sneering disgust for his bungling error -- a look which seemed to include the whole brotherhood of scouts.

Finally the officer turned upon Roscoe with his characteristic martial ferocity.

"How long you in France?" he demanded.

"Oh, about a year or so."

"Vat ship you come on?"

"I don't know the name of it."

"You come to Havre, vat?"

"I didn't notice the port."

"Huh! You are not so -- vide-avake, huh?"

"Absent-minded, yes," said Roscoe.

The officer paused, glaring at Roscoe, and Tom could not help envying his friend's easy and self-possessed air.

"You know the Texas Pioneer?" the officer shot out in that short, imperious tone of demand which is the only way in which a German knows how to ask a question.

"Never met him," said Roscoe.

"A ship!" thundered the officer.

"Oh, a ship. No, I've never been introduced."

"She come to Havre -- vat?"

"That'll be nice," said Roscoe.

"You never hear of dis ship, huh?"

"No, there are so many, you know."

"To bring billions, yes!" the officer said ironically.

"That's the idea."

Pause.

"You hear about more doctors coming -- no? Soon?"

"Sorry I can't oblige you," said Roscoe.

The officer paused a moment, glaring at him and Tom felt very unimportant and insignificant.

"Vell, anyway, you haf good muscle, huh?" the officer finally observed; then, turning to his subordinates, he held forth in German until it appeared to Tom that he and Roscoe were to carry the machine gun to the enemy line.

To Tom, under whose sullen, lowering manner, was a keenness of observation sometimes almost uncanny, it seemed that these men were not the regular crew which had been stationed here, but had themselves somehow chanced upon the deserted nest in the course of their withdrawal from the village.

For one thing, it seemed to him that this imperious officer was a personage of high rank, who would not ordinarily have been stationed in one of these machine gun pits. And for another thing, there was something (he could not tell exactly what) about the general demeanor of their captors, their way of removing the gun and their apparent unfamiliarity with the spot, which made him think that they had stumbled into it in the course of their wanderings just as he and Roscoe had done. They talked in German and he could not understand them, but he noticed particularly; that the two who went into the pit to gather the more valuable portion of the paraphernalia appeared not to be familiar with the place, and he thought that the officer inquired of them whether there were two or more guns.

When he lifted his share of the burden, Roscoe noticed how he watched the officer with a kind of apprehension, almost terror, in his furtive glance, and kept his eyes upon him as they started away in the darkness.

Roscoe was in a mood to think ill of Tom, whom he considered the bungling, stubborn author of their predicament. It pleased him now to believe that Tom was afraid and losing his nerve. He remembered that he had said they would be crucified as a result of Tom's pin-headed error. And he was rather glad to believe that Tom was thinking of that now.



Chapter Seventeen

Shades Of Archibald Archer


After a minute the officer paused and consulted with one of his men; then another was summoned to the confab, the three of them reminding Tom of a newspaper picture he had seen of the Kaiser standing in a field with two officers and gazing fiercely at a map.

One of the soldiers waved a hand toward the distance, while Tom watched sharply. And Roscoe, who accepted their predicament with a kind of reckless bravado, sneered slightly at Tom's evident apprehension.

Then the officer produced something, holding it in his hand while the others peered over his shoulder. And Tom watched them with lowering brows, breathing hurriedly. No one knew it, but in that little pause Tom Slade lived a whole life of nervous suspense. It was not, however, the nervousness and suspense which his friend thought.

Then, as if unable to control his impulse, he moved slightly as though to start in the direction which he and Roscoe had been following. It was only a slight movement, made in obedience to an overwhelming desire, and as if he would incline his captors' thoughts in that direction. Roscoe, who held his burden jointly with Tom, felt this impatient impulse communicated to him and he took it as a confession from Tom that he had made the fatal error of mistaking their way before. And he moved a trifle, too, in the direction where he knew the German lines had been established, muttering scornfully at Tom, "You know where you're headed for now, all right. It's what I said right along."

"I admit I know," said Tom dully.

No doubt it was the compass which was the main agent in deciding the officer as to their route, but he and his men moved, even as Tom did, as if to make an end of needless parleying.

As they tramped along, following the edge of the wood, a tiny light appeared ahead of them, far in the distance, like a volunteer beacon, and Roscoe, turning, a trifle puzzled, tried to discover the other light, which had now diminished to a mere speck. Now and again the officer paused and glanced at that trifling prize of war, Tom's little glassless, tin-encased compass. But Tom Slade of Temple Camp, Scout of the Circle and the Five Points, winner of the Acorn and the Indianhead, looked up from time to time at the quiet, trustful stars.

So they made their way along, following a fairly straight course, and verging away from the wood's edge, heading toward the distant light. Two of the Germans went ahead with fixed bayonets, scouring the underbrush, and the others escorted Tom and Roscoe, who carried all of the burden.

The officer strode midway between the advance guard and the escorting party, pausing now and again as if to make sure of his ground and occasionally consulting the compass. Once he looked up at the sky and then Tom fairly trembled. He might have saved himself this worry, however, for Herr Officer recognized no friends nor allies in that peaceful, gold-studded heaven.

"It was an unlucky day for me I ran into you over here," Roscoe muttered, yielding to his very worst mood.

Tom said nothing.

"We won't even have the satisfaction of dying in action now."

No answer.

"After almost a year of watching my step I come to this just because I took your word. Believe me, I deserve to hang. I don't even get on the casualty list, on account of you. You see what we're both up against now, through that bump of locality you're so proud of. Edwards' Grove[1] is where you belong. I'm not blaming you, though -- I'm blaming myself for listening to a dispatch kid!"

The Germans, not understanding, paid no attention, and Roscoe went on, reminding Tom of the old, flippant, cheaply cynical Roscoe, who had stolen his employer's time to smoke cigarettes in the Temple Camp office, trying to arouse the stenographer's mirth by ridiculing the Boy Scouts.

"I'm not thinking about what you're saying," he said bluntly, after a few minutes. "I'm remembering how you saved my life and named your gun after me."

"Hey, Fritzie, have they got any Boy Scouts in Germany?" Roscoe asked, ignoring Tom, but speaking apparently at him. The nearest Boche gave a glowering look at the word Fritzie, but otherwise paid no attention.

"We were on our way to German headquarters, anyway," Roscoe added, addressing himself indifferently to the soldiers, "but we're glad of your company. The more, the merrier. Young Daniel Boone here was leading the way."

The Germans, of course, did not understand, but Tom felt ashamed of his companion's cynical bravado. The insults to himself he did not mind. His thoughts were fixed on something else.

On they went, into a marshy area where Tom looked more apprehensively at the officer than before, as if he feared the character of the ground might arouse the suspicion of his captors. But they passed through here without pause or question and soon were near enough to the flickering light to see that it burned in a house.

Again Roscoe looked perplexedly behind him, but the light there was not visible at all now. Again the officer stopped and, as Tom watched him fearfully, he glanced about and then looked again at the compass.

For one brief moment the huge figure stood there, outlined in the darkness as if doubting. And Tom, looking impassive and dogged, held his breath in an agony of suspense.

It was nothing and they moved on again, Roscoe, in complete repudiation of his better self, indulging his sullen anger and making Tom and the Scouts (as if they had anything to do with it) the victims of his cutting shafts.

And still again the big, medal-bespangled officer paused to look at the compass, glanced, suspiciously, Tom thought, at the faint shadow of a road ahead of them, and moved on, his medals clanging and chinking in unison with his martial stride.

And Tom Slade of Temple Camp, Scout of the Circle and the Five Points, winner of the Acorn and the Indianhead, glanced up from time to time at the quiet, trustful stars.

If he thought of any human being then, it was not of Roscoe Bent (not this Roscoe Bent, in any event), but of a certain young friend far away, he did not know where. And he thanked Archibald Archer, vandal though he was, for, one idle, foolish thing that he had done.

[1] The woods near Bridgeboro, in America, where Tom and the Scouts had hiked and camped.



Chapter Eighteen

The Big Coup


No one knew, no one ever would know, of the anxiety and suspense which Tom Slade experienced in that fateful march through the country above Cantigny. Every uncertain pause of that huge officer, and every half inquiring turn of his head sent a shock of chill misgiving through poor Tom and he trudged along under the weight of his burden, hearing the flippant and bitter jibes of Roscoe as if in a trance.

At last, having crossed a large field, they fell into a well-worn path, and here Tom experienced his moment of keenest anxiety, for the officer paused as if in momentary recognition of the spot. For a second he seemed a bit perplexed, then strode on. Still again he paused within a few yards of the little house where the light had appeared.

But it was too late. About this house a dozen or more figures moved in the darkness. Their style of dress was not distinguishable, but Tom Slade called aloud to them, "Here's some prisoners we brought you back."

In an instant they were surrounded by Americans and Tom thought that his native tongue had never sounded so good before.

"Hello, Snipy," some one said.

But Roscoe Bent was too astonished to answer. In a kind of trance he saw the big Prussian officer start back, heard him utter some terrific German expletive, beheld the others of the party herded together, and was aware of the young American captain giving orders. In a daze he looked at Tom's stolid face, then at the Prussian officer, who seemed too stunned to say anything after his first startled outburst. He saw two boys in khaki approaching with lanterns and in the dim light of these he could distinguish a dozen or so khaki-clad figures perched along a fence.

"Where are we at, anyway?" he finally managed to ask.

"Just inside the village," one of the Americans answered.

"What village?"

"Coney Island on the subway," one of the boys on the fence called.

"Cantigny," some one nearer to him said. "You made a good haul."

"Well -- I'll -- be --  -- " Roscoe began.

Tom Slade said nothing. Like a trusty pilot leaving his ship he strolled over and vaulted up on the fence beside the boys who, having taken the village, were now making themselves comfortable in it. His first question showed his thoughtfulness.

"Is the brook water all right?"

"Sure. Thirsty?"

"No, I only wanted to make sure it was all right. There were some big hogsheads of poison up in the woods where the brook starts and the other feller killed three Germans who tried to empty them in the stream. By mistake he shot a hole in one of the hogsheads and I thought maybe some of the stuff got into the water. But I guess it didn't."

It was characteristic of Tom that he did not mention his own part in the business.

"I drank about a quart of it around noontime," said a young sergeant, "and I'm here yet."

"It's good and cool," observed another.

"What's the matter with Snipy, anyway?" a private asked, laughing. "Somebody been spinning him around?"

"He just got mixed up, kind of, that's all," Tom said.

That was all.

There was much excitement in and about the little cottage on the edge of the village. Up the narrow path, from headquarters below, came other Americans, officers as Tom could see, who disappeared inside the house. Presently, the German prisoners, all except the big officer, came out, sullen in captivity, poor losers as Germans always are, and marched away toward the centre of the village, under escort.

"They thought they were taking us to the German lines," said Tom simply.

Roscoe, having recovered somewhat from his surprise and feeling deeply chagrined, walked over and stood in front of Tom.

"Why didn't you show me that compass, Tom?" he asked.

"Because it was wrong, just like you were," Tom answered frankly, but without any trace of resentment. "If I'd showed it to you you'd have thought it proved you were right. It was marked, crazy like, by that feller I told you about. I knew all the time we were coming to Cantigny."

There was a moment of silence, then Roscoe, his voice full of feeling, said simply,

"Tom Slade, you're a wonder."

"Hear that, Paul Revere?" one of the soldiers said jokingly. "Praise from the Jersey Snipe means something."

"No, it don't either," Roscoe muttered in self-distrust. "You've saved me from a Hun prison camp and while you were doing it you had to listen to me -- Gee! I feel like kicking myself," he broke off.

"I ain't blaming you," said Tom, in his expressionless way. "If I'd had my way we'd have made a detour when I saw those broken branches, 'cause I knew it meant people were there, and then we wouldn't have got those fellers as prisoners, at all. So they got to thank you more than me."

This was queer reasoning, indeed, but it was Tom Slade all over.

"Me!" said Roscoe, "that's the limit. Tom, you're the same old hickory nut. Forgive me, old man, if you can."

"I don't have to," said Tom.

Roscoe stood there staring at him, thrilled with honest admiration and stung by humiliation.

And as the little group, augmented by other soldiers who strolled over to hear of this extraordinary affair first hand, grew into something of a crowd, Tom, alias Thatchy, alias Paul Revere, alias Towhead, sat upon the fence, answering questions and telling of his great coup with a dull unconcern which left them all gaping.

"As soon as I made up my mind they didn't belong there," he said, "I decided they weren't sure of their own way, kind of. If the big man hadn't taken the compass away from me, I'd have given it to him anyway. It had the N changed into an S and the S into an N. I think he kind of thought the other way was right, but when he saw the compass, that settled him. All the time I was looking at the Big Dipper, 'cause I knew nobody ever tampered with that. I noticed he never even looked up, but once, and then I was scared. When we got to the marsh, I was scared, too, 'cause I thought maybe he'd know about the low land being south of the woods. I was scared all the time, as you might say, but mostly when he turned his head and seemed kind of uncertain-like. It ain't so much any credit to me as it is to Archer -- the feller that changed the letters. Anyway, I ain't mad, that's sure," he added, evidently intending this for Roscoe. "Everybody gets mistaken sometimes."

"You're one bully old trump, Tom," said Roscoe shamefacedly.

"So now you see how it was," Tom concluded. "I couldn't get rattled as long as I could see the Big Dipper up there in the sky."

For a few moments there was silence, save for the low whistling of one of the soldiers.

"You're all right, kiddo," he broke off to say.

Then one of the others turned suddenly, giving Tom a cordial rap on the shoulder which almost made him lose his balance. "Well, as long as we've got the Big Dipper," said he, "and as long as the water's pure, what d'you say we all go and have a drink -- in honor of Paul Revere?"

So it was that presently Tom and Roscoe found themselves sitting alone upon the fence in the darkness. Neither spoke. In the distance they could hear the muffled boom of some isolated field-piece, belching forth its challenge in the night. High overhead there was a whirring, buzzing sound as a shadow glided through the sky where the stars shone peacefully. A company of boys in khaki, carrying intrenching implements, passed by, greeting them cheerily as they trudged back from doing their turn in digging the new trench line which would embrace Cantigny.

Cantigny!

"I'm glad we took the town, that's one sure thing," Tom said.

"It's the first good whack we've given them," agreed Roscoe.

Again there was silence. In the little house across the road a light burned. Little did Tom Slade know what was going on there, and what it would mean to him. And still the American boys guarding this approach down into the town, moved to and fro, to and fro, in the darkness.

"Tom," said Roscoe, "I was a fool again, just like I was before, back home in America. Will you try to forget it, old man?" he added.

"There ain't anything to forget," said Tom, "I got to be thankful I found you; that's the only thing I'm thinking about and -- and -- that we didn't let the Germans get us. If you like a feller you don't mind about what he says. Do you think I forget you named that rifle after me? Just because -- because you didn't know about trusting to the stars, -- I wouldn't be mad at you --  -- "

Roscoe did not answer.



Chapter Nineteen

Tom Is Questioned


When it became known in the captured village (as it did immediately) that the tall prisoner whom Tom Slade had brought in, was none other than the famous Major Johann Slauberstrauffn von Piffinhoeffer, excitement ran high in the neighborhood, and the towheaded young dispatch-rider from the Toul sector was hardly less of a celebrity than the terrible Prussian himself. "Paul Revere" and his compass became the subjects of much mirth, touched, as usual, with a kind of bantering evidence of genuine liking.

In face of all this, Tom bestowed all the credit on Roscoe (it would be hard to say why), and on Archibald Archer and the Big Dipper.

"Now that we've got the Big Dipper with us we ought to be able to push right through to Berlin," observed one young corporal. "They say Edison's got some new kind of a wrinkle up his sleeve, but believe me, if he's got anything to beat Paul Revere's compass, he's a winner!"

"Old Piff nearly threw a fit, I heard, when he found out that he was captured by a kid in the messenger service," another added.

"They may pull a big stroke with Mars, the god of war," still another said, "but we've got the Big Dipper on our side."

Indeed, some of them nicknamed Tom the Big Dipper, but he did not mind for, as he said soberly, he had "always liked the Big Dipper, anyway."

As the next day passed the importance of Tom's coup became known among the troops stationed in the village and was the prime topic with those who were digging the new trench line northeast of the town. Indeed, aside from the particular reasons which were presently to appear, the capture of Major von Piffinhoeffer was a "stunt" of the first order which proved particularly humiliating to German dignity. That he should have been captured at all was remarkable. That he should have been hoodwinked and brought in by a young dispatch-rider was a matter of crushing mortification to him, and must have been no less so to the German high command.

Who but Major von Piffinhoeffer had first suggested the use of the poisoned bandage in the treatment of English prisoners' wounds? Who but Major von Piffinhoeffer had devised the very scheme of contaminating streams, which Tom and Roscoe had discovered? Who but Major von Piffinhoeffer had invented the famous "circle code" which had so long puzzled and baffled Uncle Sam's Secret Service agents? Who but Major von Piffinhoeffer had first suggested putting cholera germs in rifle bullets, and tuberculosis germs in American cigarettes?

A soldier of the highest distinction was Major von Piffinhoeffer, of Heidelberg University, whose decorative junk had come direct from the grateful junkers, and whose famous eight-volume work on "Principles of Modern Torture" was a text-book in the realm. A warrior of mettle was Major von Piffinhoeffer, who deserved a more glorious fate than to be captured by an American dispatch-rider!

But Tom Slade was not vain and it is doubtful if his stolid face, crowned by his shock of rebellious hair, would have shown the slightest symptom of excitement if he had captured Hindenburg, or the Kaiser himself.

In the morning he rode down to Chepoix with some dispatches and in the afternoon to St. Justen-Chaussee. He was kept busy all day. When he returned to Cantigny, a little before dark, he was told to remain at headquarters, and for a while he feared that he was going to be court-martialled for overstaying his leave.

When he was at last admitted into the presence of the commanding officer, he shifted from one foot to the other, feeling ill at ease as he always did in the presence of officialdom. The officer sat at a heavy table which had evidently been the kitchen table of the French peasant people who had originally occupied the poor cottage. Signs of petty German devastation were all about the humble, low-ceiled place, and they seemed to evidence a more loathsome brutality even than did the blighted country which Tom had ridden through.

Apparently everything which could show an arrogant contempt of the simple family life which had reigned there had been done. There was a kind of childish spitefulness in the sword thrusts through the few pictures which hung on the walls. The German genius for destruction and wanton vandalism was evident in broken knick-knacks and mottoes of hate and bloody vengeance scrawled upon floor and wall.

It did Tom's heart good to see the resolute, capable American officers sitting there attending to their business in quiet disregard of all these silly, vulgar signs of impotent hate and baffled power.

"When you first met these Germans," the officer asked, "did the big fellow have anything to say?"

"He asked us some questions," said Tom.

"Yes? Now what did he ask you?" the officer encouraged, as he reached out and took a couple of papers pinned together, which lay among others on the table.

"He seemed to be interested in transports, kind of, and the number of Americans there are here."

"Hmm. Did he mention any particular ship -- do you remember?" the officer asked, glancing at the paper.

"Yes, he did. Texas Pioneer. I don't remember whether it was Texan or Texas."

"Oh, yes," said the officer.

"We didn't tell him anything," said Tom.

"No, of course not."

The officer sat whistling for a few seconds, and scrutinizing the papers.

"Do you remember the color of the officer's eyes?" he suddenly asked.

"It was only in the dark we saw him."

"Yes, surely. So you didn't get a very good look at him."

"I saw he had a nose shaped like a carrot, kind of," said Tom ingenuously.

Both of the officers smiled.

"I mean the big end of it," said Tom soberly.

The two men glanced at each other and laughed outright. Tom did not quite appreciate what they were laughing at but it encouraged him to greater boldness, and shifting from one foot to the other, he said,

"The thing I noticed specially was how his mouth went sideways when he talked, so one side of it seemed to slant the same as his moustache, like, and the other didn't."

The officers smiled at each other again, but the one quizzing Tom looked at him shrewdly and seemed interested.

"I mean the two ends of his moustache that stuck up like the Kaiser's --  -- "

"Oh, yes."

"I mean they didn't slant the same when he talked. One was crooked."

Again the officers smiled and the one who had been speaking said thoughtfully,

"I see."

Tom shifted back to his other foot while the officer seemed to ruminate.

"He had a breed mark, too," Tom volunteered.

"A what?"

"Breed mark -- it's different from a species mark," he added naively.

The officer looked at him rather curiously. "And what do you call a breed mark?" he asked.

Tom looked at the other man who seemed also to be watching him closely. He shifted from one foot to the other and said,

"It's a scout sign. A man named Jeb Rushmore told me about it. All trappers know about it. It was his ear, how it stuck out, like."

He shifted to the other foot.

"Yes, go on."

"Nothing, only that's what a breed sign is. If Jeb Rushmore saw a bear and afterwards way off he saw another bear he could tell if the first bear was its grandmother -- most always he could.

"Hmm. I see," said the officer, plainly interested and watching Tom curiously. "And that's what a breed sign is, eh?"

"Yes, sir. Eyes ain't breed signs, but ears are. Feet are, too, and different ways of walking are, but ears are the best of all -- that's one sure thing."

"And you mean that relationships can be determined by these breed signs?"

"I don't mean people just looking like each other," Tom explained, "'cause any way animals don't look like each other in the face. But you got to go by breed signs. Knuckles are good signs, too."

"Well, well," said the officer, "that's very fine, and news to me."

"Maybe you were never a scout," said Tom naively.

"So that if you saw your Prussian major's brother or son somewhere, where you had reason to think he would be, you'd know him -- you'd recognize him?"

Tom hesitated and shifted again. It was getting pretty deep for him.



Chapter Twenty

The Major's Papers


It was perfectly evident that the officer's purpose in sending for Tom, whatever that was, was considerably affected by the boy's own remarks, and he now, after pondering a few moments, handed Tom the two papers which he had been holding.

"Just glance that over and then I'll talk to you," he said.

Tom felt very important, indeed, and somewhat perturbed as well, for though he had carried many dispatches it had never been his lot to know their purport.

"If you know the importance and seriousness of what I am thinking of letting you do," the officer said, "perhaps it will help you to be very careful and thorough."

"Yes, sir," said Tom, awkwardly.

"All right, just glance that over."

The two papers were clipped together, and as Tom looked at the one on top he saw that it was soiled and creased and written in German. The other was evidently a translation of it. It seemed to be a letter the first part of which was missing, and this is what Tom read:

"but, as you say, everything for the Fatherland. If you receive this let them know that I'll have my arms crossed and to be careful before they shoot. If you don't get this I'll just have to take my chance. The other way isn't worth trying. As for the code key, that will be safe enough -- they'll never find it. If it wasn't for the  --  --  English service  --  --  (worn and undecipherable)  --  --  as far as that's concerned. As far as I can ascertain we'll go on the T.P. There was some inquiry about my close relationship to you, but nothing serious. All you have to do is cheer when they play the S.S.B. over here. It isn't known if Schmitter had the key to this when they caught him because he died on Ellis Island. But it's being abandoned to be on the safe side. I have notice from H. not to use it after sending this letter. If we can get the new one in your hands before  --  --  (text undecipherable)  --  --  in time so it can be used through Mexico.

"I'll have much information to communicate verbally in T. and A. matters, but will bring nothing in  --  --   --  --  form but key and credentials. The idea is L.'s -- you remember him at Heidelberg, I dare say. I brought him back once for holiday. Met him through Handel, the fellow who was troubled with cataract. V. has furnished funds. So don't fail to have them watch out.

"To the day,

"A. P."

"So you see some one is probably coming over on the Texas Pioneer," said the officer, as he took the papers from bewildered Tom, "and we'd like to get hold of that fellow. The only trouble is we don't know who he is."

It was quite half a minute before Tom could get a grip on himself, so dark and mysterious had seemed this extraordinary communication. And it was not until afterward, when he was alone and not handicapped by his present embarrassment, that certain puzzling things about it became clear to him. At present he depended wholly upon what his superior told him and thought of nothing else.

"That was taken from your tall friend," said the officer, "and it means, if it means anything, that somebody or other closely related to him is coming over to France on the Texas Pioneer. From his mention of the name to you I take it that is what T. P. means.

"Now, my boy, we want to get hold of this fellow -- he's a spy. Apparently, he won't have anything incriminating about him. My impression is that he's in the army and hopes to get himself captured by his friends. Yet he may desert and take a chance of getting into Germany through Holland. About the only clew there is, is the intimation that he's related to the prisoner. He may look like him. We've been trying to get in communication with Dieppe, where this transport is expected to dock to-morrow, but the wires seem to be shot into a tangle again.

"Do you think you could make Dieppe before morning -- eighty to ninety miles?"

"Yes, sir. The first twenty or so will be bad on account of shell holes, I heard they threw as far as Forges."

"Hmm," said the officer, drumming with his fingers. "We'll leave all that to you. The thing is to get there before morning."

"I know they never let anybody ashore before daylight," said Tom, "because I worked on a transport."

"Very well. Now we'll see if the general and others hereabouts have been overrating you. You've two things to do. One is to get to Dieppe before to-morrow morning. That's imperative. The other is to assist the authorities there to identify the writer of this letter if you can. Of course, you'll not concern yourself with anything else in the letter. I let you read it partly because of your very commendable bringing in of this important captive and partly because I want you to know how serious and important are the matters involved. I was rather impressed with what you said about -- er -- breed marks."

"Yes, sir."

"And I believe you're thoughtful and careful. You've ridden by night a good deal, I understand."

"Yes, sir."

"So. Now you are to ride at once to Breteuil, a little east of here, where they're holding this prisoner. You'll deliver a note I shall give you to Colonel Wallace, and he'll see to it that you have a look at the man, in a sufficiently good light. Don't be afraid to observe him closely. And whatever acuteness you may have in this way, let your country have the benefit of it."

"Yes, sir."

"It may be that some striking likeness will enable you to recognize this stranger. Possibly your special knowledge will be helpful. In any case, when you reach Dieppe, present these papers, with the letter which I shall give you, to the quartermaster there, and he will turn you over to the Secret Service men. Do whatever they tell you and help them in every way you can. I shall mention that you've seen the prisoner and observed him closely. They may have means of discovery and identification which I know nothing of, but don't be afraid to offer your help. Too much won't be expected of you in that way, but it's imperative that you reach Dieppe before morning. The roads are pretty bad, I know that. Think you can do it?"

"What you got to do, you can do," said Tom simply.

It was a favorite saying of the same Jeb Rushmore, scout and woodsman, who had told Tom about breed marks, and how they differed from mere points of resemblance. And it made him think about Jeb Rushmore.



Chapter Twenty-One

The Midnight Ride Of Paul Revere


Swiftly and silently along the dark road sped the dispatch-rider who had come out of the East, from the far-off Toul sector, for service as required. All the way across bleeding, devastated France he had travelled, and having paused, as it were, to help in the little job at Cantigny, he was now speeding through the darkness toward the coast with as important a message as he had ever carried.

A little while before, as time is reckoned, he had been a Boy Scout in America and had thought it was something to hike from New York to the Catskills. Since then, he had been on a torpedoed transport, had been carried in a submarine to Germany, had escaped through that war-mad land and made his way to France, whose scarred and disordered territory he had crossed almost from one end to the other, and was now headed for almost the very point where he had first landed. Yet he was only eighteen, and no one whom he met seemed to think that his experiences had been remarkable. For in a world where all are having extraordinary experiences, those of one particular person are hardly matter for comment.

At Breteuil Tom had another look at "Major Piff," who bent his terrible, scornful gaze upon him, making poor Tom feel like an insignificant worm. But the imperious Prussian's stare netted him not half so much in the matter of valuable data as Tom derived from his rather timid scrutiny. Yet he would almost have preferred to face the muzzle of a field-piece rather than wither beneath that arrogant, contemptuous glare.

It was close on to midnight when he reached Hardivillers, passing beyond the point of the Huns' farthest advance, and sped along the straight road for Marseille-en-Froissy, where he was to leave a relay packet for Paris. From there he intended to run down to Gournay and then northwest along the highway to the coast. He thought he had plenty of time.

At Gournay they told him that some American engineers were repairing the bridge at Saumont, which had been damaged by floods, but that he might gain the north road to the coast by going back as far as Songeons and following the path along the upper Therain River, which would take him to Aumale, and bring him into the Neufchatel road.

He lost perhaps two hours in doing this, partly by reason of the extra distance and partly by reason of the muddy, and in some places submerged, path along the Therain. The stream, ordinarily hardly more than a creek, was so swollen that he had to run his machine through a veritable swamp in places, and anything approaching speed was out of the question. So difficult was his progress, what with running off the flooded road and into the stream bed, and also from his wheels sticking in the mud, that he began to fear that he was losing too much time in this discouraging business.

But there was nothing to do but go forward, and he struggled on, sometimes wheeling his machine, sometimes riding it, until at last it sank almost wheel deep in muddy water and he had to lose another half hour in cleaning out his carbureter. He feared that it might give trouble even then, but the machine labored along when the mud was not too deep, and at last, after almost superhuman effort, he and Uncle Sam emerged, dirty and dripping, out of a region where he could almost have made as good progress with a boat, into Aumale, where he stopped long enough to clean the grit out of his engine parts.

It was now nearly four o'clock in the morning, and his instructions were to reach Dieppe not later than five. He knew, from his own experience, that transports always discharge their thronging human cargoes early in the morning, and that every minute after five o'clock would increase the likelihood of his finding the soldiers already gone ashore and separated for the journeys to their various destinations. To reach Dieppe after the departure of the soldiers was simply unthinkable to Tom. Whatever excuse there might have been to the authorities for his failure, that also he could not allow to enter his thoughts. He had been trusted to do something and he was going to do it.

Perhaps it was this dogged resolve which deterred him from doing something which he had thought of doing; that is, acquainting the authorities at Aumale with his plight and letting them wire on to Dieppe. Surely the wires between Aumale and the coast must be working, but suppose --  -- 

Suppose the Germans should demolish those wires with a random shot from some great gun such as the monster which had bombarded Paris at a distance of seventy miles. Such a random shot might demolish Tom Slade, too, but he did not think of that. What he thought of chiefly was the inglorious rôle he would play if, after shifting his responsibility, he should go riding into Dieppe only to find that the faithful dots and dashes had done his work for him. Then again, suppose the wires should be tapped -- there were spies everywhere, he knew that.

Whatever might have been the part of wisdom and caution, he was well past Aumale before he allowed himself to realize that he was taking rather a big chance. If there were floods in one place there might be floods in another, but --  -- 

He banished the thought from his mind. Tom Slade, motorcycle dispatch-bearer, had always regarded the villages he rushed through with a kind of patronizing condescension. His business had always been between some headquarters or other and some point of destination, and between these points he had no interest. He and Uncle Sam had a little pride in these matters. French children with clattering wooden shoes had clustered about him when he paused, old wives had called, "Vive l'Amerique!" from windows and, like the post-boy of old, he had enjoyed the prestige which was his. Should he, Tom Slade, surrender or ask for help in one of these mere incidental places along his line of travel?

What you got to do, you do, he had said, and you cannot do it by going half way and then letting some one else do the rest. He had read the Message to Garcia (as what scout has not), and did that bully messenger -- whatever his name was -- turn back because the Cuban jungle was too much for him? He delivered the message to Garcia, that was the point. There were swamps, and dank, tangled, poisonous vines, and venomous snakes, and the sickening breath of fever. But he delivered the message to Garcia.

It was sixty miles, Tom knew, from Aumale to Dieppe by the road. And he must reach Dieppe not later than five o'clock. The road was a good road, if it held nothing unexpected. The map showed it to be a good road, and as far west as this there was small danger from shell holes.

Fifty miles, and one hour!

Swiftly along the dark road sped the dispatch-rider who had come from the far-off blue hills of Alsace across the war-scorched area of northern France into the din and fire and stenching suffocation and red-running streams of Picardy for service as required. Past St. Prey he rushed; past Thiueloy, and into Mortemer, and on to the hilly region where the Eualine flows between its hilly banks. He was in and out of La Tois in half a minute.

When he passed through Neufchatel several poilus, lounging at the station, hailed him cheerily in French, but he paid no heed, and they stood gaping, seeing his bent form and head thrust forward with its shock of tow hair flying all about.

Twenty miles, and half an hour!

Through St. Authon he sped, raising a cloud of dust, his keen eyes rivetted upon the road ahead, and down into the valley where a tributary of the Bethune winds its troubled way -- past Le Farge, past tiny, picturesque Loix, into an area of 'lowland where an isolated cottage seemed like a lonely spectre of the night as he passed, on through Mernoy to the crossing at Chabris, and then --  -- 



Chapter Twenty-Two

"Uncle Sam"


Tom Slade stood looking with consternation at the scene before him. His trusty motorcycle which had borne him so far stood beside him, and as he steadied it, it seemed as if this mute companion and co-patriot which he had come to love, were sharing his utter dismay. Almost at his very feet rushed a boisterous torrent, melting the packed earth of the road like wax in a tropic sunshine, and carrying its devastating work of erosion to the very spot where he stood.

In a kind of cold despair, he stooped, reached for a board which lay near, and retreating a little, stood upon it, watching the surging water in its heedless career. This one board was all that was left of the bridge over which Tom Slade and Uncle Sam were to have rushed in their race with the dawn. Already the first glimmering of gray was discernible in the sky behind him, and Tom looked at Uncle Sam as if for council in his dilemma. The dawn would not require any bridge to get across.

"We're checked in our grand drive, kind of," he said, with a pathetic disappointment which his odd way of putting it did not disguise. "We're checked, that's all, just like the Germans were -- kind of."

He knelt and let down the rest of his machine so that it might stand unaided, as if he would be considerate of those mud-covered, weary wheels.

And meanwhile the minutes passed.

"Anyway, you did your part," he muttered. And then, "If you only could swim."

It was evident that the recent rains had swollen the stream which ordinarily flowed in the narrow bed between slanting shores so that the rushing water filled the whole space between the declivities and was even flooding the two ends of road which had been connected by a bridge. An old ramshackle house, which Tom thought might once have been a boathouse, stood near, the water lapping its underpinning. Close by it was a buoyed mooring float six or eight feet square, bobbing in the rushing water. One of the four air-tight barrels which supported it had caught in the mud and kept the buoyant, raft-like platform from being carried downstream in the rush of water.

Holding his flashlight to his watch Tom saw that it was nearly fifteen minutes past four and he believed that about forty miles of road lay ahead of him. Slowly, silently, the first pale tint of gray in the sky behind him took on a more substantial hue, revealing the gaunt, black outlines of trees and painting the sun-dried, ragged shingles on the little house a dull silvery color.

"Anyway, you stood by me and it ain't your fault," Tom muttered disconsolately. He turned the handle bar this way and that, so that Uncle Sam's one big eye peered uncannily across the flooded stream and flickered up the road upon the other side, which wound up the hillside and away into the country beyond. The big, peering eye seemed to look longingly upon that road.

Then Tom was seized with a kind of frantic rebellion against fate -- the same futile passion which causes a convict to wrench madly at the bars of his cell. The glimpse of that illuminated stretch of road across the flooded stream drove him to distraction. Baffled, powerless, his wonted stolidness left him, and he cast his eyes here and there with a sort of challenge born of despair and desperation.

Slowly, gently, the hazy dawn stole over the sky and the roof of dried and ragged shingles seemed as if it were covered with gray dust. Presently the light would flicker upon those black, mad waters and laugh at Tom from the other side.

And meanwhile the minutes passed.

He believed that he could swim the torrent and make a landing even though the rush of water carried him somewhat downstream. But what about Uncle Sam? He turned off the searchlight and still Uncle Sam was clearly visible now, standing, waiting. He could count the spokes in the wheels.

The spokes in the wheels -- the spokes. With a sudden inspiration born of despair, Tom looked at that low, shingled roof. He could see it fairly well now. The gray dawn had almost caught up with him.

And meanwhile the minutes passed!

In a frantic burst of energy he took a running jump, caught the edge of the roof and swung himself upon it. In the thin haze his form was outlined there, his shock of light hair jerking this way and that, as he tore off one shingle after another, and threw them to the ground. He was racing now, as he had not raced before, and there was upon his square, homely face that look of uncompromising resolution which the soldier wears as he goes over the top with his bayonet fixed.

Leaping to the ground again he gathered up some half a dozen shingles, selecting them with as much care as his desperate haste would permit. Then he hurriedly opened the leather tool case on his machine and tumbled the contents about until he found the roll of insulated wire which he always carried.

His next work was to split one of the shingles over his knee so that he had a strip of wood about two inches wide. It took him but so many seconds to jab four or five holes through this, and adjusting it between two slopes of the power wheel so that it stood crossways and was re-enforced by the spokes themselves, he proceeded to bind it in place with the wire. Then he moved the wheel gently around, and found that the projecting edge of wooden strip knocked against the mud-guard. Hesitating not a second he pulled and bent and twisted the mud-guard, wrenching it off. The wheel revolved freely now. The spokes were beginning to shine in the brightening light.

And meanwhile the seconds passed!

It was the work of hardly a minute to bind three other narrow strips of shingle among the spokes so that they stood more or less crossways. There was no time to place and fasten more, but these, at equal intervals, forming a sort of cross within the wheel, were quite sufficient, Tom thought, for his purpose. It was necessary to shave the edges of the shingles somewhat, after they were in place, so that they would not chafe against the axle-bars. But this was also the hurried work of a few seconds, and then Tom moved his machine to the old mooring float and lifted it upon the bobbing platform.

He must work with the feverish speed of desperation for the float was held by no better anchor than one of its supporting barrels embedded in the mud. If he placed his weight or that of Uncle Sam upon the side of the float already in the water the weight would probably release the mud-held barrel and the float, with himself and Uncle Sam upon it, would be carried willy-nilly upon the impetuous waters.

And meanwhile --  --  How plainly he could distinguish the trees now, and the pale stars stealing away into the obscurity of the brightening heavens.

With all the strength that he could muster he wrenched a board from the centre of the platform, and moving his arm about in the opening felt the rushing water beneath.

The buoyancy of the air-tight barrels, one of which was lodged under each corner of the float, was such that with Tom and his machine upon the planks the whole platform would float six or eight inches free of the water. To pole or row this unwieldy raft in such a flood would have been quite out of the question, and even in carrying out the plan which Tom now thought furnished his only hope, he knew that the sole chance of success lay in starting right. If the float, through premature or unskilful starting, should get headed downstream, there would be no hope of counteracting its impetus.

Lifting his machine, he lowered it carefully into the opening left by the torn-off plank, until the pedals rested upon the planks on either side and the power wheel was partially submerged. So far, so good.

In less than a minute now he would either succeed or fail. It was necessary first to alter the position of the float slightly so that the opening left by the plank pointed across and slightly upstream. He had often noticed how the pilot of a ferryboat directs his craft above or below the point of landing to counteract the rising or ebbing tide, and this was his intention now; but to neutralize the force of the water with another force not subject to direction or adjustment involved a rather nice calculation.

Very cautiously he waded out upon the precipitous, submerged bank and brought the float into position. This done, he acted with lightning rapidity. Leaping upon the freed float before it had time to swing around, he raised his machine, started it, and lowering the power wheel into the opening, steadied the machine as best he could. It was not possible to let it hang upon its pedals for he must hold it at a steep angle, and it required all his strength to manage its clumsy, furiously vibrating bulk.

But the effects of his makeshift paddle-wheel were pronounced and instantaneous. His own weight and that of the machine sufficiently submerged the racing power wheel so that the rough paddles plowed the water, sending the float diagonally across the flooded stream with tremendous force. He was even able, by inclining the upper end of the machine to right or left, to guide his clumsy craft, which responded to this live rudder with surprising promptness.

In the rapid crossing this rough ferryboat lost rather more than Tom had thought it would lose from the rush of water and it brought him close to the opposite shore at a point some fifty feet beyond the road, but he had been able to maintain its direction at least to the extent of heading shoreward and preventing the buoyant float from fatal swirling, which would have meant loss of control altogether.

Perhaps it was better that his point of landing was some distance below the road, where he was able to grasp at an overhanging tree with one hand while shutting his power off and holding fast to his machine with the other. A landing would have been difficult anywhere else.

Even now he was in the precarious position of sitting upon a limb in a rather complicated network of small branches and foliage, hanging onto his motorcycle for dear life, while the buoyant float went swirling and bobbing down the flood.

It had taken him perhaps five minutes to prepare for his crossing and about thirty seconds to cross. But his strategic position was far from satisfactory. And already the more substantial light of the morning revealed the gray road winding ribbon-like away into the distance, the first glints of sunlight falling upon its bordering rocks and trees as if to taunt and mock him.

And meanwhile the minutes passed.



Chapter Twenty-Three

Up A Tree


In military parlance, Tom had advanced only to be caught in a pocket. There he sat, astride a large limb, hanging onto the heavy machine, which depended below him just free of the water. He had, with difficulty, moved his painful grip upon a part of the machine's mechanism and succeeded in clutching the edge of the forward wheel. This did not cut his hands so much, but the weight was unbearable in his embarrassed attitude.

Indeed, it was not so much his strength, which was remarkable, that enabled him to keep his hold upon this depending dead weight, as it was sheer desperation. It seemed to be pulling his arms out of their sockets, and his shoulders ached incessantly. At the risk of losing his balance altogether he sought relief by the continual shifting of his position but he knew that the strain was too great for him and that he must let go presently.

It seemed like a mockery that he should have gained the shore only to be caught in this predicament, and to see his trusty machine go tumbling into the water beyond all hope of present recovery, simply because he could not hang on to it.

Well, then, he would hang on to it. He would hang on to it though every muscle of his body throbbed, though his arms were dragged out, and though he collapsed and fell from that limb himself in the last anguish of the aching strain. He and Uncle Sam, having failed, would go down together.

And meanwhile the minutes passed and Uncle Sam and Tom were reflected, inverted, in the water where the spreading light was now flickering. How strange and grotesque they looked, upside down and clinging to each other for dear life and wriggling in the ripples of rushing water. Uncle Sam seemed to be holding him up. It was all the same -- they were partners.

He noticed in the water something which he had not noticed before -- the reflection of a short, thick, broken branch projecting from the heavy limb he was straddling. He glanced about and found that it was behind him. His stooping attitude, necessitated by the tremendous drag on his arms, prevented him even from looking freely behind him, and in trying to do so he nearly fell. The strain he was suffering was so great that the least move caused him pain.

But by looking into the water he was able to see that this little stub of a limb might serve as a hook on which the machine might be hung if he could clear away the leafy twigs which grew from it, and if he could succeed in raising the cycle and slipping the wheel over it. That would not end his predicament but it would save the machine, relieve him for a few moments, and give him time to think.

For a few moments! They were fleeting by -- the moments.

There is a strength born of desperation -- a strength of will which is conjured into physical power in the last extremity. It is when the frantic, baffled spirit calls aloud to rally every failing muscle and weakening nerve. It is then that the lips tighten and the eyes become as steel, as the last reserves waiting in the entrenchments of the soul are summoned up to re-enforce the losing cause.

And there in that tree, on the brink of the heedless, rushing waters which crossed the highroad to Dieppe was going to be fought out one of the most desperate battles of the whole war. There, in the mocking light of the paling dawn, Tom Slade, his big mouth set like a vice, and with every last reserve he could command, was going to make his last cast of the dice -- let go, give up -- or, hold on.

Let go! Of all the inglorious forms of defeat or surrender! To let go! To be struck down, to be taken prisoner, to be --  -- 

But to let go! The bulldog, the snapping turtle, seemed like very heroes now.

"He always said I had a good muscle -- he liked to feel it," he muttered. "And besides, she said she guessed I was strong."

He was thinking of Margaret Ellison, away back in America, and of Roscoe Bent, as he had known him there. When he muttered again there was a beseeching pathos in his voice which would have pierced the heart of anyone who could have seen him struggling still against fate, in this all but hopeless predicament.

But no one saw him except the sun who was raising his head above the horizon as a soldier steals a cautious look over the trench parapet.

There would be no report of this affair.

He lowered his chest to the limb, wound his legs around it and for a second lay there while he tightened and set his legs, as one will tighten a belt against some impending strain. Not another fraction of an inch could he have tightened those encircling legs.

And now the fateful second was come. It had to come quickly for his strength was ebbing. There is a pretty dependable rule that if you can just manage to lift a weight with both hands, you can just about budge it with one hand. Tom had tried this at Temple Camp with a visiting scout's baggage chest. With both hands he had been barely able to lift it by its strap. With one hand he had been able to budge it for the fraction of a second. But there had been no overmastering incentive -- and no reserves called up out of the depths of his soul.

He could feel his breast palpitating against the limb, drawn tight against it by the dead weight. Yet he could not put his desperate purpose to the test.

And so a second -- two, three, seconds -- were wasted.

"I won't let go," he muttered through his teeth. "I wish I could wipe the sweat off my hand." Then, as if his dogged resolution were not enough, he added, almost appealingly, "Don't you drop and -- and go back on me."

Uncle Sam only swung a little in the breeze and wriggled like an eel in the watery mirror.

Slowly Tom loosened his perspiring left hand, not daring to withdraw it. The act seemed to communicate an extra strain to every part of his body. Of all the fateful moments of his life, this seemed to be the most tense. Then, in an impulse of desperation, he drew his left hand away.

"I won't -- let -- go," he muttered.

The muscles on his taut right arm stood out like cords. His forearm throbbed with an indescribable, pulling pain. There was a feeling of dull soreness in his shoulder blade. His perspiring hand closed tighter around the wheel's rim and he could feel his pulse pounding. His fingers tingled as if they had been asleep. Then his hand slipped a little.



Chapter Twenty-Four

"To Him That Overcometh"


Whether merely from the change of an eighth of an inch or so in its hold upon the rim, or because his palm fitted better around the slight alteration of curve, Tom was conscious of the slightest measure of relief.

As quickly as he dared (for he knew that any sudden move would be fatal), he reached behind him with his left arm and, groping for the stub of limb, tore away from it the twigs which he knew would form an obstacle to placing the wheel rim with its network of spokes over this short projection.

The dead soreness of his straining shoulder blade ran down his arm, which throbbed painfully. His twitching, struggling fingers, straining against the weight which was forcing them open, clutched the rim. They were burning and yet seemed numb. Oh, if he could only wipe his palm and that rim with a dry handkerchief! He tightened his slipping fingers again and again. The muscles of his arm smarted as from a blow. He tightened his lips -- and that seemed to help.

Carefully, though his aching breast pounded against the limb, he brought back his left hand, cautiously rubbed it against his khaki shirt, then encircled it about the rim. For a moment the weight seemed manageably light in the quick relief he felt.

Availing himself of the slight measure of refreshment he raised the machine a trifle, a trifle more, squirmed about to get in better position, bent, strained, got the bulky thing past his clutching legs, exerted every muscle of chest and abdomen, which now could assume some share of the strain, and by a superhuman effort of litheness and dexterity and all the overwhelming power of physical strength and frenzied resolution, he succeeded in slipping the wheel rim over the stubby projection behind him.

If he had been running for ten miles he could not have been more exhausted. His breast heaved with every spasmodic breath he drew. His shoulder blades throbbed like an aching tooth. His dripping palm was utterly numb. For a few brief, precious seconds he sat upon the limb with a sense of unutterable relief, and mopped his beaded forehead. And the sun's full, round face smiled approvingly upon him.

Meanwhile the minutes flew.

Hurrying now, he scrambled down the tree trunk where he had a better and less discouraging view of the situation. He saw that Uncle Sam hung about five feet from the brink and just clear of the water. If the bank on this side was less precipitous than on the other there would be some prospect of rescuing his machine without serious damage. He could afford to let it get wet provided the carburetor and magneto were not submerged and the gas tank --  -- 

The gas tank. That thought stabbed him. Could the gasoline have flowed out of the tank while the machine was hanging up and down? That would bring the supply hole, with its perforated screw-cover, underneath.

He waded cautiously into the water and found to his infinite relief that the submerged bank formed a gentle slope. He could not go far enough to lift his machine, but he could reach to wiggle it off its hook and then guide it, in some measure, enough to ease its fall and keep its damageable parts clear of the water. At least he believed he could. In any event, he had no alternative choice and time was flying. After what he had already done he felt he could do anything. Success, however wearying and exhausting, gives one a certain working capital of strength, and having succeeded so far he would not now fail. His success in crossing had given him that working capital of resolution and incentive whence came his superhuman strength and overmastering resolve in that lonely tree. And he would not fail now.

Yet he could not bring himself to look at his watch. He was willing to venture a guess, from the sun, as to what time it was, but he could not clinch the knowledge by a look at the cruel, uncompromising little glass-faced autocrat in his pocket. He preferred to work in the less disheartening element of uncertainty. He did not want to know the hard, cold truth -- not till he was moving.

Here now was the need of nice calculating, and Tom eyed the shore and the tree and the machine with the appraising glance of a wrestler eyeing his opponent. He broke several branches from the tree, laying them so as to form a kind of springy, leafy mound close to the brink. Then standing knee-deep he wiggled the wheel's rim very cautiously out to the end of its hanger, so that it just balanced there.

One more grand drive, one more effort of unyielding strength and accurate dexterity and -- he would be upon the road.

The thought acted as a stimulant. Lodging one hand under the seat of the machine and the other upon a stout bar of the mechanism which he thought would afford him just the play and swing he needed, he joggled the wheel off its hanger, and with a wide sweep, in which he skillfully minimized the heavy weight, he swung the machine onto the springy bed which he had made to receive it.

Then, as the comrade of a wounded soldier may bend over him, he knelt down beside his companion upon the makeshift, leafy couch.

"Are you all right?" he asked in the agitation of his triumphant effort.

Uncle Sam did not answer.

He stood the machine upright and lowered the rest so that it could stand unaided; and he tore away the remnant of mud-guard which Uncle Sam had sacrificed in his role of combination engine and paddle-wheel.

"You've got the wires all tangled up in your spokes," Tom said; "you look like a -- a wreck. What do you want with those old sticks of shingles? How are you off for gas -- you -- you old tramp?"

Uncle Sam did not answer.

"Anyway, you're all right," Tom panted; "only my arm is worse than your old mud-guard. We're a pair of --  --  Can't you speak?" he added breathing the deadly fatigue he felt and putting his foot upon the pedal. "What -- do -- you -- say? Huh?"

And then Uncle Sam answered.

"Tk-tk-tk-tk-tk-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r --  --  Never mind your arm. Come ahead -- hurry," he seemed to say.



Chapter Twenty-Five

"What You Have To Do -- "


Swiftly along the sun-flecked road sped the dispatch-rider. In the mellow freshness of the new day he rode, and the whir of his machine in its lightning flight mingled with the cheery songs of the birds, whose early morning chorus heartened and encouraged him. There was a balm in the fragrant atmosphere of the cool, gray morning which entered the soul of Tom Slade and whispered to him, There is no such word as fail.

Out of the night he had come, out of travail, and brain-racking perplexity and torturing effort, crossing rushing waters and matching his splendid strength and towering will against obstacles, against fate, against everything.

As he held the handle-bar of Uncle Sam in that continuous handshake which they knew so well, his right arm felt numb and sore, and his whole body ached. Uncle Sam's big, leering glass eye was smashed, his mud-guard wrenched off, and dried mud was upon his wheels. His rider's uniform was torn and water-soaked, his face black with grime. They made a good pair.

Never a glance to right or left did the rider give, nor so much as a perfunctory nod to the few early risers who paused to stare at him as he sped by. In the little hamlet of Persan an old Frenchman sitting on a rustic seat before the village inn, removed his pipe from his mouth long enough to call,

"La côte?"

But never a word did the rider answer. Children, who, following the good example of the early bird, were already abroad, scurried out of his way, making a great clatter in their wooden shoes, and gaping until he passed beyond their sight.

Over the bridge at Soignois he rushed, making its ramshackle planks rattle and throw up a cloud of dust from between the vibrating seams. Out of this cloud he emerged like a gray spectre, body bent, head low, gaze fixed and intense, leaving a pandemonium of dust and subsiding echoes behind him.

At Virneu an old housewife threw open her blinds and seeing the dusty khaki of the rider, summoned her brood, who waved the tricolor from the casement, laughing and calling, "Vive l'Amerique!"

Their cheery voices and fraternal patriotism did cause Tom to turn his head and call,

"Merci. Vive la France!"

And they answered again with a torrent of French.

The morning was well established as he passed through Chuisson, and a clock upon a romantic, medieval-looking little tower told him that it lacked but ten minutes of five o'clock.

A feeling of doubt, almost of despair, seized upon him and he called in that impatient surliness which springs from tense anxiety, asking an old man how far it was to Dieppe.

The man shrugged his shoulders and shook his head in polite confession that he did not understand English.

In his anxiety it irritated Tom. "What do you know?" he muttered.

Out of Chuisson he labored up a long hill, and though Uncle Sam made no more concession to it than to slacken his unprecedented rate of speed the merest trifle, the difference communicated itself to Tom at once and it seemed, by contrast, as if they were creeping. On and up Uncle Sam went, plying his way sturdily, making a great noise and a terrific odor -- dogged, determined and irresistible.

But the rider stirred impatiently. Would they ever, ever, reach the top? And when they should, there would be another hamlet in a valley, another bridge, more stupid people who could not speak English, more villages, more bends in the road, still other villages, and then -- another hill.

It seemed to Tom that he had been travelling for ten years and that there was to be no end of it. Ride, ride, ride -- it brought him nowhere. His right arm which had borne that tremendous strain, was throbbing so that he let go the handle-bar from time to time in the hope of relief. It was the pain of acute tiredness, for which there could be no relief but rest. Just to throw himself down and rest! Oh, if he could only lay that weary, aching arm across some soft pillow and leave it there -- just leave it there. Let it hang, bend it, hold it above him, lay it on Uncle Sam's staunch, unfeeling arm of steel, he could not, could not, get it rested.

The palm of his hand tingled with a kind of irritating feeling like chilblains, and he must be continually removing one or other hand from the bar so that he could reach one with the other. It did not help him keep his poise. If he could only scratch his right hand once and be done with it! But it annoyed him like a fly.

Up, up, up, they went, and passed a quaint, old, thatch-roofed house. Crazy place to build a house! And the people in it -- probably all they could do was to shrug their shoulders in that stupid way when asked a question in English.

He was losing his morale -- was this dispatch-rider.

But near the top of the hill he regained it somewhat. Perhaps he could make up for this lost time in some straight, level reach of road beyond.

Up, up, up, plowed Uncle Sam, one lonely splinter of shingle still bound within his spokes, and his poor, dented headlight bereft of its dignity.

"I've an idea the road turns north about a mile down," Tom said to himself, "and runs around through --  -- "

The words stopped upon his lips as Uncle Sam, still laboring upward, reached level ground, and as if to answer Tom out of his own uncomplaining and stouter courage, showed him a sight which sent his faltering hope skyward and started his heart bounding.

For there below them lay the vast and endless background of the sea, throwing every intervening detail of the landscape into insignificance. There it was, steel blue in the brightening sunlight and glimmering here and there in changing white, where perhaps some treacherous rock or bar lay just submerged. And upon it, looking infinitesimal in the limitless expanse, was something solid with a column of black smoke rising and winding away from it and dissolving in the clear, morning air.

"There you are!" said Tom, patting Uncle Sam patronizingly in a swift change of mood. "See there? That's the Atlantic Ocean -- that is. Now will you hurry? That's a ship coming in -- see? I bet it's a whopper, too. Do you know what -- what's off beyond there?" he fairly panted in his excitement; "do you? You old French hobo, you? America! That's where I came from. Now will you hurry? That's Dieppe, where the white[2] is and those steeples, see? And way across there on the other side is America!"

For Uncle Sam, notwithstanding his name, was a French motorcycle and had never seen America.

[2] Dieppe's famous beach.



Chapter Twenty-Six

A Surprise


Down the hill coasted Uncle Sam, bearing his rider furiously onward. A fence along the wayside seemed like a very entanglement of stakes and pickets. Then it was gone. A house loomed up in view, grew larger, and was gone. A cow that was grazing in a field languidly raised her head, blinked her eyes, and stood as if uncertain whether she had really seen something pass or not.

They were in the valley now and the sea was no longer discernible. On they rushed with a fine disdain for poor little Charos, whose village steeple appeared and disappeared like a flash of lightning. The road was broad and level and Uncle Sam sped along amid a cloud of dust, the bordering trees and houses flying away behind like dried leaves in a hurricane. The rider's hair was fluttering like a victorious emblem, his eyes fixed with a wild intensity.

"We'd get arrested for this in America," he muttered; "we -- we should worry."

It was little Uncle Sam cared for the traffic laws of America.

Around the outskirts of Teurley they swept and into the broad highway like a pair of demons, and a muleteer, seeing discretion to be the better part of valor, drove his team well to the side -- far enough, even, to escape any devilish contamination which this unearthly apparition might diffuse.

They had reached a broad highway, one of those noble roads which Napoleon had made. They could not go wrong now. They passed a luxurious chateau, then a great hotel where people haled them in French. Then they passed an army auto truck loaded with mattresses, with the bully old initials U. S. A. on its side. Two boys in khaki were on the seat.

"Is the Texas Pioneer in?" Tom yelled.

"What?" one of them called back.

"He's deaf or something," muttered Tom; "we -- should worry."

On they sped till the road merged into a street lined with shops, where children in wooden shoes and men in blouses shuffled about. Tom thought he had never seen people so slow in his life.

Now, indeed, he must make some concession to the throngs moving back and forth, and he slackened his speed, but only slightly.

"Dieppe?" he called.

"Dieppe," came the laughing answer from a passer-by, who was evidently amused at Tom's pronunciation.

"Where's the wharves?"

Again that polite shrug of the shoulders.

He took a chance with another passer-by, who nodded and pointed down a narrow street with dull brown houses tumbling all over each other, as it seemed to Tom. It was the familiar, old-world architecture of the French coast towns, which he had seen in Brest and St. Nazaire, as if all the houses had become suddenly frightened and huddled together like panicky sheep.

More leisurely now, but quickly still, rode the dispatch-rider through this narrow, surging way which had all the earmarks of the shore -- damp-smelling barrels, brass lanterns, dilapidated ships' figureheads, cosy but uncleanly drinking places, and sailors.

And of all the sights save one which Tom Slade ever beheld, the one which most gladdened his heart was a neat new sign outside a stone building,

Office of United States Quartermaster.

Several American army wagons were backed up against the building and half a dozen khaki-clad boys lounged about. There was much coming and going, but it is a part of the dispatch-rider's prestige to have immediate admittance anywhere, and Tom stopped before this building and was immediately surrounded by a flattering representation of military and civilian life, both French and American.

To these he paid not the slightest heed, but carefully lowered Uncle Sam's rest so that his weary companion might stand alone.

"You old tramp," he said in an undertone; "stay here and take it easy. Keep away," he added curtly to a curious private who was venturing a too close inspection of Uncle Sam's honorable wounds.

"What's the matter -- run into something?" he asked.

"No, I didn't," said Tom, starting toward the building.

Suddenly he stopped short, staring.

A man in civilian clothes sat tilted back in one of several chairs beside the door. He wore a little black moustache and because his head was pressed against the brick wall behind him, his hat was pushed forward giving him a rakish look which was rather heightened by an unlighted cigar sticking up out of the corner of his mouth like a piece of field artillery.

He might have been a travelling salesman waiting for his samples on the veranda of a country hotel and he had about him a kind of sophisticated look as if he took a sort of blasé pleasure in watching the world go round. His feet rested upon the rung of his tilted chair, forming his knees into a sort of desk upon which lay a French newspaper. The tilting of his knees, the tilting of his chair, the tilting of his hat and the rakish tilt of his cigar, gave him the appearance of great self-sufficiency, as if, away down in his soul, he knew what he was there for, and cared not a whit whether anyone else did or not.

Tom Slade paused on the lower step and stared. Then with a slowly dawning smile supplanting his look of astonishment, he ejaculated,

"M-i-s-t-e-r C-o-n-n-e!"

The man made not the slightest change in his attitude except to smile the while he worked his cigar over to the other corner of his mouth. Then he cocked his head slightly sideways.

"H'lo, Tommy," said he.



Chapter Twenty-Seven

Smoke And Fire


Mr. Carleton Conne, of the United States Secret Service, had come over from Liverpool via Dover on a blind quest after an elusive spy. There had been a sort of undercurrent of rumor, with many extravagant trappings, that a mysterious agent of the Kaiser was on his way to Europe with secrets of a most important character. Some stories had it that he was intimately related to Bloody Bill himself; others that he gloried in a kinship with Ludendorf, while still other versions represented him as holding Mexico in the palm of his hand. Dark stories floated about and no one knew just where they originated.

One sprightly form this story took, which had been whispered in New York and then in Liverpool, was that a certain young lady (identity unknown) had talked with a soldier (identity unknown) in the Grand Central Station in New York, and that the soldier had told her that at his cantonment (cantonment not identified) there was a man in a special branch of the service (branch not mentioned) who was a cousin or a brother or a nephew or a son or something or other to a German general or statesman or something or other, and that he had got into the American army by a pretty narrow squeak. There seemed to be a unanimity of opinion in the lower strata of Uncle Sam's official family in Liverpool that the soldier who had talked with the young lady was coming over on the transport Manchester and it was assumed (no one seemed to know exactly why) that the mysterious and sinister personage would be upon the same ship.

But no soldier had been found upon the Manchester who showed by his appearance that he had chatted with a young lady. Perhaps several of them had done that. It is a way soldiers have.

As for the arch spy or propagandist, he did not come forward and introduce himself as such, and though a few selected suspects of German antecedents were searched and catechised by Mr. Conne and others, no one was held.

And there you are.

Rumors of this kind are always in circulation and the Secret Service people run them down as a matter of precaution. But though you can run a rumor down and stab it through and through you cannot kill it. It now appeared that this German agent had sailed from Mexico and would land at Brest -- with a message to some French statesman. Also it appeared that he had stolen a secret from Edison and would land at Dieppe. It had also been reported that someone had attempted to blow up the loaded transport Texas Pioneer on her way over.

And so Mr. Carleton Conne, of the American Secret Service, quiet, observant, uncommunicative, never too sanguine and never too skeptical, had strolled on to the Channel Queen, lighted his cigar, and was now tilted back in his chair outside the Quartermaster's office in Dieppe, not at all excited and waiting for the Texas Pioneer to dock.

He had done this because he believed that where there is a great deal of smoke there is apt to be a little fire. He was never ruffled, never disappointed.

Tom's acquaintance with Mr. Conne had begun on the transport on which he had worked as a steward's boy, and where his observant qualities and stolid soberness had attracted and amused the detective.

"I never thought I'd see you here," said Tom, his face lighting up to an unusual degree. "I'm a dispatch-rider now. I just rode from Cantigny. I got a letter for the Quartermaster, but anyway he's got to turn me over to the Secret Service (Mr. Conne regarded him with whimsical attention as he stumbled on), because there's a plot and somebody -- a spy -- kind of --  -- "

"A spy, kind of, eh?"

"And I hope the Texas Pioneer didn't land yet, that's one sure thing."

"It's one sure thing that she'll dock in about fifteen minutes, Tommy," said Mr. Conne rising. "Come inside and deliver your message. What's the matter with your machine? Been trying to wipe out the Germans alone and unaided, like the hero in a story book?"

Tom followed him in, clumsily telling the story of his exciting journey; "talking in chunks," as he usually did and leaving many gaps to be filled in by the listener.

"I'm glad I found you here, anyway," he finished, as if that were the only part that really counted; "'cause now I feel as if I can tell about an idea I've got. I'd of been scared to tell it to anybody else. I ain't exactly got it yet," he added, "but maybe I can help even better than they thought, 'cause as I was ridin' along I had a kind of an idea --  -- "

"Yes?"

"Kind of. Did you ever notice how you get fool ideas when there's a steady noise going on?"

"So?" said Mr. Conne, as he led the way along a hall.

"It was the noise of my machine."

"How about the smell, Tommy?" Mr. Conne asked, glancing around with that pleasant, funny look which Tom had known so well.

"You don't get ideas from smells," he answered soberly.

In the Quartermaster's office he waited on a bench while Mr. Conne and several other men, two in uniform and two that he thought might be Secret Service men, talked in undertones. If he had been a hero in a book, to use Mr. Conne's phrase, these officials would doubtless have been assembled about him listening to his tale, but as it was he was left quite out of the conference until, near its end, he was summoned to tell of his capture of Major von Piffinhoeffer and asked if he thought he could identify a close relation of that high and mighty personage simply by seeing him pass as a total stranger.

Tom thought he might "by a special way," and explained his knowledge of breed marks and specie marks. He added, in his stolid way, that he had another idea, too. But they did not ask him what that was. One of the party, a naval officer, expressed surprise that he had ridden all the way from Cantigny and asked him if it were not true that part of the road was made impassible by floods. Tom answered that there were floods but that they were not impassible "if you knew how." The officer said he supposed Tom knew how, and Tom regarded this as a compliment.

Soon, to his relief, Mr. Conne took all the papers in the case and left the room, beckoning Tom to follow him. Another man in civilian clothes hurried away and Tom thought he might be going to the dock. It seemed to him that his rather doubtful ability to find a needle in a haystack had not made much of an impression upon these officials, and he wondered ruefully what Mr. Conne thought. He saw that his arrival with the papers had produced an enlivening effect among the officials, but it seemed that he himself was not taken very seriously. Well, in any event, he had made the trip, he had beaten the ship, delivered the message to Garcia.

"I got to go down and turn my grease cup before I forget it," he said, as they came out on the little stone portico again.

Several soldiers who were soon to see more harrowing sights than a bunged-up motorcycle, were gathered about Uncle Sam, gaping at him and commenting upon his disfigurements. Big U. S. A. auto trucks were passing by. A squad of German prisoners, of lowering and sullen aspect, marched by with wheelbarrows full of gray blankets. They were keeping perfect step, through sheer force of habit. Another dispatch-rider (a "local") passed by, casting a curious eye at Uncle Sam. A French child who sat upon the step had one of his wooden shoes full of smoky, used bullets, which he seemed greatly to prize. Several "flivver" ambulances stood across the way, new and roughly made, destined for the front. American naval and military officers were all about.

"We haven't got much time to spare, Tommy," said Mr. Conne, resuming his former seat and glancing at his watch.

"It's only a second. I just got to turn the grease cup."

He hurried down past the child, who called him "M'sieu Yankee," and elbowed his way through the group of soldiers who were standing about Uncle Sam.

"Your timer bar's bent," one of them volunteered.

Tom did not answer, but knelt and turned the grease cup, then wiped the nickel surfaces, bent and dented though they were, with a piece of cotton waste. Then he felt of his tires. Then he adjusted the position of the handle-bar more to his liking and as he did so the poor, dented, glassless searchlight bobbed over sideways as if to look at the middle of the street. Tom said something which was not audible to the curious onlookers. Perhaps Uncle Sam heard.

The local rider came jogging around the corner on his way back. His machine was American-made and a medley of nickel and polished brass. As he made the turn his polished searchlight, with a tiny flag perched jauntily upon it, seemed to be looking straight at Uncle Sam. And Uncle Sam's green-besprinkled,[3] glassless eye seemed to be leering with a kind of sophisticated look at the passing machine. It was the kind of look which the Chicago Limited might give to the five-thirty suburban starting with its load of New York commuters for East Orange, New Jersey.

[3] The effect of water on brass is to produce a greenish, superficial erosion.



Chapter Twenty-Eight

"Made In Germany"


"Now, Tommy, let's hear your idea," said Mr. Conne, indulgently, as he worked his cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other. "I find there's generally a little fire where there's a good deal of smoke. There's somebody or other, as you say, but the trouble is we don't know who he is. We think maybe he looks like someone you've seen. We think he may have a patent ear." He looked at Tom sideways and Tom could not help laughing. Then he looked at the mysterious letter with a funny, ruminating look.

"What can we -- you -- do?" Tom ventured to ask, feeling somewhat squelched.

Mr. Conne screwed up his mouth with a dubious look. "Search everybody on board, two or three thousand, quiz a few, that's about all. It'll take a long time and probably reveal nothing. Family resemblances are all right when you know both members, Tommy, but out in the big world -- Well, let's look this over again," he added, taking up the letter.

Tom knew that he was not being consulted. He had a feeling that his suggestion about breed marks and personal resemblances was not being taken seriously. He was glad that he had not put his foot too far in by telling of his other precious idea. But he was proud of Mr. Conne's companionable attitude toward him. He was proud to be the friend of such a man. He was delighted at the thought of participation in this matter. He knew Mr. Conne liked him and had at least a good enough opinion of him to adopt the appearance of conferring with him. Mr. Conne's rather whimsical attitude toward this conference did not lessen his pride.

"Let's see now," said the detective. "This thing evidently went through Holland in code. It's a rendering."

It was easy for Tom to believe that Mr. Conne was re-reading the letter just to himself -- or to himself and Tom.

"Let's see now -- but, as you say, everything for the Fatherland. If you receive this, let them know that I'll have my arms crossed and to be careful before they shoot. I wish he'd cross his arms when he comes ashore. He's evidently planning to get himself captured. If you don't get this I'll just have to take my chance. The other way isn't worth trying. Hmm! Probably thought of deserting at the wharf and getting into Holland or Belgium. No, that wouldn't be worth trying. As for the code key, that'll be safe enough -- they'll never find it. Hmm! If it wasn't for the -- what's all this -- the English swine. Humph! They fight pretty good for swine, don't they, Tommy? As far as I can ascertain, we'll go on the T. P. We know that much, anyway, thanks to you, Tommy." (Tom felt highly elated.) "There was some inquiry about my close relationship to you, but nothing serious. All you have to do is to cheer when they play the S. S. B. over here. Humph! That's worth knowing. It isn't known if Schmitter had the key to this when they caught him --  -- 

"He didn't," said Mr. Conne dryly; "I was the one who caught him. -- because he died on Ellis Island. But it's being abandoned to be on the safe side. Safety first, hey? I have notice from H. not to use it after sending this letter. If we can get the new one in your hands before -- Seems to be blotted out -- in time so it can be used through Mexico. I'll have much information to communicate verbally in T. and A. matters, but will bring nothing in  --  --   --  --  form but key and credentials. He means actual, concealed or disguised form, I s'pose. The idea is L.'s. I suppose he means the manner of concealing the key and credentials."

"Yes," said Tom rather excitedly.

Mr. Conne glanced at him, joggled his cigar, and went on,

"You remember him at Heidelberg, I dare say. I brought him back once for holiday. Met him through Handel, who was troubled with cataract. V. has furnished funds. So don't fall to have them watch out."

"Hmm!" concluded Mr. Conne ruminatively. "You see what they're up to. We caught Schmitter in Philadelphia. They think maybe Schmitter had the key of a code with him. So they're changing the code and sending the key to it across with this somebody or other. That's about the size of it. He's got a lot of information, too, in his head, where we can't get at it."

"But his credentials will have to be something that can be seen, won't they?" Tom ventured to ask.

"Prob'ly. You see, he means to desert or get captured. It's a long way round, but about the best one -- for him. Think of that snake wearing Uncle Sam's uniform!"

"It makes me mad, too -- kind of," said Tom.

"So he's probably got some secret means of identification about him, and probably the new code key in actual form -- somewhere else than just in his head. Then there'd be a chance of getting it across even if he fell. We'll give him an acid bath and look in his shoes if we can find him. The whole thing hangs on a pretty thin thread. They used to have invisible writing on their backs till we started the acid bath."

He whistled reflectively for a few moments, while Tom struggled to muster the courage to say something that he wished to say.

"Could I tell you about that other idea of mine?" he blurted finally.

"You sure can, Tommy. That's about all we're likely to get -- ideas." And he glanced at Tom again with that funny, sideways look. "Shoot, my boy."

"It's only this," said Tom, still not without some trepidation, "and maybe you'll say it's no good. You told me once not to be thinking of things that's none of my business."

"Uncle Sam's business is our business now, Tommy boy."

"Well, then, it's just this, and I was thinking about it while I was riding just after I started away from Cantigny. Mostly I was thinking about it after I took that last special look at old Piff --  -- "

Mr. Conne chuckled. "I see," he said encouragingly.

"Whoever that feller is," said Tom, "there's one thing sure. If he's comin' as a soldier he won't get to the front very soon, 'cause they're mostly the drafted fellers that are comin' now and they have to go in training over here. I know, 'cause I've seen lots of 'em in billets."

"Hmm," said Mr. Conne.

"So if the feller expects to go to the front and get captured pretty soon, prob'ly he's in a special unit. Maybe I might be all wrong about it -- some fellers used to call me Bullhead," he added by way of shaving his boldness down a little.

But Mr. Conne, with hat tilted far down over his forehead and cigar at an outrageously rakish angle, was looking straight ahead of him, at a French flag across the way.

"Go on," he said crisply.

"Anyway, I'm sure the feller wouldn't be an engineer, 'cause mostly they're behind the lines. So I thought maybe he'd be a surgeon --  -- "

Mr. Conne was whistling, almost inaudibly, his eyes fixed upon the flagpole opposite. "He was educated at Heidelberg," said he.

"I didn't think of that," said Tom.

"It's where he met L."

Tom said nothing. His line of reasoning seemed to be lifted quietly away from him. Mr. Conne was turning the kaleidoscope and showing him new designs. "He took L. home for the holidays," he quietly observed. "Old Piff and the boys."

"I -- I didn't think of that," said Tom, rather crestfallen.

"You didn't ride fast enough and make enough noise," Mr. Conne said. His eyes were still fixed on the fluttering tricolor and he whistled very low. Then he rubbed his lip with his tongue and aimed his cigar in another direction.

"They were studying medicine there, I guess," he mused.

"That's just what my idea's about," said Tom. "It ain't an idea exactly, either," he added, "but it's kind of come to me sudden-like. You know what a hunch is, don't you? There's something there about somebody having a cataract, and that's something the matter with your eyes; Mr. Temple had one. So maybe that feller L. that he met again is an eye doctor. Long before the war started they told Mr. Temple maybe he ought to go to Berlin to see the eye specialists there -- 'cause they're so fine. So maybe the spy is a surgeon and L. is an eye doctor. It says how he met him again on account of somebody having a cataract. And he said the way of bringing the code key was L.'s idea. I read about a dentist that had a piece of paper with writing on it rolled up in his tooth. He was a spy. So that made me think maybe L.'s idea had something to do with eyes or glasses, as you might say."

"Hmm! Go on. Anything else?"

"But, anyway, that ain't the idea I had. In Temple Camp there was a scout that had a little pocket looking-glass and you couldn't see anything on it but your own reflection. But all you had to do was to breathe on it and there was a picture -- all mountains and a castle, like. Then it would fade away again right away. Roy Blakeley wanted to swap his scout knife for it, but the feller wouldn't do it. On the back of it it said Made in Germany. It just came to me sudden-like that maybe that was L.'s idea and they'd have it on a pair of spectacles. Maybe it's a kind of crazy idea, but --  -- "

He looked doubtfully at Mr. Conne, who still sat tilted back, hat almost hiding his face, cigar sticking out from under it like a camouflaged field-piece. He was whistling very quietly, "Oh, boy, where do we go from here?" He had whistled that same tune more than a year before when he was waiting for a glimpse of "Dr. Curry," spy and bomb plotter, aboard the vessel on which Tom was working at that time. He had whistled it as he escorted the "doctor" down the companionway. How well Tom remembered!

"Come on, Tommy," he said, jumping suddenly to his feet.

Tom followed. But Mr. Conne did not speak; he was still busy with the tune. Only now he was singing the words. There was something portentous in the careless way he sang them. It took Tom back to the days when it was the battle hymn of the transport:

"And when we meet a pretty girl, we whisper in her ear, Oh, Boy! Oh, Joy! Where do we go from here?"



Chapter Twenty-Nine

"Now You See It, Now You Don't"


The big transport Texas Pioneer came slowly about in obedience to her straining ropes and rubbed her mammoth side against the long wharf. Up and down, this way and that, slanting-wise and curved, drab and gray and white and red, the grotesque design upon her towering freeboard shone like a distorted rainbow in the sunlight. Out of the night she had come, stealing silently through the haunts where murder lurks, and the same dancing rays which had run ahead of the dispatch-rider and turned to mock him, had gilded her mighty prow as if to say, "Behold, I have reached you first."

At her rail crowded hundreds of boys in khaki, demanding in English and atrocious French to know where they were.

"Are we in France?" one called.

"Where's the Boiderberlong, anyway?" another shouted, the famous Parisian boulevard evidently being his only means of identifying France.

"Is that Napoleon's tomb?" another demanded, pointing to a little round building.

"Look at the pile of hams," shouted another gazing over the rail at a stack of that delectable. "Maybe we're in Hamburg!"

"This is Dippy," his neighbor corrected him.

"You mean Deppy," another said.

And so on and so on. There seemed to be hundreds of them, thousands of them, and all on a gigantic picnic.

"Which is the quickest way to Berlin?" one called, addressing the throng impartially.

"Second turn to your left."

Some of these boys would settle down in France and make it their long, final home, under little wooden crosses. But they did not seem to think of that.

At the foot of the gangplank stood the dispatch-rider and the man with the cigar. Several other men, evidently of their party, stood near by. Mr. Conne's head was cocked sideways and he scanned the gangway with a leisurely, self-assured look. Tom was shaking all over -- the victim of suppressed excitement. He had been less excited on that memorable morning when he had "done his bit" at Cantigny.

It seemed to be in the air that something unusual was likely to happen. Workers, passing with their wheelbarrows and hand trucks, slackened their pace and dallied as long as they dared, near the gangplank. They were quickly moved along. Tom shifted from one foot to the other, waiting. Mr. Conne worked his cigar over to the opposite corner of his mouth and observed to an American officer that the day was going to be warm. Then he glanced up and smiled pleasantly at the boys crowding at the rail. He might have been waiting on a street corner for a car.

"Not nervous, are you?" he smiled at Tom.

"Not exactly," said Tom, with his usual candor; "but it seems as if nothing can happen at all, now that we're here. It seems different, thinking up things when you're riding along the road -- kind of."

"Uh huh."

Presently the soldiers began coming down the gangplank.

"You watch for resemblances and I'll do the rest," said Mr. Conne in a low tone. "Give yourself the benefit of every doubt. Know what I mean?"

"Yes -- I do."

"I can't help you there."

Tom felt a certain compunction at scrutinizing these fine, American fellows as they came down with their kits -- hearty, boisterous, open-hearted. He felt that it was unworthy of him to suspect any of this laughing, bantering army, of crime -- and such a crime! Treason! In the hope of catching one he must scrutinize them all, and in his generous heart it seemed to put a stigma on them all. He hoped he wouldn't see anyone who looked like Major von Piffinhoeffer. Then he hoped he would. Then he wondered if he would dare to look at him after --  --  And suppose he should be mistaken. He did not like this sort of work at all now that he was face to face with it. He would rather be off with Uncle Sam, riding along the French roads, with the French children calling to him. For the first time in his life he was nervous and afraid -- not of being caught but of catching someone; of the danger of suspecting and being mistaken.

Mr. Conne, who never missed anything, noticed his perturbation and patted him on the shoulder saying,

"All kinds of work have to be done, Tommy."

Tom tried to smile back at him.

Down the long gangplank they came, one after another, pushing each other, tripping each other -- joking, laughing. Among them came a young private, wearing glasses, who was singing,

"Good-bye, Broadway. Hello, France!"

He was startled out of his careless merriment by a tap on the shoulder from Mr. Conne, and almost before Tom realized what had happened, he was standing blinking at one of the other Secret Service men who was handing him back his glasses.

"All right, my boy," said Mr. Conne pleasantly, which seemed to wipe out any indignity the young man might have felt.

Tom looked up the gangplank as they surged down, holding the rail to steady them on the steep incline. Nobody seemed to have noticed what had happened.

"Keep your mind on your part, Tommy," said Mr. Conne warningly.

Tom saw that of all those in sight only one wore glasses -- a black-haired youth who kept his hands on the shoulders of the man before him. Tom made up his mind that he, in any event, would not detain this fellow on the ground of anything in his appearance, nor any of the others now in sight. He was drawn aside by Mr. Conne, however, and became the object of attention of the other Secret Service men.

Tom kept his eyes riveted upon the gangplank. One, two, more, wearing glasses, came in view, were stopped, examined, and passed on. After that perhaps a hundred passed down and away, none of them with glasses, and all of them he scrutinized carefully. Now another, with neatly adjusted rimless glasses, came down. He had a clean-cut, professional look. Tom did not take his eyes off the descending column for a second, but he heard Mr. Conne say pleasantly,

"Just a minute."

He was glad when he was conscious of this fine-looking young American passing on.

So it went.

There were some whom poor Tom might have been inclined to stop by way of precaution for no better reason than that they had a rough-and-ready look -- hard fellows. He was glad -- half glad -- when Mr. Conne, for reasons of his own, detained one, then another, of these, though they wore no glasses. And he felt like apologizing to them for his momentary suspicion, as he saw them pause surprised, answer frankly and honestly and pass on.

Then came a young officer, immaculately attired, his leather leggings shining, his uniform fitting him as if he had been moulded into it. He wore little rimless eye-glasses. He might lead a raiding party for all that; but he was a bit pompous and very self-conscious. Tom was rather gratified to see him hailed aside.

Nothing.

Down they came, holding both rails and lifting their feet to swing, like school boys -- hundreds of them, thousands of them, it seemed. Tom watched them all keenly as they passed out like an endless ribbon from a magician's hat. There seemed to be no end of them.

There came now a fellow whom he watched closely. He had blond hair and blue eyes, but no glasses. He looked something like -- something like -- oh, who? Fritzie Schmitt, whom he used to know in Bridgeboro. No, he didn't -- not so much.

But his blond hair and blue eyes did not escape Mr. Conne.

Nothing.

"Watching, Tommy?"

"Yes, sir."

A hundred more, two hundred, and then a young sergeant with glasses.

While this young man was undergoing his ordeal (whatever it was, for Tom kept his eyes riveted on the gangway), there appeared the tall figure of a lieutenant. Tom thought he was of the medical corps, but he was not certain. He seemed to be looking down at Mr. Conne's little group, with a fierce, piercing stare. He wore horned spectacles of goodly circumference and as Tom's eyes followed the thick, left wing of these, he saw that it embraced an ear which stood out prominently. Both the ear and the piercing eagle gaze set him all agog.

Should he speak? The lieutenant was gazing steadfastly down at Mr. Conne and coming nearer with every step. Of course, Mr. Conne would stop him anyway, but --  --  To mention that piercing stare and that ear after the man had been stopped for the more tangible reason -- there would be no triumph in that.

Tom's hand trembled like a leaf and his voice was unsteady as he turned to Mr. Conne, and said.

"This one coming down -- the one that's looking at you -- he looks like -- and I notice --  -- "

"Put your hands down, my man," called Mr. Conne peremptorily, at the same time leaping with the agility of a panther up past the descending throng. "I'll take those."

But Tom Slade had spoken first. He did not know whether Mr. Conne's sudden dash had been prompted by his words or not. He saw him lift the heavy spectacles off the man's ears and with beating heart watched him as he came down alongside the lieutenant.

"Going to throw them away, eh?" he heard Mr. Conne say.

Evidently the man, seeing another's glasses examined, had tried to remove his own before he reached the place of inspection. Mr. Conne, who saw everything, had seen this. But Tom had spoken before Mr. Conne moved and he was satisfied.

"All right, Tommy," said Mr. Conne in his easy way. "You beat me to it."

Tom hardly knew what took place in the next few moments. He saw Mr. Conne breathe upon the glasses, was conscious of soldiers slackening their pace to see and hear what was going on, and of their being ordered forward. He saw the two men who were with Mr. Conne standing beside the tall lieutenant, who seemed bewildered. He noticed (it is funny how one notices these little things amid such great things) the little ring of red upon the lieutenant's nose where the glasses had sat.

"There you are, see?" he heard Mr. Conne say quietly, breathing heavily upon the glasses and holding them up to the light, for the benefit of his colleagues. "B L -- two dots -- X -- see -- Plain as day. See there, Tommy!"

He breathed upon them again and held them quickly up so that Tom could see.

"Yes, sir," Tom stammered, somewhat perturbed at such official attention.

"Look in the other one, too, Tommy -- now -- quick!"

"Oh, yes," said Tom as the strange figures die away. He felt very proud, and not a little uncomfortable at being drawn into the centre of things. And he did not feel slighted as he saw Mr. Conne and the captive lieutenant, and the other officials whom he did not know, start away thoughtless of anything else in the stress of the extraordinary affair. He followed because he did not know what else to do, and he supposed they wished him to follow. Outside the wharf he got Uncle Sam and wheeled him along at a respectful distance behind these high officials. So he had one companion. Several times Mr. Conne looked back at him and smiled. And once he said in that funny way of his,

"All right, Tommy?"

"Yes, sir," Tom answered, trudging along. He had been greatly agitated, but his wonted stolidness was returning now. Probably he felt more comfortable and at home coming along behind with Uncle Sam than he would have felt in the midst of this group where the vilest treason walked baffled, but unashamed, in the uniform of Uncle Sam.

Once Mr. Conne turned to see if Tom were following. His cigar was stuck up in the corner; of his mouth as usual and he gave Tom a whimsical look.

"You hit the Piff family at both ends, didn't you, Tommy."

"Y-yes, sir," said Tom.



Chapter Thirty

He Disappears


Swiftly and silently along the quiet, winding road sped the dispatch-rider. Away from the ocean he was hurrying, where the great ships were coming in, each a fulfilment and a challenge; away from scenes of debarkation where Uncle Sam was pouring his endless wealth of courage and determination into bleeding, suffering, gallant France.

Past the big hotel he went, past the pleasant villa, through village and hamlet, and farther and farther into the East, bound for the little corner of the big salient whence he had come.

He bore with him a packet and some letters. One was to be left at Neufchatel; others at Breteuil. There was one in particular for Cantigny. His name was mentioned in it, but he did not know that. He never concerned himself with the contents of his papers.

So he sped along, thinking how he would get a new headlight for Uncle Sam and a new mud-guard. He thought the people back at Cantigny would wonder what had happened to his machine. He had no thought of telling them. There was nothing to tell.

Swiftly and silently along the road he sped, the dispatch-rider who had come from the blue hills of Alsace, all the way across poor, devastated France. The rays of the dying sun fell upon the handle-bar of Uncle Sam, which the rider held in the steady, fraternal handshake that they knew so well. Back from the coast they sped, those two, along the winding road which lay on hill and in valley, bathed in the mellow glow of the first twilight. Swiftly and silently they sped. Hills rose and fell, the fair panorama of the lowlands with its quaint old houses here and there opened before them. And so they journeyed on into the din and fire and stenching suffocation and red-running streams of Picardy and Flanders -- for service as required.

<eob>

The Arabian Nights: Their Best-Known Tales

By

Kate Douglas Wiggin, Nora A. Smith



The Talking Bird, The Singing Tree, And The Golden Water


There was an emperor of Persia named Kosrouschah, who, when he first came to his crown, in order to obtain a knowledge of affairs, took great pleasure in night excursions, attended by a trusty minister. He often walked in disguise through the city, and met with many adventures, one of the most remarkable of which happened to him upon his first ramble, which was not long after his accession to the throne of his father.

After the ceremonies of his father's funeral rites and his own inauguration were over, the new sultan, as well from inclination as from duty, went out one evening attended by his grand vizier, disguised like himself, to observe what was transacting in the city. As he was passing through a street in that part of the town inhabited only by the meaner sort, he heard some people talking very loud; and going close to the house whence the noise proceeded, and looking through a crack in the door, perceived a light, and three sisters sitting on a sofa, conversing together after supper. By what the eldest said he presently understood the subject of their conversation was wishes: "for," said she, "since we are talking about wishes, mine shall be to have the sultan's baker for my husband, for then I shall eat my fill of that bread, which by way of excellence is called the sultan's; let us see if your tastes are as good as mine." "For my part," replied the second sister, "I wish I was wife to the sultan's chief cook, for then I should eat of the most excellent dishes; and as I am persuaded that the sultan's bread is common in the palace, I should not want any of that; therefore you see," addressing herself to her eldest sister, "that I have a better taste than you." The youngest sister, who was very beautiful, and had more charms and wit than the two elder, spoke in her turn: "For my part, sisters," said she, "I shall not limit my desires to such trifles, but take a higher flight; and since we are upon wishing, I wish to be the emperor's queen-consort. I would make him father of a prince, whose hair should be gold on one side of his head, and silver on the other; when he cried, the tears from his eyes should be pearls; and when he smiled, his vermilion lips should look like a rosebud fresh-blown."

The three sisters' wishes, particularly that of the youngest, seemed so singular to the sultan, that he resolved to gratify them in their desires; but without communicating his design to his grand vizier, he charged him only to take notice of the house, and bring the three sisters before him the following day.

The grand vizier, in executing the emperor's orders, would but just give the sisters time to dress themselves to appear before his majesty, without telling them the reason. He brought them to the palace, and presented them to the emperor, who said to them, "Do you remember the wishes you expressed last night, when you were all in so pleasant a mood? Speak the truth; I must know what they were." At these unexpected words of the emperor, the three sisters were much confounded. They cast down their eyes and blushed, and the colour which rose in the cheeks of the youngest quite captivated the emperor's heart. Modesty, and fear lest they might have offended by their conversation, kept them silent. The emperor, perceiving their confusion, said to encourage them, "Fear nothing, I did not send for you to distress you; and since I see that without my intending it, this is the effect of the question I asked, as I know the wish of each, I will relieve you from your fears. You," added he, "who wished to be my wife, shall have your desire this day; and you," continued he, addressing himself to the two elder sisters, "shall also be married to my chief baker and cook."

As soon as the sultan had declared his pleasure, the youngest sister, setting her elders an example, threw herself at the emperor's feet to express her gratitude. "Sir," said she, "my wish, since it is come to your majesty's knowledge, was expressed only in the way of conversation and amusement. I am unworthy of the honour you do me, and supplicate your pardon for my presumption." The other two sisters would have excused themselves also, but the emperor, interrupting them, said, "No, no; it shall be as I have declared; the wishes of all shall be fulfilled." The nuptials were all celebrated that day, as the emperor had resolved, but in a different manner. The youngest sister's were solemnized with all the rejoicings usual at the marriages of the emperors of Persia; and those of the other two sisters according to the quality and distinction of their husbands; the one as the sultan's chief baker, and the other as head cook.

The two elder felt strongly the disproportion of their marriages to that of their younger sister. This consideration made them far from being content, though they were arrived at the utmost height of their late wishes, and much beyond their hopes. They gave themselves up to an excess of jealousy, which not only disturbed their joy, but was the cause of great trouble and affliction to the queen-consort, their younger sister. They had not an opportunity to communicate their thoughts to each other on the preference the emperor had given her, but were altogether employed in preparing themselves for the celebration of their marriages. Some days afterward, when they had an opportunity of seeing each other at the public baths, the eldest said to the other: "Well, what say you to our sister's great fortune? Is not she a fine person to be a queen!" "I must own," said the other sister, "I cannot conceive what charms the emperor could discover to be so bewitched by her. Was it a reason sufficient for him not to cast his eyes on you, because she was somewhat younger? You were as worthy of his throne, and in justice he ought to have preferred you."

"Sister," said the elder, "I should not have regretted if his majesty had but pitched upon you; but that he should choose that little simpleton really grieves me. But I will revenge myself; and you, I think, are as much concerned as I; therefore, I propose that we should contrive measures and act in concert: communicate to me what you think the likeliest way to mortify her, while I, on my side, will inform you what my desire of revenge shall suggest to me." After this wicked agreement, the two sisters saw each other frequently, and consulted how they might disturb and interrupt the happiness of the queen. They proposed a great many ways, but in deliberating about the manner of executing them, found so many difficulties that they durst not attempt them. In the meantime, with a detestable dissimulation, they often went together to make her visits, and every time showed her all the marks of affection they could devise, to persuade her how overjoyed they were to have a sister raised to so high a fortune. The queen, on her part, constantly received them with all the demonstrations of esteem they could expect from so near a relative. Some time after her marriage, the expected birth of an heir gave great joy to the queen and emperor, which was communicated to all the court, and spread throughout the empire. Upon this news the two sisters came to pay their compliments, and proffered their services, desiring her, if not provided with nurses, to accept of them.

The queen said to them most obligingly: "Sisters, I should desire nothing more, if it were in my power to make the choice. I am, however, obliged to you for your goodwill, but must submit to what the emperor shall order on this occasion. Let your husbands employ their friends to make interest, and get some courtier to ask this favour of his majesty, and if he speaks to me about it, be assured that I shall not only express the pleasure he does me but thank him for making choice of you."

The two husbands applied themselves to some courtiers, their patrons, and begged of them to use their interest to procure their wives the honour they aspired to. Those patrons exerted themselves so much in their behalf that the emperor promised them to consider of the matter, and was as good as his word; for in conversation with the queen he told her that he thought her sisters were the most proper persons to be about her, but would not name them before he had asked her consent. The queen, sensible of the deference the emperor so obligingly paid her, said to him, "Sir, I was prepared to do as your majesty might please to command. But since you have been so kind as to think of my sisters, I thank you for the regard you have shown them for my sake, and therefore I shall not dissemble that I had rather have them than strangers." The emperor therefore named the queen's two sisters to be her attendants; and from that time they went frequently to the palace, overjoyed at the opportunity they would have of executing the detestable wickedness they had meditated against the queen.

Shortly afterward a young prince, as bright as the day, was born to the queen; but neither his innocence nor beauty could move the cruel hearts of the merciless sisters. They wrapped him up carelessly in his cloths and put him into a basket, which they abandoned to the stream of a small canal that ran under the queen's apartment, and declared that she had given birth to a puppy. This dreadful intelligence was announced to the emperor, who became so angry at the circumstance, that he was likely to have occasioned the queen's death, if his grand vizier had not represented to him that he could not, without injustice, make her answerable for the misfortune.

In the meantime, the basket in which the little prince was exposed was carried by the stream beyond a wall which bounded the prospect of the queen's apartment, and from thence floated with the current down the gardens. By chance the intendant of the emperor's gardens, one of the principal officers of the kingdom, was walking in the garden by the side of this canal, and, perceiving a basket floating, called to a gardener who was not far off, to bring it to shore that he might see what it contained. The gardener, with a rake which he had in his hand, drew the basket to the side of the canal, took it up, and gave it to him. The intendant of the gardens was extremely surprised to see in the basket a child, which, though he knew it could be but just born, had very fine features. This officer had been married several years, but though he had always been desirous of having children, Heaven had never blessed him with any. This accident interrupted his walk: he made the gardener follow him with the child, and when he came to his own house, which was situated at the entrance to the gardens of the palace, went into his wife's apartment. "Wife," said he, "as we have no children of our own, God has sent us one. I recommend him to you; provide him a nurse, and take as much care of him as if he were our own son; for, from this moment, I acknowledge him as such." The intendant's wife received the child with great joy, and took particular pleasure in the care of him. The intendant himself would not inquire too narrowly whence the infant came. He saw plainly it came not far off from the queen's apartment, but it was not his business to examine too closely into what had passed, nor to create disturbances in a place where peace was so necessary.

The following year another prince was born, on whom the unnatural sisters had no more compassion than on his brother, but exposed him likewise in a basket and set him adrift in the canal, pretending, this time, that the sultana had given birth to a cat. It was happy also for this child that the intendant of the gardens was walking by the canal side, for he had it carried to his wife, and charged her to take as much care of it as of the former, which was as agreeable to her inclination as it was to his own.

The emperor of Persia was more enraged this time against the queen than before, and she had felt the effects of his anger if the grand vizier's remonstrances had not prevailed. The third year the queen gave birth to a princess, which innocent babe underwent the same fate as her brothers, for the two sisters, being determined not to desist from their detestable schemes till they had seen the queen cast off and humbled, claimed that a log of wood had been born and exposed this infant also on the canal. But the princess, as well as her brothers, was preserved from death by the compassion and charity of the intendant of the gardens.

Kosrouschah could no longer contain himself, when he was informed of the new misfortune. He pronounced sentence of death upon the wretched queen and ordered the grand vizier to see it executed.

The grand vizier and the courtiers who were present cast themselves at the emperor's feet, to beg of him to revoke the sentence. "Your majesty, I hope, will give me leave," said the grand vizier, "to represent to you, that the laws which condemn persons to death were made to punish crimes; the three extraordinary misfortunes of the queen are not crimes, for in what can she be said to have contributed toward them? Your majesty may abstain from seeing her, but let her live. The affliction in which she will spend the rest of her life, after the loss of your favour, will be a punishment sufficiently distressing."

The emperor of Persia considered with himself, and, reflecting that it was unjust to condemn the queen to death for what had happened, said: "Let her live then; I will spare her life, but it shall be on this condition: that she shall desire to die more than once every day. Let a wooden shed be built for her at the gate of the principal mosque, with iron bars to the windows, and let her be put into it, in the coarsest habit; and every Mussulman that shall go into the mosque to prayers shall heap scorn upon her. If any one fail, I will have him exposed to the same punishment; and that I may be punctually obeyed, I charge you, vizier, to appoint persons to see this done." The emperor pronounced his sentence in such a tone that the grand vizier durst not further remonstrate; and it was executed, to the great satisfaction of the two envious sisters. A shed was built, and the queen, truly worthy of compassion, was put into it and exposed ignominiously to the contempt of the people, which usage she bore with a patient resignation that excited the compassion of those who were discriminating and judged of things better than the vulgar.

The two princes and the princess were, in the meantime, nursed and brought up by the intendant of the gardens and his wife with the tenderness of a father and mother; and as they advanced in age, they all showed marks of superior dignity, which discovered itself every day by a certain air which could only belong to exalted birth. All this increased the affections of the intendant and his wife, who called the eldest prince Bahman, and the second Perviz, both of them names of the most ancient emperors of Persia, and the princess, Periezade, which name also had been borne by several queens and princesses of the kingdom.

As soon as the two princes were old enough, the intendant provided proper masters to teach them to read and write; and the princess, their sister, who was often with them, showing a great desire to learn, the intendant, pleased with her quickness, employed the same master to teach her also. Her vivacity and piercing wit made her, in a little time, as great a proficient as her brothers. From that time the brothers and sister had the same masters in geography, poetry, history, and even the secret sciences, and made so wonderful a progress that their tutors were amazed, and frankly owned that they could teach them nothing more. At the hours of recreation, the princess learned to sing and play upon all sorts of instruments; and when the princes were learning to ride she would not permit them to have that advantage over her, but went through all the exercises with them, learning to ride also, to bend the bow, and dart the reed or javelin, and oftentimes outdid them in the race and other contests of agility.

The intendant of the gardens was so overjoyed to find his adopted children so accomplished in all the perfections of body and mind, and that they so well requited the expense he had been at in their education, that he resolved to be at a still greater; for, as he had until then been content simply with his lodge at the entrance of the garden, and kept no country-house, he purchased a mansion at a short distance from the city, surrounded by a large tract of arable land, meadows, and woods. As the house was not sufficiently handsome nor convenient, he pulled it down, and spared no expense in building a more magnificent residence. He went every day to hasten, by his presence, the great number of workmen he employed, and as soon as there was an apartment ready to receive him, passed several days together there when his presence was not necessary at court; and by the same exertions, the interior was furnished in the richest manner, in consonance with the magnificence of the edifice. Afterward he made gardens, according to a plan drawn by himself. He took in a large extent of ground, which he walled around, and stocked with fallow deer, that the princes and princess might divert themselves with hunting when they chose.

When this country seat was finished and fit for habitation, the intendant of the gardens went and cast himself at the emperor's feet, and, after representing how long he had served, and the infirmities of age which he found growing upon him, begged that he might be permitted to resign his charge into his majesty's disposal and retire. The emperor gave him leave, with the more pleasure, because he was satisfied with his long services, both in his father's reign and his own, and when he granted it, asked what he should do to recompense him. "Sir," replied the intendant of the gardens, "I have received so many obligations from your majesty and the late emperor, your father, of happy memory, that I desire no more than the honour of dying in your favour." He took his leave of the emperor and retired with the two princes and the princess to the country retreat he had built. His wife had been dead some years, and he himself had not lived above six months with his charges before he was surprised by so sudden a death that he had not time to give them the least account of the manner in which he had discovered them. The Princes Bahman and Perviz, and the Princess Periezade, who knew no other father than the intendant of the emperor's gardens, regretted and bewailed him as such, and paid all the honours in his funeral obsequies which love and filial gratitude required of them. Satisfied with the plentiful fortune he had left them, they lived together in perfect union, free from the ambition of distinguishing themselves at court, or aspiring to places of honour and dignity, which they might easily have obtained.

One day when the two princes were hunting, and the princess had remained at home, a religious old woman came to the gate, and desired leave to go in to say her prayers, it being then the hour. The servants asked the princess's permission, who ordered them to show her into the oratory, which the intendant of the emperor's gardens had taken care to fit up in his house, for want of a mosque in the neighbourhood. She bade them, also, after the good woman had finished her prayers, to show her the house and gardens and then bring her to the hall.

The old woman went into the oratory, said her prayers, and when she came out two of the princess's women invited her to see the residence, which civility she accepted, followed them from one apartment to another, and observed, like a person who understood what belonged to furniture, the nice arrangement of everything. They conducted her also into the garden, the disposition of which she found so well planned, that she admired it, observing that the person who had formed it must have been an excellent master of his art. Afterward she was brought before the princess, who waited for her in the great hall, which in beauty and richness exceeded all that she had admired in the other apartments.

As soon as the princess saw the devout woman, she said to her: "My good mother, come near and sit down by me. I am overjoyed at the happiness of having the opportunity of profiting for some moments by the example and conversation of such a person as you, who have taken the right way by dedicating yourself to the service of God. I wish every one were as wise."

The devout woman, instead of sitting on a sofa, would only sit upon the edge of one. The princess would not permit her to do so, but rising from her seat and taking her by the hand, obliged her to come and sit by her. The good woman, sensible of the civility, said: "Madam, I ought not to have so much respect shown me; but since you command, and are mistress of your own house, I will obey you." When she had seated herself, before they entered into any conversation, one of the princess's women brought a low stand of mother-of-pearl and ebony, with a china dish full of cakes upon it, and many others set round it full of fruits in season, and wet and dry sweetmeats.

The princess took up one of the cakes, and presenting her with it, said: "Eat, good mother, and make choice of what you like best; you had need to eat after coming so far." "Madam," replied the good woman, "I am not used to eat such delicacies, but will not refuse what God has sent me by so liberal a hand as yours."

While the devout woman was eating, the princess ate a little too, to bear her company, and asked her many questions upon the exercise of devotion which she practised and how she lived; all of which she answered with great modesty. Talking of various things, at last the princess asked her what she thought of the house, and how she liked it.

"Madam," answered the devout woman, "I must certainly have very bad taste to disapprove anything in it, since it is beautiful, regular, and magnificently furnished with exactness and judgment, and all its ornaments adjusted in the best manner. Its situation is an agreeable spot, and no garden can be more delightful; but yet, if you will give me leave to speak my mind freely, I will take the liberty to tell you that this house would be incomparable if it had three things which are wanting to complete it." "My good mother," replied the Princess Periezade, "what are those? I entreat you to tell me what they are; I will spare nothing to get them."

"Madam," replied the devout woman, "the first of these three things is the Talking Bird, so singular a creature, that it draws round it all the songsters of the neighbourhood which come to accompany its voice. The second is the Singing Tree, the leaves of which are so many mouths which form an harmonious concert of different voices and never cease. The third is the Golden Water, a single drop of which being poured into a vessel properly prepared, it increases so as to fill it immediately, and rises up in the middle like a fountain, which continually plays, and yet the basin never overflows."

"Ah! my good mother," cried the princess, "how much am I obliged to you for the knowledge of these curiosities! I never before heard there were such rarities in the world; but as I am persuaded that you know, I expect that you should do me the favour to inform me where they are to be found."

"Madam," replied the good woman, "I should be unworthy the hospitality you have shown me if I should refuse to satisfy your curiosity on that point, and am glad to have the honour to tell you that these curiosities are all to be met with in the same spot on the confines of this kingdom, toward India. The road lies before your house, and whoever you send needs but follow it for twenty days, and on the twentieth only let him ask the first person he meets where the Talking Bird, the Singing Tree, and the Golden Water are, and he will be informed." After saying this, she rose from her seat, took her leave, and went her way.

The Princess Periezade's thoughts were so taken up with the Talking Bird, Singing Tree, and Golden Water, that she never perceived the devout woman's departure, till she wanted to ask her some question for her better information; for she thought that what she had been told was not a sufficient reason for exposing herself by undertaking a long journey. However, she would not send after her visitor, but endeavoured to remember all the directions, and when she thought she had recollected every word, took real pleasure in thinking of the satisfaction she should have if she could get these curiosities into her possession; but the difficulties she apprehended and the fear of not succeeding made her very uneasy.

She was absorbed in these thoughts when her brothers returned from hunting, who, when they entered the great hall, instead of finding her lively and gay, as she was wont to be, were amazed to see her so pensive and hanging down her head as if something troubled her.

"Sister," said Prince Bahman, "what is become of all your mirth and gaiety? Are you not well? or has some misfortune befallen you? Tell us, that we may know how to act, and give you some relief. If any one has affronted you, we will resent his insolence."

The princess remained in the same posture some time without answering, but at last lifted up her eyes to look at her brothers, and then held them down again, telling them nothing disturbed her.

"Sister," said Prince Bahman, "you conceal the truth from us; there must be something of consequence. It is impossible we could observe so sudden a change if nothing was the matter with you. You would not have us satisfied with the evasive answer you have given; do not conceal anything, unless you would have us suspect that you renounce the strict union which has hitherto subsisted between us."

The princess, who had not the smallest intention to offend her brothers, would not suffer them to entertain such a thought, but said: "When I told you nothing disturbed me, I meant nothing that was of importance to you, but to me it is of some consequence; and since you press me to tell you by our strict union and friendship, which are so dear to me, I will. You think, and I always believed so too, that this house was so complete that nothing was wanting. But this day I have learned that it lacks three rarities which would render it so perfect that no country seat in the world could be compared with it. These three things are the Talking Bird, the Singing Tree, and the Golden Water." After she had informed them wherein consisted the excellency of these rarities, "A devout woman," added she, "has made this discovery to me, told me the place where they are to be found, and the way thither. Perhaps you may imagine these things of little consequence; that without these additions our house will always be thought sufficiently elegant, and that we can do without them. You may think as you please, but I cannot help telling you that I am persuaded they are absolutely necessary, and I shall not be easy without them. Therefore, whether you value them or not, I desire you to consider what person you may think proper for me to send in search of the curiosities I have mentioned."

"Sister," replied Prince Bahman, "nothing can concern you in which we have not an equal interest. It is enough that you desire these things to oblige us to take the same interest; but if you had not, we feel ourselves inclined of our own accord and for our own individual satisfaction. I am persuaded my brother is of the same opinion, and therefore we ought to undertake this conquest, for the importance and singularity of the undertaking deserve that name. I will take the charge upon myself; only tell me the place and the way to it, and I will defer my journey no longer than till to-morrow."

"Brother," said Prince Perviz, "it is not proper that you, who are the head of our family, should be absent. I desire my sister should join with me to oblige you to abandon your design, and allow me to undertake it. I hope to acquit myself as well as you, and it will be a more regular proceeding." "I am persuaded of your goodwill, brother," replied Prince Bahman, "and that you would succeed as well as myself in this journey; but I have resolved and will undertake it. You shall stay at home with our sister, and I need not recommend her to you."

The next morning Bahman mounted his horse, and Perviz and the princess embraced and wished him a good journey. But in the midst of their adieus, the princess recollected what she had not thought of before. "Brother," said she, "I had quite forgotten the accidents which attend travellers. Who knows whether I shall ever see you again? Alight, I beseech you, and give up this journey. I would rather be deprived of the sight and possession of the Talking Bird, the Singing Tree, and the Golden Water, than run the risk of never seeing you more."

"Sister," replied Bahman, smiling at her sudden fears, "my resolution is fixed. The accidents you speak of befall only those who are unfortunate; but there are more who are not so. However, as events are uncertain, and I may fail in this undertaking, all I can do is to leave you this knife."

Bahman pulling a knife from his vestband, and presenting it to the princess in the sheath, said: "Take this knife, sister, and give yourself the trouble sometimes to pull it out of the sheath; while you see it clean as it is now, it will be a sign that I am alive; but if you find it stained with blood, then you may believe me dead and indulge me with your prayers."

The princess could obtain nothing more of Bahman. He bade adieu to her and Prince Perviz for the last time and rode away. When he got into the road, he never turned to the right hand nor to the left, but went directly forward toward India. The twentieth day he perceived on the roadside a hideous old man, who sat under a tree near a thatched house, which was his retreat from the weather.

His eyebrows were as white as snow, as was also the hair of his head; his whiskers covered his mouth, and his beard and hair reached down to his feet. The nails of his hands and feet were grown to an extensive length, while a flat, broad umbrella covered his head. He had no clothes, but only a mat thrown round his body. This old man was a dervish for so many years retired from the world to give himself up entirely to the service of God that at last he had become what we have described.

Prince Bahman, who had been all that morning very attentive, to see if he could meet with anybody who could give him information of the place he was in search of, stopped when he came near the dervish, alighted, in conformity to the directions which the devout woman had given the Princess Periezade, and leading his horse by the bridle, advanced toward him and saluting him, said: "God prolong your days, good father, and grant you the accomplishment of your desires."

The dervish returned the prince's salutation, but so unintelligibly that he could not understand one word he said and Prince Bahman, perceiving that this difficulty proceeded from the dervish's whiskers hanging over his mouth, and unwilling to go any further without the instructions he wanted, pulled out a pair of scissors he had about him, and having tied his horse to a branch of the tree, said: "Good dervish, I want to have some talk with you, but your whiskers prevent my understanding what you say; and if you will consent, I will cut off some part of them and of your eyebrows, which disfigure you so much that you look more like a bear than a man."

The dervish did not oppose the offer, and when the prince had cut off as much hair as he thought fit, he perceived that the dervish had a good complexion, and that he was not as old as he seemed. "Good dervish," said he, "if I had a glass I would show you how young you look: you are now a man, but before, nobody could tell what you were."

The kind behaviour of Prince Bahman made the dervish smile and return his compliment. "Sir," said he, "whoever you are, I am obliged by the good office you have performed, and am ready to show my gratitude by doing anything in my power for you. You must have alighted here upon some account or other. Tell me what it is, and I will endeavour to serve you."

"Good dervish," replied Prince Bahman, "I am in search of the Talking Bird, the Singing Tree, and the Golden Water; I know these three rarities are not far from hence, but cannot tell exactly the place where they are to be found; if you know, I conjure you to show me the way, that I may not lose my labour after so long a journey."

The prince, while he spoke, observed that the dervish changed countenance, held down his eyes, looked very serious, and remained silent, which obliged him to say to him again: "Good father, tell me whether you know what I ask you, that I may not lose my time, but inform myself somewhere else."

At last the dervish broke silence. "Sir," said he to Prince Bahman, "I know the way you ask of me; but the regard which I conceived for you the first moment I saw you, and which is grown stronger by the service you have done me, kept me in suspense as to whether I should give you the satisfaction you desire." "What motive can hinder you?" replied the prince; "and what difficulties do you find in so doing?" "I will tell you," replied the dervish; "the danger to which you are going to expose yourself is greater than you may suppose. A number of gentlemen of as much bravery as you can possibly possess have passed this way, and asked me the same question. When I had used all my endeavours to persuade them to desist, they would not believe me; at last I yielded to their importunities; I was compelled to show them the way, and I can assure you they have all perished, for I have not seen one come back. Therefore, if you have any regard for your life, take my advice, go no farther, but return home."

Prince Bahman persisted in his resolution. "I will not suppose," said he to the dervish, "but that your advice is sincere. I am obliged to you for the friendship you express for me; but whatever may be the danger, nothing shall make me change my intention: whoever attacks me, I am well armed, and can say I am as brave as any one." "But they who will attack you are not to be seen," replied the dervish; "how will you defend yourself against invisible persons?" "It is no matter," answered the prince, "all you say shall not persuade me to do anything contrary to my duty. Since you know the way, I conjure you once more to inform me."

When the dervish found he could not prevail upon Prince Bahman, and that he was obstinately bent to pursue his journey, notwithstanding his friendly remonstrance, he put his hand into a bag that lay by him and pulled out a bowl, which he presented to him. "Since I cannot prevail on you to attend to my advice," said he, "take this bowl and when you are on horseback throw it before you, and follow it to the foot of a mountain, where it will stop. As soon as the bowl stops, alight, leave your horse with the bridle over his neck, and he will stand in the same place till you return. As you ascend you will see on your right and left a great number of large black stones, and will hear on all sides a confusion of voices, which will utter a thousand abuses to discourage you, and prevent your reaching the summit of the mountain. Be not afraid; but, above all things, do not turn your head to look behind you, for in that instant you will be changed into such a black stone as those you see, which are all youths who have failed in this enterprise. If you escape the danger of which I give you but a faint idea, and get to the top of the mountain, you will see a cage, and in that cage is the bird you seek; ask him which are the Singing Tree and the Golden Water, and he will tell you. I have nothing more to say; this is what you have to do, and if you are prudent you will take my advice and not expose your life. Consider once more while you have time that the difficulties are almost insuperable."

"I am obliged to you for your advice," replied Prince Bahman, after he had received the bowl, "but cannot follow it. However, I will endeavour to conform myself to that part of it which bids me not to look behind me, and I hope to come and thank you when I have obtained what I am seeking." After these words, to which the dervish made no other answer than that he should be overjoyed to see him again, the prince mounted his horse, took leave of the dervish with a respectful salute, and threw the bowl before him.

The bowl rolled away with as much swiftness as when Prince Bahman first hurled it from his hand, which obliged him to put his horse to the same pace to avoid losing sight of it, and when it had reached the foot of the mountain it stopped. The prince alighted from his horse, laid the bridle on his neck, and having first surveyed the mountain and seen the black stones, began to ascend, but had not gone four steps before he heard the voices mentioned by the dervish, though he could see nobody. Some said: "Where is that fool going? Where is he going? What would he have? Do not let him pass." Others: "Stop him, catch him, kill him:" and others with a voice like thunder: "Thief! assassin! murderer!" while some in a gibing tone cried: "No, no, do not hurt him; let the pretty fellow pass, the cage and bird are kept for him."

Notwithstanding all these troublesome voices, Prince Bahman ascended with resolution for some time, but the voices redoubled with so loud a din, both behind and before, that at last he was seized with dread, his legs trembled under him, he staggered, and finding that his strength failed him, he forgot the dervish's advice, turned about to run down the hill, and was that instant changed into a black stone; a metamorphosis which had happened to many before him who had attempted the ascent. His horse, likewise, underwent the same change.

From the time of Prince Bahman's departure, the Princess Periezade always wore the knife and sheath in her girdle, and pulled it out several times in a day, to know whether her brother was alive. She had the consolation to understand he was in perfect health and to talk of him frequently with Prince Perviz. On the fatal day that Prince Bahman was transformed into a stone, as Prince Perviz and the princess were talking together in the evening, as usual, the prince desired his sister to pull out the knife to know how their brother did. The princess readily complied, and seeing the blood run down the point was seized with so much horror that she threw it down. "Ah! my dear brother," cried she, "I have been the cause of your death, and shall never see you more! Why did I tell you of the Talking Bird, Singing Tree, and Golden Water; or rather, of what importance was it to me to know whether the devout woman thought this house ugly or handsome, or complete or not? I wish to Heaven she had never addressed herself to me!"

Prince Perviz was as much afflicted at the death of Prince Bahman as the princess, but not to waste time in needless regret, as he knew that she still passionately desired possession of the marvellous treasures, he interrupted her, saying: "Sister, our regret for our brother is vain; our lamentations cannot restore him to life; it is the will of God; we must submit and adore the decrees of the Almighty without searching into them. Why should you now doubt of the truth of what the holy woman told you? Do you think she spoke to you of three things that were not in being, and that she invented them to deceive you who had received her with so much goodness and civility? Let us rather believe that our brother's death is owing to some error on his part, or some accident which we cannot conceive. It ought not therefore to prevent us from pursuing our object. I offered to go this journey, and am now more resolved than ever; his example has no effect upon my resolution; to-morrow I will depart."

The princess did all she could to dissuade Prince Perviz, conjuring him not to expose her to the danger of losing two brothers; but he was obstinate, and all the remonstrances she could urge had no effect upon him. Before he went, that she might know what success he had, he left her a string of a hundred pearls, telling her that if they would not run when she should count them upon the string, but remain fixed, that would be a certain sign he had undergone the same fate as his brother; but at the same time told her he hoped it would never happen, but that he should have the delight of seeing her again.

Prince Perviz, on the twentieth day after his departure, met the same dervish in the same place as his brother Bahman had done before him. He went directly up to him, and after he had saluted, asked him if he could tell him where to find the Talking Bird, the Singing Tree, and the Golden Water. The dervish urged the same remonstrances as he had done to Prince Bahman, telling him that a young gentleman, who very much resembled him, was with him a short time before; that, overcome by his importunity, he had shown him the way, given him a guide, and told him how he should act to succeed, but that he had not seen him since, and doubted not but he had shared the same fate as all other adventurers.

"Good dervish," answered Prince Perviz, "I know whom you speak of; he was my elder brother, and I am informed of the certainty of his death, but know not the cause." "I can tell you," replied the dervish; "he was changed into a black stone, as all I speak of have been; and you must expect the same transformation, unless you observe more exactly than he has done the advice I gave him, in case you persist in your resolution, which I once more entreat you to renounce."

"Dervish," said Prince Perviz, "I cannot sufficiently express how much I am obliged for the concern you take in my life, who am a stranger to you, and have done nothing to deserve your kindness; but I thoroughly considered this enterprise before I undertook it; therefore I beg of you to do me the same favour you have done my brother. Perhaps I may have better success in following your directions." "Since I cannot prevail with you," said the dervish, "to give up your obstinate resolution, if my age did not prevent me, and I could stand, I would get up to reach you a bowl I have here, which will show you the way."

Without giving the dervish time to say more, the prince alighted from his horse and went to the dervish, who had taken a bowl out of his bag, in which he had a great many, and gave it him, with the same directions he had given Prince Bahman; and after warning him not to be discouraged by the voices he should hear, however threatening they might be, but to continue his way up the hill till he saw the cage and bird, he let him depart.

Prince Perviz thanked the dervish, and when he had remounted and taken leave, threw the bowl before his horse, and spurring him at the same time, followed it. When the bowl came to the bottom of the hill it stopped, the prince alighted, and stood some time to recollect the dervish's directions. He encouraged himself, and began to walk up with a resolution to reach the summit; but before he had gone above six steps, he heard a voice, which seemed to be near, as of a man behind him, say in an insulting tone: "Stay, rash youth, that I may punish you for your presumption."

Upon this affront the prince, forgetting the dervish's advice, clapped his hand upon his sword, drew it, and turned about to revenge himself; but had scarcely time to see that nobody followed him before he and his horse were changed into black stones.

In the meantime the Princess Periezade, several times a day after her brother's departure, counted her chaplet. She did not omit it at night, but when she went to bed put it about her neck, and in the morning when she awoke counted over the pearls again to see if they would slide.

The day that Prince Perviz was transformed into a stone she was counting over the pearls as she used to do, when all at once they became immovably fixed, a certain token that the prince, her brother, was dead. As she had determined what to do in case it should so happen, she lost no time in outward demonstrations of grief, which she concealed as much as possible, but having disguised herself in man's apparel, she mounted her horse the next morning, armed and equipped, having told her servants she should return in two or three days, and took the same road that her brothers had done.

The princess, who had been used to ride on horseback in hunting, supported the fatigue of so long a journey better than most ladies could have done; and as she made the same stages as her brothers, she also met with the dervish on the twentieth day. When she came near him, she alighted from her horse, leading him by the bridle, went and sat down by the dervish, and after she had saluted him, said: "Good dervish, give me leave to rest myself; and do me the favour to tell me if you have not heard that there are somewhere in this neighbourhood a Talking Bird, a Singing Tree, and Golden Water."

"Princess," answered the dervish, "for so I must call you, since by your voice I know you to be a woman disguised in man's apparel, I know the place well where these things are to be found; but what makes you ask me this question?"

"Good dervish," replied the princess, "I have had such a flattering relation of them given me, that I have a great desire to possess them." "Madam," replied the dervish, "you have been told the truth. These curiosities are more singular than they have been represented, but you have not been made acquainted with the difficulties which must be surmounted in order to obtain them. If you had been fully informed of these, you would not have undertaken so dangerous an enterprise. Take my advice, return, and do not urge me to contribute toward your ruin."

"Good father," said the princess, "I have travelled a great way, and should be sorry to return without executing my design. You talk of difficulties and danger of life, but you do not tell me what those difficulties are, and wherein the danger consists. This is what I desire to know, that I may consider and judge whether I can trust my courage and strength to brave them."

The dervish repeated to the princess what he had said to the Princes Bahman and Perviz, exaggerating the difficulties of climbing up to the top of the mountain, where she was to make herself mistress of the Bird, which would inform her of the Singing Tree and Golden Water. He magnified the din of the terrible threatening voices which she would hear on all sides of her, and the great number of black stones alone sufficient to strike terror. He entreated her to reflect that those stones were so many brave gentlemen, so metamorphosed for having omitted to observe the principal condition of success in the perilous undertaking, which was not to look behind them before they had got possession of the cage.

When the dervish had done, the princess replied: "By what I comprehend from your discourse, the difficulties of succeeding in this affair are, first, the getting up to the cage without being frightened at the terrible din of voices I shall hear; and, secondly, not to look behind me. For this last, I hope I shall be mistress enough of myself to observe it; as to the first, I own that voices, such as you represent them to be, are capable of striking terror into the most undaunted; but as in all enterprises and dangers every one may use stratagem, I desire to know of you if I may use any in one of so great importance." "And what stratagem is it you would employ?" said the dervish. "To stop my ears with cotton," answered the princess, "that the voices, however terrible, may make the less impression upon my imagination, and my mind remain free from that disturbance which might cause me to lose the use of my reason."

"Princess," replied the dervish, "of all the persons who have addressed themselves to me for information, I do not know that ever one made use of the contrivance you propose. All I know is that they all perished. If you persist in your design, you may make the experiment. You will be fortunate if it succeeds, but I would advise you not to expose yourself to the danger."

"My good father," replied the princess, "I am sure my precaution will succeed, and am resolved to try the experiment. Nothing remains for me but to know which way I must go, and I conjure you not to deny me that information." The dervish exhorted her again to consider well what she was going to do; but finding her resolute, he took out a bowl, and presenting it to her, said: "Take this bowl, mount your horse again, and when you have thrown it before you, follow it through all its windings, till it stops at the bottom of the mountain; there alight and ascend the hill. Go, you know the rest."

After the princess had thanked the dervish, and taken her leave of him, she mounted her horse, threw the bowl before her, and followed it till it stopped at the foot of the mountain.

She then alighted, stopped her ears with cotton, and after she had well examined the path leading to the summit began with a moderate pace and walked up with intrepidity. She heard the voices and perceived the great service the cotton was to her. The higher she went, the louder and more numerous the voices seemed, but they were not capable of making any impression upon her. She heard a great many affronting speeches and raillery very disagreeable to a woman, which she only laughed at. "I mind not," said she to herself, "all that can be said, were it worse; I only laugh at them and shall pursue my way." At last, she climbed so high that she could perceive the cage and the Bird which endeavoured, in company with the voices, to frighten her, crying in a thundering tone, notwithstanding the smallness of its size: "Retire, fool, and approach no nearer."

The princess, encouraged by this sight, redoubled her speed, and by effort gained the summit of the mountain, where the ground was level; then running directly to the cage and clapping her hand upon it, cried: "Bird, I have you, and you shall not escape me."

While Periezade was pulling the cotton out of her ears the Bird said to her: "Heroic princess, be not angry with me for joining with those who exerted themselves to preserve my liberty. Though in a cage, I was content with my condition; but since I am destined to be a slave, I would rather be yours than any other person's, since you have obtained me so courageously. From this instant, I swear entire submission to all your commands. I know who you are. You do not; but the time will come when I shall do you essential service, for which I hope you will think yourself obliged to me. As a proof of my sincerity, tell me what you desire and I am ready to obey you."

The princess's joy was the more inexpressible, because the conquest she had made had cost her the lives of two beloved brothers, and given her more trouble and danger than she could have imagined. "Bird," said she, "it was my intention to have told you that I wish for many things which are of importance, but I am overjoyed that you have shown your goodwill and prevented me. I have been told that there is not far off a Golden Water, the property of which is very wonderful; before all things, I ask you to tell me where it is." The Bird showed her the place, which was just by, and she went and filled a little silver flagon which she had brought with her. She returned at once and said: "Bird, this is not enough; I want also the Singing Tree; tell me where it is." "Turn about," said the Bird, "and you will see behind you a wood where you will find the tree." The princess went into the wood, and by the harmonious concert she heard, soon knew the tree among many others, but it was very large and high. She came back again and said: "Bird, I have found the Singing Tree, but I can neither pull it up by the roots nor carry it." The Bird replied: "It is not necessary that you should take it up; it will be sufficient to break off a branch and carry it to plant in your garden; it will take root as soon as it is put into the earth, and in a little time will grow to as fine a tree as that you have seen."

When the princess had obtained possession of the three things for which she had conceived so great a desire, she said again: "Bird, what you have yet done for me is not sufficient. You have been the cause of the death of my two brothers, who must be among the black stones I saw as I ascended the mountain. I wish to take the princes home with me."

The Bird seemed reluctant to satisfy the princess in this point, and indeed made some difficulty to comply. "Bird," said the princess, "remember you told me that you were my slave. You are so; and your life is in my disposal." "That I cannot deny," answered the bird; "but although what you now ask is more difficult than all the rest, yet I will do it for you. Cast your eyes around," added he, "and look if you can see a little pitcher." "I see it already," said the princess. "Take it then," said he, "and as you descend the mountain, sprinkle a little of the water that is in it upon every black stone."

The princess took up the pitcher accordingly, carried with her the cage and Bird, the flagon of Golden Water, and the branch of the Singing Tree, and as she descended the mountain, threw a little of the water on every black stone, which was changed immediately into a man; and as she did not miss one stone, all the horses, both of her brothers and of the other gentlemen, resumed their natural forms also. She instantly recognised Bahman and Perviz, as they did her, and ran to embrace her. She returned their embraces and expressed her amazement. "What do you here, my dear brothers?" said she, and they told her they had been asleep. "Yes," replied she, "and if it had not been for me, perhaps you might have slept till the day of judgment. Do not you remember that you came to fetch the Talking Bird, the Singing Tree, and the Golden Water, and did not you see, as you came along, the place covered with black stones? Look and see if there be any now. The gentlemen and their horses who surround us, and you yourselves, were these black stones. If you desire to know how this wonder was performed," continued she, showing the pitcher, which she set down at the foot of the mountain, "it was done by virtue of the water which was in this pitcher, with which I sprinkled every stone. After I had made the Talking Bird (which you see in this cage) my slave, by his directions I found out the Singing Tree, a branch of which I have now in my hand; and the Golden Water, with which this flagon is filled; but being still unwilling to return without taking you with me, I constrained the Bird, by the power I had over him, to afford me the means. He told me where to find this pitcher, and the use I was to make of it."

The Princes Bahman and Perviz learned by this relation the obligation they had to their sister, as did all the other gentlemen, who expressed to her that, far from envying her happiness in the conquest she had made, and which they all had aspired to, they thought they could not better express their gratitude for restoring them to life again, than by declaring themselves her slaves, and that they were ready to obey her in whatever she should command.

"Gentlemen," replied the princess, "if you had given any attention to my words, you might have observed that I had no other intention in what I have done than to recover my brothers; therefore, if you have received any benefit, you owe me no obligation, and I have no further share in your compliment than your politeness toward me, for which I return you my thanks. In other respects, I regard each of you as quite as free as you were before your misfortunes, and I rejoice with you at the happiness which has accrued to you by my means. Let us, however, stay no longer in a place where we have nothing to detain us, but mount our horses and return to our respective homes."

It will be sufficient to break off a branch and carry it to plant in your garden.

The princess took her horse, which stood in the place where she had left him. Before she mounted, Prince Bahman desired her to give him the cage to carry. "Brother," replied the princess, "the Bird is my slave and I will carry him myself; if you will take the pains to carry the branch of the Singing Tree, there it is; only hold the cage while I get on horseback." When she had mounted her horse, and Prince Bahman had given her the cage, she turned about and said to Prince Perviz: "I leave the flagon of Golden Water to your care, if it will not be too much trouble for you to carry it," and Prince Perviz accordingly took charge of it with pleasure.

When Bahman, Perviz, and all the gentlemen had mounted their horses, the princess waited for some of them to lead the way. The two princes paid that compliment to the gentlemen, and they again to the princess, who, finding that none of them would accept the honour, but that it was reserved for her, addressed herself to them and said: "Gentlemen, I expect that some of you should lead the way;" to which one who was nearest to her, in the name of the rest, replied: "Madam, were we ignorant of the respect due to your sex, yet after what you have done for us there is no deference we would not willingly pay you, notwithstanding your modesty; we entreat you no longer to deprive us of the happiness of following you."

"Gentlemen," said the princess, "I do not deserve the honour you do me, and accept it only because you desire it." At the same time she led the way, and the two princes and the gentlemen followed.

This illustrious company called upon the dervish as they passed, to thank him for his reception and wholesome advice, which they had all found to be sincere. He was dead, however; whether of old age, or because he was no longer necessary to show the way to obtaining the three rarities, did not appear. They pursued their route, but lessened in their numbers every day. The gentlemen who, as we said before, had come from different countries, after severally repeating their obligations to the princess and her brothers, took leave of them one after another as they approached the road by which they had come.

As soon as the princess reached home, she placed the cage in the garden, and the Bird no sooner began to warble than he was surrounded by nightingales, chaffinches, larks, linnets, goldfinches, and every species of birds of the country. The branch of the Singing Tree was no sooner set in the midst of the parterre, a little distance from the house, than it took root and in a short time became a large tree, the leaves of which gave as harmonious a concert as those of the parent from which it was gathered. A large basin of beautiful marble was placed in the garden, and when it was finished, the princess poured into it all the Golden Water from the flagon, which instantly increased and swelled so much that it soon reached up to the edges of the basin, and afterward formed in the middle a fountain twenty feet high, which fell again into the basin perpetually, without running over.

The report of these wonders was presently spread abroad, and as the gates of the house and those of the gardens were shut to nobody, a great number of people came to admire them.

Some days after, when the Princes Bahman and Perviz had recovered from the fatigue of their journey, they resumed their former way of living; and as their usual diversion was hunting, they mounted their horses and went for the first time since their return, not to their own demesne, but two or three leagues from their house. As they pursued their sport, the emperor of Persia came in pursuit of game upon the same ground. When they perceived, by the number of horsemen in different places, that he would soon be up, they resolved to discontinue their chase, and retire to avoid encountering him; but in the very road they took they chanced to meet him in so narrow a way that they could not retreat without being seen. In their surprise they had only time to alight and prostrate themselves before the emperor, without lifting up their heads to look at him. The emperor, who saw they were as well mounted and dressed as if they had belonged to his court, had a curiosity to see their faces. He stopped and commanded them to rise. The princes rose up and stood before him with an easy and graceful air, accompanied with modest countenances. The emperor took some time to view them before he spoke, and after he had admired their good air and mien, asked them who they were and where they lived.

"Sir," said Prince Bahman, "we are the sons of the late intendant of your majesty's gardens, and live in a house which he built a little before he died, till we should be fit to serve your majesty and ask of you some employ when opportunity offered."

"By what I perceive," replied the emperor, "you love hunting." "Sir," replied Prince Bahman, "it is our common exercise, and what none of your majesty's subjects who intend to bear arms in your armies, ought, according to the ancient custom of the kingdom, to neglect." The emperor, charmed with so prudent an answer, said: "Since it is so, I should be glad to see your expertness in the chase; choose your own game."

The princes mounted their horses again and followed the emperor, but had not gone far before they saw many wild beasts together. Prince Bahman chose a lion and Prince Perviz a bear, and pursued them with so much intrepidity that the emperor was surprised. They came up with their game nearly at the same time, and darted their javelins with so much skill and address that they pierced the one the lion and the other the bear so effectually that the emperor saw them fall one after the other. Immediately afterward Prince Bahman pursued another bear, and Prince Perviz another lion, and killed them in a short time, and would have beaten out for fresh game, but the emperor would not let them, and sent to them to come to him. When they approached he said: "If I had given you leave, you would soon have destroyed all my game; but it is not that which I would preserve, but your persons; for I am so well assured your bravery may one time or other be serviceable to me, that from this moment your lives will be always dear to me."

The emperor, in short, conceived so great a kindness for the two princes, that he invited them immediately to make him a visit, to which Prince Bahman replied: "Your majesty does us an honour we do not deserve, and we beg you will excuse us."

The emperor, who could not comprehend what reason the princes could have to refuse this token of his favour, pressed them to tell him why they excused themselves. "Sir," said Prince Bahman, "we have a sister younger than ourselves, with whom we live in such perfect union, that we undertake nothing before we consult her, nor she anything without asking our advice." "I commend your brotherly affection," answered the emperor. "Consult your sister, meet me to-morrow, and give me an answer."

The princes went home, but neglected to speak of their adventure in meeting the emperor and hunting with him, and also of the honour he had done them, yet did not the next morning fail to meet him at the place appointed. "Well," said the emperor, "have you spoken to your sister, and has she consented to the pleasure I expect of seeing you?" The two princes looked at each other and blushed. "Sir," said Prince Bahman, "we beg your majesty to excuse us, for both my brother and I forgot." "Then remember to-day," replied the emperor, "and be sure to bring me an answer to-morrow."

The princes were guilty of the same fault a second time, and the emperor was so good-natured as to forgive their negligence; but to prevent their forgetfulness the third time, he pulled three little golden balls out of a purse, and put them into Prince Bahman's bosom. "These balls," said he, smiling, "will prevent your forgetting a third time what I wish you to do for my sake; since the noise they will make by falling on the floor when you undress will remind you, if you do not recollect it before." The event happened just as the emperor foresaw; and without these balls the princes had not thought of speaking to their sister of this affair, for as Prince Bahman unloosed his girdle to go to bed the balls dropped on the floor, upon which he ran into Prince Perviz's chamber, when both went into the Princess Periezade's apartment, and after they had asked her pardon for coming at so unseasonable a time, they told her all the circumstances of their meeting the emperor.

The princess was somewhat surprised at this intelligence. "Your meeting with the emperor," said she, "is happy and honourable and may in the end be highly advantageous to you, but it places me in an awkward position. It was on my account, I know, you refused the emperor, and I am infinitely obliged to you for doing so. I know by this that you would rather be guilty of incivility toward the emperor than violate the union we have sworn to each other. You judge right, for if you had once gone you would insensibly have been engaged to devote yourselves to him. But do you think it an easy matter absolutely to refuse the emperor what he seems so earnestly to desire? Monarchs will be obeyed in their desires, and it may be dangerous to oppose them; therefore, if to follow my inclination I should dissuade you from obeying him, it may expose you to his resentment, and may render myself and you miserable. These are my sentiments; but before we conclude upon anything let us consult the Talking Bird and hear what he says; he is penetrating, and has promised his assistance in all difficulties."

The princess sent for the cage, and after she had related the circumstances to the Bird in the presence of her brothers, asked him what they should do in this perplexity. The Bird answered: "The princes, your brothers, must conform to the emperor's pleasure, and in their turn invite him to come and see your house."

"But, Bird," replied the princess, "my brothers and I love one another, and our friendship is yet undisturbed. Will not this step be injurious to that friendship?" "Not at all," replied the Bird; "it will tend rather to cement it." "Then," answered the princess, "the emperor will see me." The Bird told her it was necessary he should, and that everything would go better afterward.

Next morning the princes met the emperor hunting, who asked them if they had remembered to speak to their sister. Prince Bahman approached and answered: "Sir, we are ready to obey you, for we have not only obtained our sister's consent with great ease, but she took it amiss that we should pay her that deference in a matter wherein our duty to your majesty was concerned. If we have offended, we hope you will pardon us." "Do not be uneasy," replied the emperor. "I highly approve of your conduct, and hope you will have the same deference and attachment to my person, if I have ever so little share in your friendship." The princes, confounded at the emperor's goodness, returned no other answer but a low obeisance.

The emperor, contrary to his usual custom, did not hunt long that day. Presuming that the princes possessed wit equal to their courage and bravery, he longed with impatience to converse with them more at liberty. He made them ride on each side of him, an honour which was envied by the grand vizier, who was much mortified to see them preferred before him.

When the emperor entered his capital, the eyes of the people, who stood in crowds in the streets, were fixed upon the two Princes Bahman and Perviz; and they were earnest to know who they might be.

All, however, agreed in wishing that the emperor had been blessed with two such handsome princes, and said that his children would have been about the same age, if the queen had not been so unfortunate as to lose them.

The first thing the emperor did when he arrived at his palace was to conduct the princes into the principal apartments, who praised without affectation the beauty and symmetry of the rooms, and the richness of the furniture and ornaments. Afterward a magnificent repast was served up, and the emperor made them sit with him, which they at first refused; but finding it was his pleasure, they obeyed.

The emperor, who had himself much learning, particularly in history, foresaw that the princes, out of modesty and respect, would not take the liberty of beginning any conversation. Therefore, to give them an opportunity, he furnished them with subjects all dinner-time. But whatever subject he introduced, they shewed so much wit, judgment, and discernment, that he was struck with admiration. "Were these my own children," said he to himself, "and I had improved their talents by suitable education, they could not have been more accomplished or better informed." In short, he took such great pleasure in their conversation, that, after having sat longer than usual, he led them into his closet, where he pursued his conversation with them, and at last said: "I never supposed that there were among my subjects in the country youths so well brought up, so lively, so capable; and I never was better pleased with any conversation than yours; but it is time now we should relax our minds with some diversion; and as nothing is more capable of enlivening the mind than music, you shall hear a vocal and instrumental concert which may not be disagreeable to you."

The emperor had no sooner spoken than the musicians, who had orders to attend, entered, and answered fully the expectations the princes had been led to entertain of their abilities. After the concerts, an excellent farce was acted, and the entertainment was concluded by dancers of both sexes.

The two princes, seeing night approach, prostrated themselves at the emperor's feet; and having first thanked him for the favours and honours he had heaped upon them, asked his permission to retire; which was granted by the emperor, who, in dismissing them, said: "I give you leave to go; but remember, you will be always welcome, and the oftener you come the greater pleasure you will do me."

Before they went out of the emperor's presence, Prince Bahman said: "Sir, may we presume to request that your majesty will do us and our sister the honour to pass by our house, and refresh yourself after your fatigue, the first time you take the diversion of hunting in that neighbourhood? It is not worthy of your presence; but monarchs sometimes have vouchsafed to take shelter in a cottage." "My children," replied the emperor, "your house cannot be otherwise than beautiful and worthy of its owners. I will call and see it with pleasure, which will be the greater for having for my hosts you and your sister, who is already dear to me from the account you give me of the rare qualities with which she is endowed: and this satisfaction I will defer no longer than to-morrow. Early in the morning I will be at the place where I shall never forget that I first saw you. Meet me, and you shall be my guides."

When the Princes Bahman and Perviz had returned home, they gave the princess an account of the distinguished reception the emperor had given them, and told her that they had invited him to do them the honour, as he passed by, to call at their house, and that he had appointed the next day.

"If it be so," replied the princess, "we must think of preparing a repast fit for his majesty; and for that purpose I think it would be proper we should consult the Talking Bird, who will tell us, perhaps, what meats the emperor likes best." The princes approved of her plan, and after they had retired she consulted the Bird alone. "Bird," said she, "the emperor will do us the honour to-morrow to come and see our house, and we are to entertain him; tell us what we shall do to acquit ourselves to his satisfaction."

"Good mistress," replied the Bird, "you have excellent cooks, let them do the best they can; but above all things, let them prepare a dish of cucumbers stuffed full of pearls, which must be set before the emperor in the first course before all the other dishes."

"Cucumbers stuffed full of pearls!" cried Princess Periezade with amazement; "surely, Bird, you do not know what you say; it is an unheard of dish. The emperor may admire it as a piece of magnificence, but he will sit down to eat, and not to admire pearls; besides, all the pearls I possess are not enough for such a dish."

"Mistress," said the Bird, "do what I say, and be not uneasy about what may happen. Nothing but good will follow. As for the pearls, go early to-morrow morning to the foot of the first tree on your right hand in the park, dig under it, and you will find more than you want."

That night the princess ordered a gardener to be ready to attend her, and the next morning early, led him to the tree which the Bird had told her of, and bade him dig at its foot. When the gardener came to a certain depth, he found some resistance to the spade, and presently discovered a gold box about a foot square, which he showed the princess. "This," said she, "is what I brought you for; take care not to injure it with the spade."

When the gardener took up the box, he gave it into the princess's hands, who, as it was only fastened with neat little hasps, soon opened it, and found it full of pearls of a moderate size, but equal and fit for the use that was to be made of them. Very well satisfied with having found this treasure, after she had shut the box again, she put it under her arm and went back to the house, while the gardener threw the earth into the hole at the foot of the tree as it had been before.

The Princes Bahman and Perviz, who, as they were dressing themselves in their own apartments, saw their sister in the garden earlier than usual, as soon as they could get out went to her, and met her as she was returning with a gold box under her arm, which much surprised them. "Sister," said Bahman, "you carried nothing with you when we saw you before with the gardener, and now we see you have a golden box; is this some treasure found by the gardener, and did he come and tell you of it?"

"No, brother," answered the princess, "I took the gardener to the place where this casket was concealed, and showed him where to dig; but you will be more amazed when you see what it contains."

The princess opened the box, and when the princes saw that it was full of pearls, which, though small, were of great value, they asked her how she came to the knowledge of this treasure. "Brothers," said she, "come with me and I will tell you." The princess, as they returned to the house, gave them an account of her having consulted the Bird, as they had agreed she should, and the answer he had given her; the objection she had raised to preparing a dish of cucumbers stuffed full of pearls, and how he had told her where to find this box. The sister and brothers formed many conjectures to penetrate into what the Bird could mean by ordering them to prepare such a dish; but after much conversation, they agreed to follow his advice exactly.

As soon as the princess entered the house, she called for the head cook; and after she had given him directions about the entertainment for the emperor, said to him: "Besides all this, you must dress an extraordinary dish for the emperor's own eating, which nobody else must have anything to do with besides yourself. This dish must be of cucumbers stuffed with these pearls;" and at the same time she opened him the box, and showed him the jewels.

The chief cook, who had never heard of such a dish, started back, and showed his thoughts by his looks; which the princess penetrating, said: "I see you take me to be mad to order such a dish, which one may say with certainty was never made. I know this as well as you; but I am not mad, and give you these orders with the most perfect recollection. You must invent and do the best you can, and bring me back what pearls are left." The cook could make no reply, but took the box and retired; and afterward the princess gave directions to all the domestics to have everything in order, both in the house and gardens, to receive the emperor.

Next day the two princes went to the place appointed, and as soon as the emperor of Persia arrived the chase began and lasted till the heat of the sun obliged him to leave off. While Prince Bahman stayed to conduct the emperor to their house, Prince Perviz rode before to show the way, and when he came in sight of the house, spurred his horse, to inform the princess that the emperor was approaching; but she had been told by some servants whom she had placed to give notice, and the prince found her waiting ready to receive him.

When the emperor had entered the court-yard and alighted at the portico, the princess came and threw herself at his feet, and the two princes informed him she was their sister, and besought him to accept her respects.

The emperor stooped to raise her, and after he had gazed some time on her beauty, struck with her fine person and dignified air, he said: "The brothers are worthy of the sister, and she worthy of them; since, if I may judge of her understanding by her person, I am not amazed that the brothers would do nothing without their sister's consent; but," added he, "I hope to be better acquainted with you, my daughter, after I have seen the house."

"Sir," said the princess, "it is only a plain country residence, fit for such people as we are, who live retired from the great world. It is not to be compared with the magnificent palaces of emperors." "I cannot perfectly agree with you in opinion," said the emperor very obligingly, "for its first appearance makes me suspect you; however, I will not pass my judgment upon it till I have seen it all; therefore be pleased to conduct me through the apartments."

The princess led the emperor through all the rooms except the hall; and, after he had considered them very attentively, and admired their variety, "My daughter," said he to the princess, "do you call this a country house? The finest and largest cities would soon be deserted if all country houses were like yours. I am no longer surprised that you despise the town. Now let me see the garden, which I doubt not is answerable to the house."

The princess opened a door which led into the garden, and the first object which presented itself to the emperor's view was the golden fountain. Surprised at so rare an object, he asked from whence that wonderful water, which gave so much pleasure to behold, had been procured; where was its source, and by what art it was made to play so high. He said he would presently take a nearer view of it.

The princess then led him to the spot where the harmonious tree was planted; and there the emperor heard a concert, different from all he had ever heard before; and stopping to see where the musicians were, he could discern nobody far or near, but still distinctly heard the music which ravished his senses. "My daughter," said he to the princess, "where are the musicians whom I hear? Are they under ground, or invisible in the air? Such excellent performers will hazard nothing by being seen; on the contrary, they would please the more."

"Sir," answered the princess, smiling, "they are not musicians, but the leaves of the tree your majesty sees before you, which form this concert; and if you will give yourself the trouble to go a little nearer, you will be convinced, and the voices will be the more distinct."

The emperor went nearer and was so charmed with the sweet harmony that he would never have been tired with hearing it, but that his desire to have a nearer view of the fountain of golden water forced him away. "Daughter," said he, "tell me, I pray you, whether this wonderful tree was found in your garden by chance, or was a present made to you, or have you procured it from some foreign country? It must certainly have come from a great distance, otherwise curious as I am after natural rarities I should have heard of it. What name do you call it by?"

"Sir," replied the princess, "this tree has no other name than that of the Singing Tree, and is not a native of this country. It would at present take up too much time to tell your majesty by what adventures it came here; its history is connected with the Golden Water and the Talking Bird, which came to me at the same time, and which your majesty may presently see. But if it be agreeable to your majesty, after you have rested yourself and recovered the fatigue of hunting, which must be the greater because of the sun's intense heat, I will do myself the honour of relating it to you."

"My daughter," replied the emperor, "my fatigue is so well recompensed by the wonderful things you have shown me, that I do not feel it in the least. Let me see the Golden Water, for I am impatient to see and admire afterward the Talking Bird."

When the emperor came to the Golden Water, his eyes were fixed so steadfastly upon the fountain, that he could not take them off. At last, addressing himself to the princess, he said: "As you tell me, daughter, that this water has no spring or communication, I conclude that it is foreign, as well as the Singing Tree."

"Sir," replied the princess, "it is as your majesty conjectures; and to let you know that this water has no communication with any spring, I must inform you that the basin is one entire stone, so that the water cannot come in at the sides or underneath. But what your majesty will think most wonderful is that all this water proceeded but from one small flagon, emptied into this basin, which increased to the quantity you see, by a property peculiar to itself, and formed this fountain." "Well," said the emperor, going from the fountain, "this is enough for one time. I promise myself the pleasure to come and visit it often; but now let us go and see the Talking Bird."

As he went toward the hall, the emperor perceived a prodigious number of singing birds in the trees around, filling the air with their songs and warblings, and asked why there were so many there and none on the other trees in the garden. "The reason, sir," answered the princess, "is because they come from all parts to accompany the song of the Talking Bird, which your majesty may see in a cage in one of the windows of the hall we are approaching; and if you attend, you will perceive that his notes are sweeter than those of any of the other birds, even the nightingale's."

The emperor went into the hall; and as the Bird continued singing, the princess raised her voice, and said, "My slave, here is the emperor, pay your compliments to him." The Bird left off singing that instant, when all the other birds ceased also, and said: "The emperor is welcome; God prosper him and prolong his life!" As the entertainment was served on the sofa near the window where the Bird was placed, the sultan replied, as he was taking his seat: "Bird, I thank you, and am overjoyed to find in you the sultan and king of birds."

As soon as the emperor saw the dish of cucumbers set before him, thinking they were prepared in the best manner, he reached out his hand and took one; but when he cut it, was in extreme surprise to find it stuffed with pearls. "What novelty is this?" said he; "and with what design were these cucumbers stuffed thus with pearls, since pearls are not to be eaten?" He looked at his hosts to ask them the meaning when the Bird interrupting him, said: "Can your majesty be in such great astonishment at cucumbers stuffed with pearls, which you see with your own eyes, and yet so easily believe that the queen, your wife, gave birth to a dog, a cat, and a piece of wood?" "I believed those things," replied the emperor, "because the attendants assured me of the facts." "Those attendants, sir," replied the Bird, "were the queen's two sisters, who, envious of her happiness in being preferred by your majesty before them, to satisfy their envy and revenge, have abused your majesty's credulity. If you interrogate them, they will confess their crime. The two brothers and the sister whom you see before you are your own children, whom they exposed, and who were taken in by the intendant of your gardens, who provided nurses for them, and took care of their education."

This speech presently cleared up the emperor's understanding. "Bird," cried he, "I believe the truth which you discover to me. The inclination which drew me to them told me plainly they must be of my own blood. Come then, my sons, come, my daughter, let me embrace you, and give you the first marks of a father's love and tenderness." The emperor then rose, and after having embraced the two princes and the princess, and mingled his tears with theirs, said: "It is not enough, my children; you must embrace each other, not as the children of the intendant of my gardens, to whom I have been so much obliged for preserving your lives, but as my own children, of the royal blood of the monarchs of Persia, whose glory, I am persuaded you will maintain."

After the two princes and princess had embraced mutually with new satisfaction, the emperor sat down again with them, and finished his meal in haste; and when he had done, said: "My children, you see in me your father; to-morrow I will bring the queen, your mother, therefore prepare to receive her."

The emperor afterward mounted his horse, and returned with expedition to his capitol. The first thing he did, as soon as he had alighted and entered his palace, was to command the grand vizier to seize the queen's two sisters. They were taken from their houses separately, convicted, and condemned to death; which sentence was put in execution within an hour.

In the meantime, the Emperor Kosrouschah, followed by all the lords of his court who were then present, went on foot to the door of the great mosque; and after he had taken the queen out of the strict confinement she had languished under for so many years, embracing her in the miserable condition to which she was then reduced, said to her with tears in his eyes: "I come to entreat your pardon for the injustice I have done you, and to make you the reparation I ought; which I have begun, by punishing the unnatural wretches who put the abominable cheat upon me; and I hope you will look upon it as complete, when I present to you two accomplished princes and a lovely princess, our children. Come and resume your former rank, with all the honours which are your due." All this was done and said before great crowds of people who flocked from all parts at the first news of what was passing, and immediately spread the joyful intelligence through the city.

Next morning early the emperor and queen, whose mournful humiliating dress was changed for magnificent robes, went with all their court to the house built by the intendant of the gardens, where the emperor presented the Princes Bahman and Perviz, and the Princess Periezade to their enraptured mother. "These, much injured wife," said he, "are the two princes your sons, and the princess your daughter; embrace them with the same tenderness I have done, since they are worthy both of me and you." The tears flowed plentifully down their cheeks at these tender embraces, especially the queen's, from the comfort and joy of having two such princes for her sons, and such a princess for her daughter, on whose account she had so long endured the severest afflictions.

The two princes and the princess had prepared a magnificent repast for the emperor and queen and their court. As soon as that was over, the emperor led the queen into the garden, and shewed her the Harmonious Tree and the beautiful effect of the Golden Fountain. She had seen the Bird in his cage, and the emperor had spared no panegyric in his praise during the repast.

When there was nothing to detain the emperor any longer, he took horse, and with the Princes Bahman and Perviz on his right hand, and the queen consort and the princess at his left, preceded and followed by all the officers of his court, according to their rank, returned to his capital. Crowds of people came out to meet them, and with acclamations of joy ushered them into the city, where all eyes were fixed not only upon the queen, and her royal children, but also upon the Bird, which the princess carried before her in his cage, admiring his sweet notes, which had drawn all the other birds about him, and followed him flying from tree to tree in the country, and from one house top to another in the city. The Princes Bahman and Perviz and the Princess Periezade were at length brought to the palace with pomp, and nothing was to be seen or heard all that night but illuminations and rejoicings both in the palace and in the utmost parts of the city, which lasted many days, and were continued throughout the empire of Persia, as intelligence of the joyful event reached the several provinces.



The Story Of The Fisherman And The Genie


There was once an aged fisherman who was so poor that he could scarcely earn as much as would maintain himself, his wife, and three children. He went every day to fish betimes in the morning, and imposed it as a law upon himself not to cast his nets above four times a day. He went one morning by moonlight, and coming to the seaside, undressed himself, and cast in his nets. As he drew them toward the shore, he found them very heavy, and thought he had a good draught of fish, at which he rejoiced; but a moment after, perceiving that instead of fish his net contained nothing but the carcass of an ass, he was much vexed.

When he had mended his nets, which the carcass of the ass had broken in several places, he threw them in a second time; and when he drew them, found a great deal of resistance, which made him think he had taken abundance of fish; but he found nothing except a basket full of gravel and slime, which grieved him extremely. "O Fortune!" cried he, with a lamentable tone, "be not angry with me, nor persecute a wretch who prays thee to spare him. I came hither from my house to seek for my livelihood, and thou pronouncest against me a sentence of death. I have no other trade but this to subsist by, and, notwithstanding all my care, I can scarcely provide what is necessary for my family. But I am to blame to complain of thee; thou takest pleasure to persecute honest people, and advancest those who have no virtue to recommend them."

Having finished this complaint, he fretfully threw away the basket, and, washing his nets from the slime, cast them a third time, but brought up nothing except stones, shells, and mud. No language can express his disappointment; he was almost distracted. However, when day began to appear, he did not forget to say his prayers like a good Mussulman, and he added to them this petition: "Lord, thou knowest that I cast my nets only four times a day; I have already drawn them three times, without the least reward for my labour: I am only to cast them once more; I pray thee to render the sea favourable to me, as thou didst to Moses."

The fisherman, having finished this prayer, cast his nets the fourth time; and when he thought it was proper, drew them as formerly with great difficulty; but instead of fish found nothing in them but a vessel of yellow copper, which, from its weight, seemed not to be empty; and he observed that it was fastened and closed with lead, having the impression of a seal upon it. This turn of fortune rejoiced him: "I will sell it," said he, "to the founder, and with the money buy a measure of corn." He examined the vessel on all sides, and shook it to see if its contents made any noise, but heard nothing. This circumstance, with the impression of the seal upon the cover, made him think it enclosed something precious. To try this, he took a knife and opened it with very little labour. He turned the mouth downward, but nothing came out, which surprised him extremely. He placed it before him, but while he viewed it attentively, there burst forth a very thick smoke, which obliged him to retire two or three paces back.

The smoke ascended to the clouds, and, extending itself along the sea and upon the shore, formed a great mist, which filled the fisherman with astonishment. When the smoke was all out of the vessel, it reunited, and became a solid body, of which was formed a genie twice as high as the greatest of giants. At the sight of such a monster the fisherman would fain have fled, but was so frightened that he could not move.

"Solomon," cried the genie immediately, "Solomon, the great prophet, pardon, pardon; I will never more oppose your will, I will obey all your commands."

The fisherman, when he heard these words of the genie, recovered his courage and said to him: "Thou proud spirit, what is it you say? It is above eighteen hundred years since the prophet Solomon died, and we are now at the end of time. Tell me your history, and how you came to be shut up in this vessel."

The genie, turning to the fisherman with a fierce look, said: "Thou must address me with more courtesy; thou art a presumptuous fellow to call me a proud spirit; speak to me more respectfully, or I will kill thee." "Ah!" replied the fisherman, "why should you kill me? Did I not just now set you at liberty, and have you already forgotten my services?"

"No, I remember it," said the genie, "but that shall not save thy life: I have only one favour to grant thee." "And what is that?" asked the fisherman. "It is," answered the genie, "to give thee thy choice in what manner thou wouldst have me put thee to death." "But wherein have I offended you?" demanded the fisherman. "Is that your reward for the service I have rendered you?" "I cannot treat thee otherwise," said the genie; "and that thou mayest know the reason, hearken to my story."

"I am one of those rebellious spirits that opposed the will of Solomon, the son of David, and to avenge himself, that monarch sent Asaph, the son of Barakhia, his chief minister, to apprehend me. Asaph seized my person, and brought me by force before his master's throne.

"Solomon commanded me to acknowledge his power, and to submit to his commands. I bravely refused, and told him I would rather expose myself to his resentment, than swear fealty as he required. To punish me, he shut me up in this copper vessel; and that I might not break my prison, he himself stamped upon this leaden cover his seal with the great name of God engraven upon it. He then gave the vessel to one of the genies who had submitted, with orders to throw me into the sea.

"During the first hundred years of my imprisonment, I swore that if any one should deliver me before the expiration of that period, I would make him rich, even after his death; but that century ran out, and nobody did me the good office. During the second, I made an oath that I would open all the treasures of the earth to any one that might set me at liberty; but with no better success. In the third, I promised to make my deliverer a potent monarch, and to grant him every day three requests, of what nature soever they might be; but this century passed as well as the two former, and I continued in prison. At last, being angry to find myself a prisoner so long, I swore that if afterward any one should deliver me, I would kill him without mercy, and grant him no favour but to choose the manner of his death; and, therefore, since thou hast delivered me to-day, I give thee that choice."

The smoke ascended to the clouds, and extending itself along the sea and upon the shore formed a great mist.

This discourse afflicted the fisherman extremely: "I am very unfortunate," cried he, "to come hither to do such a kindness to one that is so ungrateful. I beg you to consider your injustice, and revoke such an unreasonable oath; pardon me, and Heaven will pardon you; if you grant me my life, Heaven will protect you from all attempts against your own." "No, thy death is resolved on," said the genie, "only choose in what manner thou wilt die." The fisherman, perceiving the genie to be resolute, was extremely grieved, not so much for himself, as on account of his three children, and bewailed the misery they must be reduced to by his death. He endeavoured still to appease the genie, and said, "Alas! be pleased to take pity on me, in consideration of the service I have done you." "I have told thee already," replied the genie, "it is for that very reason I must kill thee." "That is strange," said the fisherman, "are you resolved to reward good with evil? The proverb truly says, 'He who does good to one who deserves it not, is always ill rewarded.'" "Do not lose time," interrupted the genie; "all thy chattering shall not divert me from my purpose; make haste, and tell me what kind of death thou preferrest?"

Necessity is the mother of invention. The fisherman bethought himself of a stratagem. "Since I must die then," said he to the genie, "I submit to the will of Heaven; but before I choose the manner of my death, I conjure you, by the great name which was engraven upon the seal of the prophet Solomon, to answer me truly the question I am going to ask you."

The genie finding himself obliged to a positive answer by this adjuration, trembled, and replied to the fisherman: "Ask what thou wilt, but make haste."

The genie having thus promised to speak the truth, the fisherman said to him: "I wish to know if you were actually in this vessel: dare you swear it by the name of the great God?" "Yes," replied the genie, "I do swear by His great name that I was." "In good faith," answered the fisherman, "I cannot believe you; the vessel is not capable of holding one of your size, and how should it be possible that your whole body could lie in it?" "I swear to thee, notwithstanding," replied the genie, "that I was there just as you see me here. Is it possible that thou dost not believe me after the solemn oath I have taken?" "Truly not I," said the fisherman; "nor will I believe you, unless you go into the vessel again."

Upon this the body of the genie dissolved and changed itself into smoke, extending as before upon the seashore; and at last being collected, it began to re-enter the vessel, which it continued to do by a slow and equal motion, till no part remained out; when immediately a voice came forth, which said to the fisherman: "Well, incredulous fellow, dost thou not believe me now?"

The fisherman, instead of answering the genie, took the cover of lead, and having speedily replaced it on the vessel, "Genie," cried he, "now it is your turn to beg my favour, and to choose which way I shall put you to death; but it is better that I should throw you into the sea, whence I took you: and then I will build a house upon the shore, where I will reside and give notice to all fishermen who come to throw in their nets, to beware of such a wicked genie as you are, who have made an oath to kill him that shall set you at liberty."

The genie, enraged at these expressions, struggled to free himself; but it was impossible, for the impression of Solomon's seal prevented him. Perceiving that the fisherman had the advantage of him, he thought fit to dissemble his anger; "Fisherman," said he, "take heed you do not what you threaten; for what I spoke to you was only by way of jest." "O genie!" replied the fisherman, "thou who wast but a moment ago the greatest of all genies, and now art the least of them, thy crafty discourse will signify nothing, to the sea thou shalt return. If thou hast been there already so long as thou hast told me, thou mayest very well stay there till the day of judgment. I begged of thee, in God's name, not to take away my life, and thou didst reject my prayers; I am obliged to treat thee in the same manner."

The genie omitted nothing that he thought likely to prevail with the fisherman: "Open the vessel," said he, "give me my liberty, and I promise to satisfy you to your own content." "Thou art a traitor," replied the fisherman, "I should deserve to lose my life, if I were such a fool as to trust thee."

"My good fisherman," replied the genie, "I conjure you once more not to be guilty of such cruelty; consider that it is not good to avenge one's self, and that, on the other hand, it is commendable to do good for evil; do not treat me as Imama formerly treated Ateca." "And what did Imama to Ateca?" inquired the fisherman. "Ho!" cried the genie, "if you have a mind to be informed, open the vessel: do you think that I can be in a humour to relate stories in so strait a prison? I will tell you as many as you please, when you have let me out." "No," said the fisherman, "I will not let thee out; it is in vain to talk of it; I am just going to throw thee into the bottom of the sea." "Hear me one word more," cried the genie; "I promise to do you no hurt; nay, far from that, I will show you a way to become exceedingly rich."

The hope of delivering himself from poverty prevailed with the fisherman. "I could listen to thee," said he, "were there any credit to be given to thy word; swear to me, by the great name of God, that thou wilt faithfully perform what thou promisest, and I will open the vessel; I do not believe thou wilt dare to break such an oath."

The genie swore to him, upon which the fisherman immediately took off the covering of the vessel. At that instant the smoke ascended, and the genie, having resumed his form, the first thing he did was to kick the vessel into the sea. This action alarmed the fisherman. "Genie," said he, "will not you keep the oath you just now made?"

The genie laughed at his fear, and answered: "Fisherman, be not afraid, I only did it to divert myself, and to see if you would be alarmed at it; but to convince you that I am in earnest, take your nets and follow me." As he spoke these words, he walked before the fisherman, who having taken up his nets, followed him, but with some distrust. They passed by the town, and came to the top of a mountain, from whence they descended into a vast plain, which brought them to a lake that lay betwixt four hills.

When they reached the side of the lake, the genie said to the fisherman: "Cast in your nets and catch fish." The fisherman did not doubt of taking some, because he saw a great number in the water; but he was extremely surprised when he found they were of four colours; white, red, blue, and yellow. He threw in his nets and brought out one of each colour. Having never seen the like before, he could not but admire them, and, judging that he might get a considerable sum for them, he was very joyful. "Carry those fish," said the genie to him, "and present them to your sultan; he will give you more money for them. You may come daily to fish in this lake; but I give you warning not to throw in your nets above once a day, otherwise you will repent." Having spoken thus, he struck his foot upon the ground, which opened, and after it had swallowed him up, closed again.

The fisherman, being resolved to follow the genie's advice, forbore casting in his nets a second time, and returned to the town very well satisfied, and making a thousand reflections upon his adventure. He went immediately to the sultan's palace to offer his fish, and his majesty was much surprised when he saw the wonders which the fisherman presented. He took them up one after another, and viewed them with attention; and after having admired them a long time, "Take those fish," said he to his vizier, "and carry them to the cook whom the emperor of the Greeks has sent me. I cannot imagine but that they must be as good as they are beautiful."

The vizier carried them as he was directed, and delivering them to the cook, said: "Here are four fish just brought to the sultan; he orders you to dress them." He then returned to the sultan, who commanded him to give the fisherman four hundred pieces of gold, which he did accordingly.

The fisherman, who had never seen so much money, could scarcely believe his good fortune, but thought the whole must be a dream, until he found it otherwise, by being able to provide necessaries for his family with the produce of his nets.

As soon as the sultan's cook had cleaned the fish, she put them upon the fire in a frying-pan, with oil, and when she thought them fried enough on one side, she turned them upon the other; but, O monstrous prodigy! scarcely were they turned, when the wall of the kitchen divided, and a young lady of wonderful beauty entered from the opening. She held a rod in her hand and was clad in flowered satin, with pendants in her ears, a necklace of large pearls, and bracelets of gold set with rubies. She moved toward the frying-pan, to the great amazement of the cook, and striking one of the fish with the end of the rod, said: "Fish, fish, are you in your duty?" The fish having answered nothing, she repeated these words, and then the four fish lifted up their heads, and replied: "Yes, yes: if you reckon, we reckon; if you pay your debts, we pay ours; if you fly, we overcome, and are content." As soon as they had finished these words, the lady overturned the frying-pan, and returned into the open part of the wall, which closed immediately, and became as it was before.

The cook was greatly frightened at what had happened, and coming a little to herself went to take up the fish that had fallen on the hearth, but found them blacker than coal and not fit to be carried to the sultan. This grievously troubled her, and she fell to weeping most bitterly. "Alas!" said she, "what will become of me? If I tell the sultan what I have seen, I am sure he will not believe me, but will be enraged against me."

While she was thus bewailing herself, the grand vizier entered, and asked her if the fish were ready. She told him all that had occurred, which we may easily imagine astonished him; but without speaking a word of it to the sultan he invented an excuse that satisfied him, and sending immediately for the fisherman bid him bring four more such fish, for a misfortune had befallen the others, so that they were not fit to be carried to the royal table. The fisherman, without saying anything of what the genie had told him, told the vizier he had a great way to go for them, in order to excuse himself from bringing them that day, but said that he would certainly bring them on the morrow.

Accordingly the fisherman went away by night, and coming to the lake, threw in his nets betimes next morning, took four fish like the former, and brought them to the vizier at the hour appointed. The minister took them himself, carried them to the kitchen, and shutting himself up with the cook, she cleaned them and put them on the fire. When they were fried on one side, and she had turned them upon the other, the kitchen wall again opened, and the same lady came in with the rod in her hand, struck one of the fish, spoke to it as before, and all four gave her the same answer.

After they had spoken to the young lady, she overturned the frying-pan with her rod, and retired into the wall. The grand vizier being witness to what had passed, "This is too wonderful and extraordinary," said he, "to be concealed from the sultan; I will inform him of this prodigy."

The sultan, being much surprised, sent immediately for the fisherman, and said to him: "Friend, cannot you bring me four more such fish?" The fisherman replied: "If your majesty will be pleased to allow me three days, I will do it." Having obtained his time, he went to the lake immediately, and at the first throwing in of his net he caught four fish, and brought them directly to the sultan, who was so much the more rejoiced, as he did not expect them so soon, and ordered him four hundred pieces of gold. As soon as the sultan had the fish, he ordered them to be carried into his closet, with all that was necessary for frying them; and having shut himself up with the vizier, the minister cleaned them, put them into the pan, and when they were fried on one side, turned them upon the other; then the wall of the closet opened, but instead of the young lady, there came out a black, in the habit of a slave, and of a gigantic stature, with a great green staff in his hand. He advanced toward the pan, and touching one of the fish with his staff, said, with a terrible voice: "Fish, are you in your duty?" At these words the fish raised up their heads, and answered: "Yes, yes; we are; if you reckon, we reckon; if you pay your debts, we pay ours; if you fly, we overcome and are content."

The fish had no sooner finished these words, than the black threw the pan into the middle of the closet, and reduced them to a coal. Having done this, he retired fiercely, and entering again into the aperture, it closed, and the wall appeared just as it did before.

"After what I have seen," said the sultan to the vizier, "it will not be possible for me to be easy; these fish, without doubt, signify something extraordinary." He sent for the fisherman, and when he came, said to him: "Fisherman, the fish you have brought us make me very uneasy; where did you catch them?" "Sir," answered he, "I fished for them in a lake situated betwixt four hills, beyond the mountain that we see from hence." "Know'st thou not that lake?" said the sultan to the vizier. "No," replied the vizier, "I never so much as heard of it, although I have for sixty years hunted beyond that mountain." The sultan asked the fisherman how far the lake might be from the palace. The fisherman answered it was not above three hours' journey; upon this assurance the sultan commanded all his court to take horse, and the fisherman served them for a guide. They all ascended the mountain, and at the foot of it they saw, to their great surprise, a vast plain that nobody had observed till then, and at last they came to the lake, which they found to be situated betwixt four hills, as the fisherman had described. The water was so transparent that they observed all the fish to be like those which the fisherman had brought to the palace.

The sultan stood upon the bank of the lake, and after beholding the fish with admiration, demanded of his courtiers if it were possible they had never seen this lake which was within so short a distance of the town. They all answered that they had never so much as heard of it.

"Since you all agree that you never heard of it," said the sultan, "and as I am no less astonished than you are at this novelty, I am resolved not to return to my palace till I learn how this lake came here, and why all the fish in it are of four colours." Having spoken thus, he ordered his court to encamp; and immediately his pavilion and the tents of his household were planted upon the banks of the lake.

When night came the sultan retired under his pavilion, and spoke to the grand vizier thus: "Vizier, my mind is uneasy; this lake transported hither, the black that appeared to us in my closet, and the fish that we heard speak; all these things so much excite my curiosity that I cannot resist my impatient desire to have it satisfied. To this end I am resolved to withdraw alone from the camp, and I order you to keep my absence secret: stay in my pavilion, and to-morrow morning, when the emirs and courtiers come to attend my levee, send them away and tell them that I am somewhat indisposed and wish to be alone; and the following days tell them the same thing, till I return."

The grand vizier endeavoured to divert the sultan from this design; he represented to him the danger to which he might be exposed, and that all his labour might perhaps be in vain; but it was to no purpose; the sultan was resolved. He put on a suit fit for walking and took his cimeter; and as soon as he found that all was quiet in the camp, went out alone, and passed over one of the hills without much difficulty; he found the descent still more easy, and when he came to the plain, walked on till the sun arose, and then he saw before him, at a considerable distance, a vast building. He rejoiced at the sight, in hopes of receiving there the information he sought. When he drew near, he found it was a magnificent palace, or rather a strong castle, of black polished marble, and covered with fine steel, as smooth as glass. Being highly pleased that he had so speedily met with something worthy his curiosity, he stopped before the front of the castle, and considered it with attention.

He then advanced toward the gate, which had two leaves, one of them open; though he might immediately have entered, yet he thought it best to knock. This he did at first softly, and waited for some time; but seeing no one, and supposing he had not been heard, he knocked harder the second time, and after that he knocked again and again, but no one yet appearing, he was exceedingly surprised; for he could not think that a castle in such repair was without inhabitants. "If there be no one in it," said he to himself, "I have nothing to fear; and if it be inhabited, I have wherewith to defend myself."

At last he entered, and when he came within the porch, he cried: "Is there no one here to receive a stranger who comes in for some refreshment as he passes by?" He repeated the same words two or three times; but though he spoke very loud, he was not answered. The silence increased his astonishment: he came into a spacious court, and looked on every side for inhabitants, but discovered none.

Perceiving nobody in the court, he entered the grand halls, which were hung with silk tapestry, the alcoves and sofas covered with stuffs of Mecca, and the porches with the richest stuffs of India. He came afterward into a superb saloon, in the middle of which was a fountain, with a lion of massy gold at each angle: water issued from the mouths of the four lions, and as it fell, formed diamonds and pearls resembling a jet d'eau, which, springing from the middle of the fountain, rose nearly to the top of a cupola painted in Arabesque.

The castle, on three sides, was encompassed by a garden, with parterres of flowers and shrubbery; and to complete the beauty of the place, an infinite number of birds filled the air with their harmonious notes, and always remained there, nets being spread over the garden, and fastened to the palace to confine them. The sultan walked from apartment to apartment, where he found everything rich and magnificent. Being tired with walking, he sat down in a veranda, which had a view over the garden, reflecting upon what he had seen, when suddenly he heard the voice of one complaining, in lamentable tones. He listened with attention, and heard distinctly these words: "O fortune! thou who wouldst not suffer me longer to enjoy a happy lot, forbear to persecute me, and by a speedy death put an end to my sorrows. Alas! is it possible that I am still alive, after so many torments as I have suffered!"

The sultan rose up, advanced toward the place whence he heard the voice, and coming to the door of a great hall, opened it, and saw a handsome young man, richly habited, seated upon a throne raised a little above the ground. Melancholy was painted on his countenance. The sultan drew near and saluted him; the young man returned his salutation, by an inclination of his head, not being able to rise, at the same time saying: "My lord, I should rise to receive you, but am hindered by sad necessity, and therefore hope you will not be offended." "My lord," replied the sultan, "I am much obliged to you for having so good an opinion of me: as to the reason of your not rising, whatever your apology be, I heartily accept it. Being drawn hither by your complaints, and afflicted by your grief, I come to offer you my help. I flatter myself that you will relate to me the history of your misfortunes; but inform me first of the meaning of the lake near the palace, where the fish are of four colours; whose castle is this; how you came to be here; and why you are alone."

Instead of answering these questions, the young man began to weep bitterly. "How inconstant is fortune!" cried he; "she takes pleasure to pull down those she has raised. Where are they who enjoy quietly the happiness which they hold of her, and whose day is always clear and serene?"

The sultan, moved with compassion to see him in such a condition, prayed him to relate the cause of his excessive grief. "Alas! my lord," replied the young man, "how is it possible but I should grieve, and my eyes be inexhaustible fountains of tears?" At these words, lifting up his robe, he showed the sultan that he was a man only from the head to the girdle, and that the other half of his body was black marble.

The sultan was much surprised when he saw the deplorable condition of the young man. "That which you show me," said he, "while it fills me with horror, excites my curiosity, so that I am impatient to hear your history, which, no doubt, must be extraordinary, and I am persuaded that the lake and the fish make some part of it; therefore I conjure you to relate it. You will find some comfort in so doing, since it is certain that the unfortunate find relief in making known their distress." "I will not refuse your request," replied the young man, "though I cannot comply without renewing my grief. But I give you notice beforehand, to prepare your ears, your mind, and even your eyes, for things which surpass all that the imagination can conceive."



The History Of The Young King Of The Black Isles


"You must know, my lord," said the wretched prisoner, "that my father, named Mahmoud, was monarch of this country. This is the kingdom of the Black Isles, which takes its name from the four small neighbouring mountains; for those mountains were formerly isles, and the capital where the king, my father, resided was situated on the spot now occupied by the lake you have seen. The sequel of my history will inform you of the reason for those changes.

"The king, my father, died when he was seventy years of age; I had no sooner succeeded him than I married, and the lady I chose to share the royal dignity with me was my cousin. I had so much reason to be satisfied with her affection, and, on my part, loved her with so much tenderness, that nothing could surpass the harmony of our union. This lasted five years, at the end of which time I perceived the queen ceased to delight in my attentions.

"One day, after dinner, while she was at the bath, I found myself inclined to repose, and lay down upon a sofa. Two of her ladies, who were then in my chamber, came and sat down, one at my head and the other at my feet, with fans in their hands to moderate the heat, and to prevent the flies from disturbing me. They thought I was asleep, and spoke in whispers; but as I only closed my eyes, I heard all their conversation.

"One of them said to the other, 'Is not the queen wrong, not to love so amiable a prince?' 'Certainly,' replied her companion; 'I do not understand the reason, neither can I conceive why she goes out every night, and leaves him alone! Is it possible that he does not perceive it?' 'Alas!' said the first, 'how should he? She mixes every evening in his liquor the juice of a certain herb, which makes him sleep so sound all night that she has time to go where she pleases, and as day begins to appear she comes and wakes him by the smell of something she puts under his nostrils.'

"You may guess, my lord, how much I was surprised at this conversation, and with what sentiments it inspired me; yet whatever emotion it excited I had sufficient self-command to dissemble, and feigned to awake without having heard a word.

"The queen returned from the bath, we supped together, and she presented me with a cup full of such liquid as I was accustomed to drink; but instead of putting it to my mouth, I went to a window that was open, threw out the water so quickly that she did not perceive it, and returned.

"Soon after, believing that I was asleep, she arose with so little precaution, that she whispered loud enough for me to hear her distinctly, 'Sleep on, and may you never wake again!' and so saying, she dressed herself, and went out of the chamber.

"As soon as the queen, my wife, was gone, I arose in haste, took my cimeter, and followed her so quickly that I soon heard the sound of her feet before me, and then walked softly after her. She passed through several gates, which opened upon her pronouncing some magical words, and the last she opened was that of the garden, which she entered. I stopped at this gate, that she might not perceive me as she passed along a parterre; then looking after her as far as the darkness of the night permitted, I saw her enter a little wood, whose walks were guarded by thick palisadoes. I went thither by another way, and concealing myself, I saw her walking there with a man.

"I did not fail to lend the most attentive ear to their discourse, and heard her address herself thus to her gallant: 'I do not deserve,' she said, 'to be reproached by you for want of diligence. You well know the reason; but if all the proofs of affection I have already given you be not sufficient to convince you of my sincerity, I am ready to give you others more decisive: you need but command me, you know my power; I will, if you desire it, before sunrise convert this great city, and this superb palace, into frightful ruins, inhabited only by wolves, owls, and ravens. If you would have me transport all the stones of those walls so solidly built, beyond Mount Caucasus, the bounds of the habitable world, speak but the word, and all shall be changed.'

"As the queen finished this speech she and her companion came to the end of the walk, turned to enter another, and passed before me. I had already drawn my cimeter, and the man being next me, I struck him on the neck, and brought him to the ground. I concluded I had killed him, and therefore retired speedily without making myself known to the queen, whom I chose to spare, because she was my kinswoman.

"The wound I had given her companion was mortal; but by her enchantments she preserved him in an existence in which he could not be said to be either dead or alive. As I crossed the garden to return to the palace, I heard the queen loudly lamenting, and judging by her cries how much she was grieved, I was pleased that I had spared her life.

"As soon as I had reached my apartment, I went to bed, and being satisfied with having punished the villain who had injured me, fell asleep.

"Next morning I arose, went to my closet, and dressed myself. I afterward held my council. At my return, the queen, clad in mourning, her hair dishevelled, and part of it torn off, presented herself before me, and said: 'I come to beg your majesty not to be surprised to see me in this condition. My heavy affliction is occasioned by intelligence of three distressing events which I have just received.' 'Alas! what are they, madam?' said I. 'The death of the queen, my dear mother,' she replied, 'that of the king, my father, killed in battle, and of one of my brothers, who has fallen down a precipice.'

"I was not displeased that she used these pretexts to conceal the true cause of her grief. 'Madam,' said I, 'so far from blaming, I assure you I heartily commiserate your sorrow. I should feel surprise if you were insensible to such heavy calamities: weep on; your tears are so many proofs of your tenderness; but I hope that time and reflection will moderate your grief.'

"She retired into her apartment, where, giving herself wholly up to sorrow, she spent a whole year in mourning and lamentation. At the end of that period, she begged permission to erect a burying-place for herself, within the bounds of the palace, where she would continue, she told me, to the end of her days: I consented, and she built a stately edifice, and called it the Palace of Tears. When it was finished, she caused the object of her care to be conveyed thither; she had hitherto prevented his dying, by potions which she had administered to him; and she continued to convey them to him herself every day after he came to the Palace of Tears.

"Yet, with all her enchantments, she could not cure the wretch; he was not only unable to walk or support himself, but had also lost the use of his speech, and exhibited no sign of life except in his looks.

"Every day the queen made him two long visits. I was well apprised of this, but pretended ignorance. One day my curiosity induced me to go to the Palace of Tears, to observe how my consort employed herself, and from a place where she could not see me, I heard her thus address the wounded ruffian: 'I am afflicted to the highest degree to behold you in this condition,' she cried, 'I am as sensible as yourself of the tormenting pain you endure; but, dear soul, I am continually speaking to you, and you do not answer me: how long will you remain silent? Speak only one word: alas! the sweetest moments of my life are these I spend here in partaking of your grief.'

"At these words, which were several times interrupted by her sighs, I lost all patience: and discovering myself, came up to her, and said, 'Madam, you have wept enough, it is time to give over this sorrow, which dishonours us both; you have too much forgotten what you owe to me and to yourself.' 'Sire,' said she, 'if you have any kindness or compassion for me left, I beseech you to put no restraint upon me; allow me to indulge my grief, which it is impossible for time to assuage.'

"When I perceived that my remonstrance, instead of restoring her to a sense of duty, served only to increase her anguish, I ceased speaking and retired. She continued every day to visit her charge, and for two whole years abandoned herself to grief and despair.

"I went a second time to the Palace of Tears, while she was there. I concealed myself again, and heard her thus cry out: 'It is now three years since you spoke one word to me; you answer not the proofs I give you of my devotion by my sighs and lamentations. Is it from insensibility, or contempt? O tomb! tell me by what miracle thou becamest the depository of the rarest treasure the world ever contained.'

"I must confess, my lord, I was enraged at these expressions; for, in truth, this adored mortal was by no means what you would imagine him to have been. He was a black Indian, one of the original natives of this country. I was so enraged at the language addressed to him, that I discovered myself, and apostrophising the tomb in my turn, I cried, 'O tomb! why dost thou not swallow up that monster so revolting to human nature, or rather why dost thou not swallow up this pair of monsters?'

"I had scarcely uttered these words, when the queen, who sat by the black, rose up like a fury: 'Miscreant!' said she, 'thou art the cause of my grief; do not think I am ignorant of this, I have dissembled too long. It was thy barbarous hand that brought the object of my fondness into this lamentable condition; and thou hast the cruelty to come and insult me.' 'Yes,' said I, in a rage, 'it was I who chastised that monster, according to his desert; I ought to have treated thee in the same manner; I now repent that I did not; thou hast too long abused my goodness.' As I spoke these words, I drew out my cimeter, and lifted up my hand to punish her; but regarding me steadfastly, she said with a jeering smile, 'Moderate thine anger.' At the same time she pronounced words I did not understand; and afterward added, 'By virtue of my enchantments, I command thee to become half marble and half man.' Immediately, my lord, I became what you see, a dead man among the living, and a living man among the dead. After this cruel sorceress, unworthy of the name of queen, had metamorphosed me thus, and brought me into this hall, by another enchantment she destroyed my capital, which was very flourishing and populous; she annihilated the houses, the public places and markets, and reduced the site of the whole to the lake and desert plain you have seen; the fishes of four colours in the waters are the four kinds of inhabitants, of different religions, which the city contained. The white are the Mussulmans; the red, the Persians, who worship fire; the blue, the Christians; and the yellow, the Jews. The four little hills were the four islands that gave name to this kingdom. I learned all this from the enchantress, who, to add to my affliction, related to me these effects of her rage. But this is not all; her revenge not being satisfied with the destruction of my dominions, and the metamorphosis of my person, she comes every day, and gives me over my naked shoulders a hundred lashes with a whip until I am covered with blood. When she has finished this part of my punishment, she throws over me a coarse stuff of goat's hair, and over that this robe of brocade, not to honour, but to mock me."

When he came to this part of his narrative, the young king could not restrain his tears; and the sultan was himself so affected by the relation, that he could not find utterance for any words of consolation. Shortly after, the young king, lifting up his eyes to heaven, exclaimed, "Mighty creator of all things, I submit myself to Thy judgments, and to the decrees of Thy providence: I endure my calamities with patience, since it is Thy will that things should be as they are; but I hope that Thy infinite goodness will ultimately reward me."

The sultan, greatly moved by the recital of this affecting story, and anxious to avenge the sufferings of the unfortunate prince, said to him: "Inform me whither this perfidious sorceress retires, and where may be found the vile wretch, who is entombed before his death." "My lord," replied the prince, "the Indian, as I have already told you, is lodged in the Palace of Tears, in a superb tomb constructed in the form of a dome: this palace joins the castle on the side in which the gate is placed. As to the queen, I cannot tell you precisely whither she retires, but every day at sunrise she goes to visit her charge, after having executed her bloody vengeance upon me; and you see I am not in a condition to defend myself. She carries to him the potion with which she has hitherto prevented his dying, and always complains of his never having spoken to her since he was wounded."

"Prince," said the sultan, "your condition can never be sufficiently deplored: no one can be more sensibly affected by your misfortune than I am. Never did anything so extraordinary befall any man! One thing only is wanting; the revenge to which you are entitled, and I will omit nothing in my power to effect it."

In his subsequent conversation with the young prince the sultan told him who he was, and for what purpose he had entered the castle; and afterward informed him of a mode of revenge which he had devised. They agreed upon the measures they were to take for accomplishing their design, but deferred the execution of it till the following day. In the meantime, the night being far spent, the sultan took some rest; but the young prince passed the night as usual, without sleep, never having slept since he was enchanted.

When he came to this part of his narrative the young king could not restrain his tears.

Next morning the sultan arose with the dawn, and prepared to execute his design, by proceeding to the Palace of Tears. He found it lighted up with an infinite number of flambeaux of white wax, and perfumed by a delicious scent issuing from several censers of fine gold of admirable workmanship. As soon as he perceived the bed where the Indian lay, he drew his cimeter and deprived him of his wretched life, dragged his corpse into the court of the castle, and threw it into a well. After this he went and lay down in the black's bed, placed his cimeter under the covering, and waited to complete his design.

The queen arrived shortly after. She first went into the chamber of her husband, the king of the Black Islands, stripped him, and with unexampled barbarity gave him a hundred stripes. The unfortunate prince filled the palace with his lamentations, and conjured her in the most affecting tone to take pity on him; but the cruel wretch ceased not till she had given the usual number of blows. "You had no compassion," said she, "and you are to expect none from me."

After the enchantress had given her husband a hundred blows with the whip, she put on again his covering of goat's hair, and his brocade gown over all; she went afterward to the Palace of Tears, and as she entered renewed her tears and lamentations; then approaching the bed, where she thought the Indian lay: "Alas!" said she, addressing herself to the sultan, conceiving him to be the black, "My sun, my life, will you always be silent? Are you resolved to let me die without affording me the comfort of hearing your voice?"

The sultan, as if he had awaked out of a deep sleep, and counterfeiting the pronunciation of the blacks, answered the queen with a grave tone: "There is no strength or power but in God alone, who is almighty." At these words the enchantress, who did not expect them, uttered a loud exclamation of joy. "My dear lord," cried she, "do I not deceive myself; is it certain that I hear you, and that you speak to me?" "Unhappy woman," said the sultan, "art thou worthy that I should answer thee?" "Alas!" replied the queen, "why do you reproach me thus?" "The cries," returned the sultan, "the groans and tears of thy husband, whom thou treatest every day with so much indignity and barbarity, prevent my sleeping night or day. Hadst thou disenchanted him, I should long since have been cured, and have recovered the use of my speech. This is the cause of my silence, of which you complain." "Well," said the enchantress, "to pacify you, I am ready to execute your commands; would you have me restore him?" "Yes," replied the sultan; "make haste to set him at liberty, that I be no longer disturbed by his lamentations." The enchantress went immediately out of the Palace of Tears; she took a cup of water, and pronounced some words over it, which caused it to boil, as if it had been on the fire. She afterward proceeded to the young king, and threw the water upon him, saying: "If the Creator of all things did form thee as thou art at present, or if He be angry with thee, do not change; but if thou art in that condition merely by virtue of my enchantments, resume thy natural shape, and become what thou wast before." She had scarcely spoken these words when the prince, finding himself restored to his former condition, rose up and returned thanks to God. The enchantress then said to him, "Get thee from this castle, and never return on pain of death." The young king, yielding to necessity, went away without replying a word, and retired to a remote place, where he patiently awaited the event of the design which the sultan had so happily begun. Meanwhile the enchantress returned to the Palace of Tears, and supposing that she still spoke to the black, said, "Dear love, I have done what you required; nothing now prevents your rising and giving me the satisfaction of which I have so long been deprived."

The sultan, still counterfeiting the pronunciation of the black, said: "What you have now done is by no means sufficient for my cure; you have only removed a part of the evil; you must cut it up by the root." "My lovely black," resumed the queen, "what do you mean by the root?" "Wretched woman," replied the sultan, "understand you not that I allude to the town and its inhabitants, and the four islands, destroyed by thy enchantments? The fish every night at midnight raise their heads out of the lake, and cry for vengeance against thee and me. This is the true cause of the delay of my cure. Go speedily, restore things to their former state, and at thy return I will give thee my hand, and thou shalt help me to arise."

The enchantress, inspired with hope from these words, cried out in a transport of joy, "My heart, my soul, you shall soon be restored to your health, for I will immediately do as you command me." Accordingly she went that instant, and when she came to the brink of the lake she took a little water in her hand, and sprinkling it, she pronounced some words over the fish and the lake, and the city was immediately restored. The fish became men, women, and children; Mohammedans, Christians, Persians, or Jews; freemen or slaves, as they were before: every one having recovered his natural form. The houses and shops were immediately filled with their inhabitants, who found all things as they were before the enchantment. The sultan's numerous retinue, who found themselves encamped in the largest square, were astonished to see themselves in an instant in the middle of a large, handsome, well-peopled city.

To return to the enchantress: As soon as she had effected this wonderful change, she returned with all expedition to the Palace of Tears, that she might receive her reward. "My dear lord," cried she, as she entered, "I have done all that you required of me, then pray rise and give me your hand." "Come near," said the sultan, still counterfeiting the pronunciation of the black. She did so. "You are not near enough," he continued; "approach nearer." She obeyed. He then rose up, and seizing her by the arm so suddenly that she had not time to discover him, he with a blow of his cimeter cut her in two, so that one half fell one way and the other another. This done, he left the body on the spot, and going out of the Palace of Tears, went to seek the young king of the Black Isles, who waited for him with great impatience. When he found him, "Prince," said he, embracing him, "rejoice; you have now nothing to fear; your cruel enemy is dead."

The young prince returned thanks to the sultan in a manner that sufficiently evinced his gratitude, and in return wished him long life and happiness. "You may henceforward," said the sultan, "dwell peaceably in your capital, unless you will accompany me to mine, which is near: you shall there be welcome, and have as much honour shown you as if you were in your own kingdom." "Potent monarch, to whom I am so much indebted," replied the king, "you think, then, that you are near your capital." "Yes," said the sultan, "I know it is not above four or five hours' journey." "It will take you a whole year to return," said the prince. "I do indeed believe that you came hither from your capital in the time you mention, because mine was enchanted; but since the enchantment is taken off, things are changed: however, this shall not prevent my following you, were it to the utmost corners of the earth. You are my deliverer, and that I may give you proofs of my acknowledgment of this during my whole life, I am willing to accompany you, and to leave my kingdom without regret."

The sultan was extremely surprised to understand that he was so far from his dominions, and could not imagine how it could be, but the young king of the Black Islands convinced him beyond a possibility of doubt. Then the sultan replied: "It is no matter; the trouble of returning to my own country is sufficiently recompensed by the satisfaction of having obliged you, and by acquiring you for a son; for since you will do me the honour to accompany me, as I have no child, I look upon you as such, and from this moment appoint you my heir and successor."

The young prince then employed himself in making preparations for his journey, which were finished in three weeks, to the great regret of his court and subjects, who agreed to receive at his hands one of his nearest kindred for their monarch.

At length the sultan and the young prince began their journey, with a hundred camels laden with inestimable riches from the treasury, followed by fifty handsome gentlemen on horseback, perfectly well mounted and dressed. They had a pleasant journey; and when the sultan, who had sent couriers to give advice of his delay, and of the adventure which had occasioned it, approached his capital, the principal officers came to receive him, and to assure him that his long absence had occasioned no alteration in his empire. The inhabitants also came out in great crowds, received him with acclamations, and made public rejoicings for several days.

The day after his arrival the sultan acquainted his courtiers with his adoption of the king of the Four Black Islands, who was willing to leave a great kingdom to accompany and live with him; and in reward for their loyalty, he made each of them presents according to their rank.

As for the fisherman, as he was the first cause of the deliverance of the young prince, the sultan gave him a plentiful fortune, which made him and his family happy the rest of his days.



The Story Of Gulnare Of The Sea


There was, in olden time, and in an ancient age and period, in the land of the Persians, a king named Shahzeman, and the place of his residence was Khorassan. He had not been blest, during his whole life, with a male child nor a female; and he reflected upon this, one day, and lamented that the greater portion of his life had passed, and he had no heir to take the kingdom after him as he had inherited it from his fathers and forefathers. So the utmost grief befell him on this account.

Now while he was sitting one day, one of his mamelukes came in to him, and said to him: "O my lord, at the door is a slave-girl with a merchant: none more beautiful than she hath been seen." And he replied: "Bring to me the merchant and the slave-girl." The merchant and the slave-girl therefore came to him; and when he saw her, he found her to resemble the lance in straightness and slenderness. She was wrapped in a garment of silk embroidered with gold, and the merchant uncovered her face, whereupon the place was illuminated by her beauty, and there hung down from her forehead seven locks of hair reaching to her anklets. The King, therefore, wondered at the sight of her, and at her beauty, and her stature and justness of form; and he said to the merchant: "O sheikh, for how much is this damsel to be sold?" The merchant answered: "O my lord, I purchased her for two thousand pieces of gold of the merchant who owned her before me, and I have been for three years travelling with her, and she hath cost, to the period of her arrival at this place, three thousand pieces of gold; and she is a present from me unto thee." Upon this, the king conferred upon him a magnificent robe of honour, and gave orders to present him with ten thousand pieces of gold. So he took them, and kissed the hands of the king, thanking him for his beneficence, and departed. Then the king committed the damsel to the tirewomen, saying to them: "Amend the state of this damsel, and deck her, and furnish for her a private chamber, and take her into it." He also gave orders to his chamberlains that everything which she required should be conveyed to her. The seat of government where he resided was on the shore of the sea, and his city was called the White City. And they conducted the damsel into a private chamber, which chamber had windows overlooking the sea; and the king commanded his chamberlains to close all the doors upon her after taking to her all that she required.

The king then went in to visit the damsel; but she rose not to him, nor took any notice of him. So the king said: "It seemeth that she hath been with people who have not taught her good manners." And looking at the damsel, he saw her to be a person surpassing in loveliness, her face was like the disk of the moon at the full, or the shining sun in the clear sky; and he wondered at her beauty, extolling the perfection of God, the Creator: then the king advanced to the damsel, and seated himself by her side, pressed her to his bosom, and kissed her lips, which he found to be sweeter than honey. After this, he gave orders to bring tables of the richest viands, comprising dishes of every kind; and he ate, and put morsels into her mouth until she was satisfied; but she spoke not a single word. The king talked to her, and inquired of her her name; but she was silent, not uttering a word, nor returning him an answer, ceasing not to hang down her head toward the ground; and what protected her from the anger of the king was her beauty, and her tenderness of manner. So the king said within himself: "Extolled be the perfection of God, the Creator of this damsel! How elegant is she, saving that she doth not speak!" -- Then the king asked the female slaves whether she had spoken; and they answered him: "From the time of her arrival to the present moment she hath not spoken one word, and we have not heard her talk." The king therefore caused some of them to come, and sing to her, and make merry with her, thinking that then she might perhaps speak. Accordingly the female slaves played before her with all kinds of musical instruments, and enacted sports and other performances, and they sang so that every one who was present was moved with delight, except the damsel, who looked at them and was silent, neither laughing nor speaking. So the heart of the king was contracted. He however inclined to her entirely, paying no regard to others, but relinquishing all the rest of his favourites.

He remained with her a whole year, which seemed as one day, and still she spoke not; and he said to her one day, when his passion was excessive: "O desire of souls, verily the love that I have for thee is great, and I have relinquished for thy sake all my worldly portion, and been patient with thee a whole year. I beg God that He will, in His grace, soften thy heart toward me, and that thou mayest speak to me. Or, if thou be dumb, inform me by a sign, that I may give up hope of thy speaking. I also beg of God that He will bless thee with a son that may inherit my kingdom after me; for I am solitary, having none to be my heir, and my age hath become great. I conjure thee, then, by Allah, if thou love me, that thou return me a reply." And upon this, the damsel hung her head toward the ground, meditating. Then she raised her head, and smiled in the face of the king, whereat it appeared to the king that lightning filled the private chamber; and she said: "O magnanimous King, God hath answered thy prayer; for I am about to bring thee a child, and the time is almost come. And were it not that I knew this thing, I had not spoken to thee one word." And when the king heard what she said, his face brightened up with happiness, and he kissed her hands by reason of the violence of his joy, and said: "Praise be to God who hath favoured me with things that I desired; the first, thy speaking; and the second, thy information that thou art about to bring me a child." Then the king arose and went forth from her, and seated himself upon the throne of his kingdom in a state of exceeding happiness; and he ordered the vizier to give out to the poor and the needy a hundred thousand pieces of gold as a thank-offering to God. So the vizier did as the king had commanded him. And after that, the king went in to the damsel, and embraced her, saying to her: "O my mistress, wherefore hath been this silence, seeing that thou hast been with me a whole year, awake and asleep, yet hast not spoken to me, except on this day?"

The damsel answered: "Hear, O King of the age, and know that I am a poor person, a stranger, broken-hearted: I have become separated from my mother, and my family, and my brother." And when the king heard her words, he knew her desire, and he replied: "As to thy saying that thou art poor, there is no occasion for such an assertion; for all my kingdom and possessions are at thy service, and as to thy saying, 'I have become separated from my mother and my family and my brother' -- inform me in what place they are, and I will send to them, and bring them to thee." So she said to him: "Know, O King, that my name is Gulnare (Pomegranate Flower) of the Sea. My father was one of the Kings of the Sea, and he died, and left to us the kingdom; but while we were enjoying it, another of the kings came upon us, and took the kingdom from our hands. I have also a brother named Saleh, and my mother is of the women of the sea; and I quarrelled with my brother, and swore that I would throw myself into the hands of a man of the inhabitants of the land. Accordingly I came forth from the sea, and sat upon the shore of an island in the moonlight, and there passed by a man who took me and sold me to this man from whom thou tookest me, and he was an excellent, virtuous man, a person of religion and fidelity and kindness. But had not thy heart loved me, and hadst thou not preferred me above all thy wives, I had not remained with thee one hour; for I should have cast myself into the sea from this window, and gone to my mother and my people. I was ashamed, however, to go to them; for they would imagine evil of me, and would not believe me, even though I should swear to them, were I to tell them that a king had purchased me with his money, and chosen me in preference to his other wives and all that his right hand possessed. This is my story, and peace be on thee!" And when he heard her words, he thanked her, and kissed her between the eyes, and said to her: "By Allah, O my mistress, and light of my eyes, I cannot endure separation from thee for one hour; and if thou quit me, I shall die instantly. How then shall the affair be?" She answered: "O my master, the time of the birth is near, and my family must come." "And how," said the king, "do they walk in the sea without being wetted?" She answered: "We walk in the sea as ye walk upon the land, through the influence of the names engraved upon the seal of Solomon, the son of David, upon both of whom be peace! But, O King, when my family and my brethren come, I will inform them that thou boughtest me with thy money, and hast treated me with beneficence, and it will be meet that thou confirm my assertion to them. They will also see thy state with their eyes, and will know that thou art a king, the son of a king." And thereupon the king said: "O my mistress, do what seemeth fit to thee, and what thou wishest; for I will comply with thy desire in all that thou wilt do." And the damsel said: "Know, O King of the age, that we walk in the sea with our eyes open, and see what is in it, and we see the sun, and the moon, and the stars, and the sky as on the face of the earth, and this hurteth us not. Know also, that in the sea are many peoples and various forms of all the kinds that are on the land; and know, moreover, that all that is on the land, in comparison with what is in the sea, is a very small matter." And the king wondered at her words.

Then the damsel took a bit of aloes-wood and, having lighted a fire in a perfuming-vessel, threw into it that bit, and she proceeded to speak words which no one understood; whereupon a great smoke arose, while the king looked on. After this, she said to the king: "O my lord, arise and conceal thyself in a closet, that I may shew thee my brother and my mother and my family without their seeing thee; for I desire to bring them, and thou shalt see in this place, at this time, a wonder, and shalt marvel at the various shapes and strange forms that God hath created." So the king arose immediately, and entered a closet, and looked to see what she would do. And she proceeded to burn perfume and repeat spells until the sea foamed and was agitated, and there came forth from it a young man of comely form, of beautiful countenance, like the moon at the full, with shining forehead, and red cheeks, and hair resembling pearls and jewels; he was, of all the creation, the most like to his sister, and the tongue of the case itself seemed to recite in his praise these verses: -- 

The moon becometh perfect once in each month; but the loveliness of thy face is perfect every day. Its abode is in the heart of one sign at a time; but thine abode is in all hearts at once.

And she proceeded to burn perfume and repeat spells until the sea foamed and was agitated.

Afterward, there came forth from the sea a grizzly-haired old woman, and with her five damsels, resembling moons and bearing a likeness to the damsel whose name was Gulnare. Then the king saw the young man and the old woman and the damsels walk upon the surface of the water until they came to Gulnare; and when they drew near to the window, and she beheld them, she rose to them and met them with joy. On their seeing her, they knew her, and they went in to her and embraced her, weeping violently; and they said to her: "O Gulnare, how is it that thou leavest us for four years, and we know not the place in which thou art? By Allah, we had no delight in food nor in drink a single day, weeping night and day on account of the excess of our longing to see thee." Then the damsel began to kiss the hand of her brother, and the hand of her mother, and so also the hands of the daughters of her uncle, and they sat with her awhile, asking her respecting her state, and the things that had happened to her, and her present condition.

So she said to them: "Know ye, that when I quitted you, and came forth from the sea, I sat upon the shore of an island, and a man took me, and sold me to a merchant, and the merchant brought me to this city, and sold me to its king for ten thousand pieces of gold. Then he treated me with attention, and forsook all his favourites for my sake, and was diverted by his regard for me from everything that he possessed and what was in his city." And when her brother heard her words, he said: "Praise be to God who hath reunited us! But it is my desire, O my sister, that thou wouldst arise and go with us to our country and our family." So when the king heard the words of her brother, his reason fled in consequence of his fear lest the damsel should accept the proposal of her kindred, and he could not prevent her, though he was inflamed with love of her; wherefore he became perplexed in violent fear of her separation. But as to the damsel Gulnare, on hearing the words of her brother she said: "By Allah, O my brother, the man who purchased me is the king of this city, and he is a great king, and a man of wisdom, generous, of the utmost liberality. He hath treated me with honour, and he is a person of kindness, and of great wealth, but hath no male child nor a female. He hath shewn me favour too, and acted well to me in every respect; and from the day when I came to him to the present time, I have not heard from him a word to grieve my heart; but he hath not ceased to treat me with courtesy, and I am living with him in the most perfect of enjoyments. Moreover, if I quitted him, he would perish: for he can never endure my separation even for a single hour. I also, if I quitted him, should die of my love for him in consequence of his kindness to me during the period of my residence with him; for if my father were living, my condition with him would not be like my condition with this great, glorious king. God (whose name be exalted!) afflicted me not, but compensated me well; and as the king hath not a male child nor a female, I beg God to bless me with a son that may inherit of this great king these palaces and possessions." And when her brother, and the daughters of her uncle, heard her words, their eyes became cheerful thereat, and they said to her: "O Gulnare, thou art acquainted with our affection for thee, and thou art assured that thou art the dearest of all persons to us, and art certain that we desire for thee comfort, without trouble or toil. Therefore if thou be not in a state of comfort, arise and accompany us to our country and our family; but if thou be comfortable here, in honour and happiness, this is our desire and wish." And Gulnare replied: "By Allah, I am in a state of the utmost enjoyment, in honour and desirable happiness." So when the king heard these words from her, he rejoiced, and he thanked her for them; his love for her penetrated to his heart's core, and he knew that she loved him as he loved her, and that she desired to remain with him to see his child which she was to bring to him.

Then the damsel Gulnare of the Sea gave orders to the female slaves to bring forward viands of all kinds; and Gulnare herself was the person who superintended the preparation of the viands in the kitchen. So the female slaves brought to them the viands, and the sweetmeats, and the fruits; and she ate with her family. But afterward they said to her: "O Gulnare, thy master is a man who is a stranger to us, and we have entered his abode without his permission, and thou praisest to us his excellence, and hast also brought to us his food, and we have eaten, but have not seen him, nor hath he seen us, nor come into our presence, nor eaten with us, that the bond of bread and salt might be established between us." And they all desisted from eating, and were enraged at her, and fire began to issue from their mouths as from cressets. So when the king beheld this, his reason fled, in consequence of the violence of his fear of them. Then Gulnare rose to them, and soothed their hearts; after which she walked along until she entered the closet in which was the king her master; and she said to him: "O my master, didst thou see, and didst thou hear my thanks to thee, and my praise of thee in the presence of my family; and didst thou hear what they said to me, that they desired to take me with them to our family and our country?" The king answered her: "I heard and saw. May God recompense thee! By Allah, I knew not the extent of the love that thou feelest for me until this blessed hour." She replied: "O my master, is the recompense of beneficence aught but beneficence? How then could my heart be happy to quit thee, and to depart from thee? Now I desire of thy goodness that thou come and salute my family, that they may see thee, and that pleasure and mutual friendship may ensue. For know, O King, that my brother and my mother and the daughters of my uncle have conceived a great love for thee in consequence of my praising thee to them, and they have said, 'We will not depart from thee to our country until we have an interview with the king, and salute him.'" And the king said to her: "I hear and obey; for this is what I desire." He then rose from his place, and went to them, and saluted them with the best salutation; and they hastened to rise to him; they met him in the most polite manner, and he sat with them in the pavilion, ate with them at the table, and remained with them for a period of thirty days. Then they desired to return to their country and abode. So they took leave of the king and Queen Gulnare of the Sea, and departed from them, after the king had treated them with the utmost honour.

After this, Gulnare gave birth to a boy, resembling the moon at the full, whereat the king experienced the utmost happiness, because he had not before been blessed with a son nor a daughter during his life. They continued the rejoicings, and the decoration of the city, for a period of seven days, in the utmost happiness and enjoyment; and on the seventh day, the mother of Gulnare, and her brother, and the daughters of her uncle, all came, when they knew that she had given birth to her child. The king met them, rejoicing at their arrival, and said to them: "I said that I would not name my son until ye should come, and that ye should name him according to your knowledge." And they named him Bedr Basim (Smiling Full Moon), all of them agreeing as to this name. They then presented the boy to his maternal uncle, Saleh, who took him upon his hands, and, rising with him from among them, walked about the palace to the right and left; after which he went forth with him from the palace, descended with him to the sea, and walked on until he became concealed from the eye of the king. So when the king saw that he had taken his son, and disappeared from him at the bottom of the sea, he despaired of him, and began to weep and wail. But Gulnare, seeing him in this state, said to him, "O King of the age, fear not nor grieve for thy son; for I love my child more than thou, and my child is with my brother; therefore fear not his being drowned. If my brother knew that any injury would betide the little one, he had not done what he hath done; and presently he will bring thee thy son safe, if it be the will of God, whose name be exalted!" And but a short time had elapsed when the sea was agitated, and the uncle of the little one came forth from it, having with him the king's son safe, and he flew from the sea until he came to them, with the little one in his arms, silent, and his face resembling the moon in the night of its fulness. Then the uncle of the little one looked toward the king, and said to him: "Perhaps thou fearedst some injury to thy son when I descended into the sea, having him with me." So he replied: "Yes, O my master, I feared for him, and I did not imagine that he would ever come forth from it safe." And Saleh said to him: "O King of the Land, we applied to his eyes a lotion that we know, and repeated over him the names engraved upon the seal of Solomon, the son of David; for when a child is born among us, we do to him as I have told thee. Fear not therefore, on his account, drowning, nor suffocation, nor all the seas if he descend into them. Like as ye walk upon the land, we walk in the sea."

He then took forth from his pocket a case, written upon, and sealed; and he broke its seal, and scattered its contents, whereupon there fell from it strung jewels, consisting of all kinds of jacinths and other gems, together with three hundred oblong emeralds, and three hundred oblong large jewels, of the size of the eggs of the ostrich, the light of which was more resplendent than the light of the sun and the moon. And he said: "O King of the age, these jewels and jacinths are a present from me unto thee; for we never brought thee a present, because we knew not the place of Gulnare's abode. So when we saw thee to have become united to her, and that we all had become one, we brought thee this present; and after every period of a few days, we will bring thee the like of it. For these jewels and jacinths with us are more plentiful than the gravel upon the land, and we know the excellent among them, and the bad, and the places where they are found, and they are easy of access to us." -- And when the king looked at those jewels, his reason was confounded and his mind was bewildered, and he said: "By Allah, one of these jewels is worth my kingdom!" Then the king thanked Saleh of the Sea for his generosity, and looking toward the Queen Gulnare said to her: "I am abashed at thy brother; for he hath shewn favour to me, and presented me with this magnificent present, which the people of the earth would fail to procure." So Gulnare thanked her brother for that which he had done; but her brother said: "O King of the age, to thank thee hath been incumbent on us; for thou hast treated my sister with beneficence, and we have entered thine abode, and eaten of thy provision." Then Saleh said: "If we stood serving thee, O King of the age, a thousand years, regarding nothing else, we could not requite thee, and our doing so would be but a small thing in comparison with thy desert." And Saleh remained with the king, he and his mother and the daughters of his uncle, forty days; after which he arose and kissed the ground before the king, the husband of his sister. So the king said to him: "What dost thou desire, O Saleh?" And he answered: "O King of the age, we desire of thy goodness that thou wouldst give us permission to depart; for we have become desirous of seeing again our family and our country and our relations and our homes. We will not, however, relinquish the service of thee, nor that of my sister nor the son of my sister; and by Allah, O King of the age, to quit you is not pleasant to my heart; but how can we act, when we have been reared in the sea, and the land is not agreeable to us?" So when the king heard his words, he rose upon his feet, and bade farewell to Saleh of the Sea and his mother and the daughters of his uncle, and they wept together on account of the separation. Then they said to the king: "We will never relinquish you, but after every period of a few days we will visit you." And after this, they flew toward the sea, and descended into it, and disappeared.

The king treated Gulnare with beneficence, and honoured her exceedingly, and the little one grew up well; and his maternal uncle, with his grandmother and the daughters of his uncle, after every period of a few days used to come to the residence of the king, and to remain with him a month, and then return to their places. The boy ceased not to increase in beauty and loveliness until his age became fifteen years; and he was incomparable in his perfect beauty, and his stature and his justness of form. He had learned writing and reading, and history and grammar and philology, and archery; and he learned to play with the spear; and he also learned horsemanship, and all that the sons of the kings required. There was not one of the children of the inhabitants of the city, men and women, that talked not of the charms of that young man; for he was of surpassing loveliness and perfection; and the king loved him greatly. Then the king summoned the vizier and the emeers, and the lords of the empire, and the great men of the kingdom, and made them swear by binding oaths that they would make Bedr Basim king over them after his father; so they swore to him by binding oaths, and rejoiced thereat; and the king himself was beneficent to the people, courteous in speech and of auspicious aspect. And on the following day, the king mounted, together with the lords of the empire and all the emeers, and all the soldiers, and they ceased not to proceed until they arrived at the vestibule of the palace; the king's son riding. Thereupon he alighted, and his father embraced him, he and the emeers, and they seated him upon the throne of the kingdom, while his father stood, as also did the emeers, before him. Then Bedr Basim judged the people, displaced the tyrannical and invested the just, and continued to give judgment until near midday, when he rose from the throne of the kingdom, and went in to his mother, Gulnare of the Sea, having upon his head the crown, and resembling the moon. So when his mother saw him, and the king before him, she rose to him and kissed him, and congratulated him on his elevation to the dignity of sultan; and she offered up a prayer in favour of him and his father for length of life, and victory over their enemies. He then sat with his mother and rested; and when the time of afternoon-prayers arrived, he rode with the emeers before him until he came to the horse-course, where he played with arms till the time of nightfall, together with his father and the lords of his empire; after which he returned to the palace, with all the people before him. Every day he used to ride to the horse-course; and when he returned, he sat to judge the people, and administered justice between the emeer and the poor man. He ceased not to do thus for a whole year; and after that, he used to ride to the chase, and go about through the cities and provinces that were under his rule making proclamation of safety and security, and doing as do the kings; and he was incomparable among the people of his age in glory and courage, and in justice to the people.

Now it came to pass that the old king, the father of Bedr Basim, fell sick one day, whereupon his heart throbbed, and he felt that he was about to be removed to the mansion of eternity. Then his malady increased so that he was at the point of death. He therefore summoned his son, and charged him to take care of his subjects and his mother and all the lords of his empire and all the dependants. He also made them swear, and covenanted with them a second time, that they would obey his son; and he confided in their oaths. And after this he remained a few days, and was admitted to the mercy of God, whose name be exalted! His son Bedr Basim, and his wife Gulnare and the emeers and viziers and the lords of the empire, mourned over him; and they made for him a tomb, and buried him in it, and continued the ceremonies of mourning for him a whole month. Saleh, the brother of Gulnare, and her mother, and the daughters of her uncle, also came, and consoled them for the loss of the king; and they said: "O Gulnare, if the king hath died, he hath left this ingenuous youth, and he who hath left such as he is hath not died. This is he who hath not an equal, the crushing lion, and the splendid moon." Then the lords of the empire, and the grandees, went in to the King Bedr Basim, and said to him: "O King, there is no harm in mourning for the king; but mourning becometh not any save women; therefore trouble not thy heart and ours by mourning for thy father; for he hath died and left thee, and he who hath left such as thou art hath not died." They proceeded to address him with soft words, and to console him, and after that they conducted him into the bath; and when he came forth from the bath, he put on a magnificent suit woven of gold, adorned with jewels and jacinths, and he put the royal crown upon his head, seated himself upon the throne of his kingdom, and performed the affairs of the people, deciding equitably between the strong and the weak, and exacting for the poor man his due from the emeer; wherefore the people loved him exceedingly. Thus he continued to do for the space of a whole year; and after every short period, his family of the sea visited him; so his life was pleasant, and his eye was cheerful: and he ceased not to live in this state until he was visited by the terminator of delights and the separator of companions. This is the end of their story. The mercy of God be on them all!



The Story Of Aladdin; Or, The Wonderful Lamp


In the capital of one of the large and rich provinces of the kingdom of China there lived a tailor, named Mustapha, who was so poor that he could hardly, by his daily labour, maintain himself and his family, which consisted of a wife and son.

His son, who was called Aladdin, had been brought up in a very careless and idle manner, and by that means had contracted many vicious habits. He was obstinate, and disobedient to his father and mother, who, when he grew up, could not keep him within doors. He was in the habit of going out early in the morning, and would stay out all day, playing in the streets with idle children of his own age.

When he was old enough to learn a trade, his father, not being able to put him out to any other, took him into his own shop, and taught him how to use his needle: but neither fair words nor the fear of chastisement were capable of fixing his lively genius. All his father's endeavours to keep him to his work were in vain; for no sooner was his back turned, than he was gone for that day. Mustapha chastised him, but Aladdin was incorrigible, and his father, to his great grief, was forced to abandon him to his idleness: and was so much troubled at not being able to reclaim him, that it threw him into a fit of sickness, of which he died in a few months.

The mother, finding that her son would not follow his father's business, shut up the shop, sold off the implements of trade, and with the money she received for them, and what she could get by spinning cotton, thought to maintain herself and her son.

Aladdin, who was now no longer restrained by the fear of a father, and who cared so little for his mother that whenever she chid him he would abuse her, gave himself entirely over to his idle habits, and was never out of the streets from his companions. This course he followed till he was fifteen years old, without giving his mind to any useful pursuit, or the least reflection on what would become of him. In this situation, as he was one day playing with his vagabond associates, a stranger passing by stood to observe him.

This stranger was a sorcerer, called the African magician; as he was a native of Africa, and had been but two days arrived from thence.

The African magician, who was a good physiognomist, observing in Aladdin's countenance something absolutely necessary for the execution of the design he was engaged in, inquired artfully about his family, who he was, and what were his inclinations; and when he had learned all he desired to know, went up to him, and taking him aside from his comrades, said: "Child, was not your father called Mustapha, the tailor?" "Yes, sir," answered the boy; "but he has been dead a long time."

At these words, the African magician threw his arms about Aladdin's neck, and kissed him several times with tears in his eyes. Aladdin, who observed his tears, asked him what made him weep. "Alas! my son," cried the African magician with a sigh, "how can I forbear? I am your uncle; your worthy father was my own brother. I have been many years abroad, and now I am come home with the hopes of seeing him, you tell me he is dead. But it is some relief to my affliction, that I knew you at first sight, you are so like him." Then he asked Aladdin, putting his hand into his purse, where his mother lived, and as soon as he had informed him, gave him a handful of small money, saying: "Go, my son, to your mother, give my love to her, and tell her that I will visit her to-morrow, that I may have the satisfaction of seeing where my good brother lived so long."

As soon as the African magician left his newly-adopted nephew, Aladdin ran to his mother, overjoyed at the money his uncle had given him. "Mother," said he, "have I an uncle?" "No, child," replied his mother, "you have no uncle by your father's side, or mine." "I am just now come," said Aladdin, "from a man who says he is my uncle on my father's side. He cried and kissed me when I told him my father was dead; and to show you that what I tell you is truth," added he, pulling out the money, "see what he has given me; he charged me to give his love to you, and to tell you that to-morrow he will come and pay you a visit, that he may see the house my father lived and died in." "Indeed, child," replied the mother, "your father had a brother, but he has been dead a long time, and I never heard of another."

The mother and son talked no more then of the African magician; but the next day Aladdin's uncle found him playing in another part of the town with other youths, and embracing him as before, put two pieces of gold into his hand, and said to him: "Carry this, child, to your mother, tell her that I will come and see her to-night, and bid her get us something for supper; but first show me the house where you live."

After Aladdin had showed the African magician the house, he carried the two pieces of gold to his mother, and when he had told her of his uncle's intention, she went out and bought provisions. She spent the whole day in preparing the supper; and at night, when it was ready, said to her son: "Perhaps your uncle knows not how to find our house; go and bring him if you meet with him."

Though Aladdin had showed the magician the house, he was ready to go, when somebody knocked at the door, which he immediately opened; and the magician came in loaded with wine, and all sorts of fruits, which he brought for a dessert.

After the African magician had given what he brought into Aladdin's hands, he saluted his mother, and desired her to shew him the place where his brother Mustapha used to sit on the sofa; and when she had so done, he fell down and kissed it several times, crying out with tears in his eyes: "My poor brother! how unhappy am I, not to have come soon enough to give you one last embrace." Aladdin's mother desired him to sit down in the same place, but he declined. "No," said he, "but give me leave to sit opposite, that although I am deprived of the satisfaction of seeing one so dear to me, I may at least have the pleasure of beholding the place where he used to sit."

When the magician had sat down, he began to enter into discourse with Aladdin's mother: "My good sister," said he, "do not be surprised at your never having seen me all the time you were married to my brother Mustapha. I have been forty years absent from this country, which is my native place, as well as my late brother's; and during that time have travelled into the Indies, Persia, Arabia, Syria, and Egypt; have resided in the finest towns of those countries; and afterward crossed over into Africa, where I made a longer stay. At last, as it is natural for a man to remember his native country, I was desirous to see mine again, and to embrace my dear brother; and finding I had strength enough to undertake so long a journey, I immediately made the necessary preparations, and set out. I will not tell you the length of time it took me, all the obstacles I met with, and what fatigues I have endured to come hither; but nothing ever afflicted me so much, as hearing of my brother's death. I observed his features in the face of my nephew, your son, and distinguished him among a number of lads with whom he was at play; he can tell you how I received the most melancholy news that ever reached my ears. But God be praised for all things! it is a comfort for me to find, as it were, my brother in a son, who has his most remarkable features."

The African magician, perceiving that the widow began to weep at the remembrance of her husband, changed the conversation, and turning toward her son, asked him his name. "I am called Aladdin," said he. "Well, Aladdin," replied the magician, "what business do you follow? Are you of any trade?"

At this question the youth hung down his head, and was not a little abashed when his mother answered: "Aladdin is an idle fellow; his father, when alive, strove all he could to teach him his trade, but could not succeed; and since his death he does nothing but idle away his time in the streets, as you saw him, without considering he is no longer a child; and if you do not make him ashamed of it, I despair of his ever coming to any good. He knows that his father left him no fortune, and sees me endeavour to get bread by spinning cotton; for my part, I am resolved one of these days to turn him out of doors, and let him provide for himself."

After these words, Aladdin's mother burst into tears; and the magician said: "This is not well, nephew; you must think of getting your livelihood. There are many sorts of trades, consider if you have not an inclination to some of them; perhaps you did not like your father's and would prefer another; come, do not disguise your sentiments from me; I will endeavour to help you." But finding that Aladdin returned no answer, "If you have no mind," continued he, "to learn any handicraft, I will take a shop for you, furnish it with all sorts of fine stuffs and linens; and with the money you make of them lay in fresh goods, and then you will live in an honourable way. Consult your inclination, and tell me freely what you think of my proposal."

This plan greatly flattered Aladdin, who hated work but had sense enough to know that such shops were much frequented and the owners respected. He told the magician he had a greater inclination to that business than to any other, and that he should be much obliged to him for his kindness. "Since this profession is agreeable to you," said the African magician, "I will carry you with me to-morrow, clothe you as handsomely as the best merchants in the city, and afterward we will think of opening a shop as I mentioned."

The widow, who never till then could believe that the magician was her husband's brother, no longer doubted after his promises of kindness to her son. She thanked him for his good intentions; and after having exhorted Aladdin to render himself worthy of his uncle's favour by good behaviour, served up supper, at which they talked of several indifferent matters; and then the magician, who saw that the night was pretty far advanced, took his leave, and retired.

He came again the next day, as he had promised, and took Aladdin with him to a merchant, who sold all sorts of clothes for different ages and ranks ready made, and a variety of fine stuffs. He asked to see some that suited Aladdin in size; and Aladdin, charmed with the liberality of his new uncle, made choice of one, and the magician immediately paid for it.

When the boy found himself so handsomely equipped, he returned his uncle thanks; who promised never to forsake him, but always to take him along with him; which he did to the most frequented places in the city, and particularly where the principal merchants kept their shops. When he brought him into the street where they sold the richest stuffs and finest linens, he said to Aladdin: "As you are soon to be a merchant, it is proper you should frequent these shops, and be acquainted with them." He then showed him the largest and finest mosques, carried him to the khans or inns where the merchants and travellers lodged, and afterward to the sultan's palace, where he had free access; and at last brought him to his own khan, where, meeting with some merchants he had become acquainted with since his arrival, he gave them a treat, to bring them and his pretended nephew acquainted.

This entertainment lasted till night, when Aladdin would have taken leave of his uncle to go home, but the magician would not let him go by himself, but conducted him to his mother, who, as soon as she saw him so well dressed, was transported with joy, and bestowed a thousand blessings upon the magician, for being at so great an expense for her child. "Generous relation!" said she, "I know not how to thank you for your liberality! I wish you may live long enough to witness my son's gratitude, which he cannot better shew than by regulating his conduct by your good advice."

"Aladdin," replied the magician, "is a good boy, and I believe we shall do very well; but I am sorry for one thing, which is, that I cannot perform to-morrow what I promised, because, as it is Friday, the shops will be shut up, and therefore we cannot hire or furnish one till Saturday. I will, however, call on him to-morrow and take him to walk in the gardens, where people of the best fashion generally resort. Perhaps he has never seen these amusements, he has only hitherto been among children; but now he must see men." The African magician then took his leave of the mother and the son, and retired.

Aladdin rose early the next morning, dressed himself to be ready, and after he had waited some time began to be impatient and stood watching at the door; but as soon as he perceived his uncle coming, he told his mother, took his leave of her, and ran to meet him.

The magician caressed Aladdin, and said: "Come, my dear child, and I will shew you fine things." He then led him out at one of the gates of the city, to some magnificent palaces, to each of which belonged beautiful gardens, into which anybody might enter. At every building he came to, he asked Aladdin if he did not think it fine; and the youth was ready to answer when any one presented itself, crying out: "Here is a finer house, uncle, than any we have seen yet." By this artifice, the cunning magician led Aladdin some way into the country; and as he meant to carry him farther, pretending to be tired, he took an opportunity to sit down in one of the gardens on the brink of a fountain of clear water, which discharged itself by a lion's mouth of bronze into a basin: "Come, nephew," said he, "you must be weary as well as I; let us rest ourselves, and we shall be better able to pursue our walk."

After they had sat down, the magician pulled from his girdle a handkerchief with cakes and fruit, which he had provided, and laid them on the edge of the basin. He broke a cake in two, gave one half to Aladdin and ate the other himself; and in regard to the fruit, left him at liberty to take which sort he liked best. During this short repast, he exhorted his nephew to leave off keeping company with vagabonds, and seek that of wise and prudent men, to improve by their conversation; "For," said he, "you will soon be at man's estate, and you cannot too early begin to imitate their example." When they had eaten as much as they liked, they pursued their walk through gardens separated from one another only by small ditches, which marked out the limits without interrupting the communication; so great was the confidence the inhabitants reposed in each other. By this means, the African magician drew Aladdin insensibly beyond the gardens, and crossed the country, till they nearly reached the mountains.

Aladdin, who had never been so far before, began to find himself much tired, and said to the magician: "Where are we going, uncle? We have left the gardens a great way behind us, and I see nothing but mountains; if we go much farther, I do not know whether I shall be able to reach the town again!" "Never fear, nephew," said the false uncle; "I will shew you another garden which surpasses all we have yet seen; and when we come there, you will say that you would have been sorry to have been so nigh, and not seen it." Aladdin was soon persuaded; and the magician, to make the way seem shorter and less fatiguing, told him a great many stories.

At last they arrived between two mountains of moderate height, and equal size, divided by a narrow valley, which was the place where the magician intended to execute the design that had brought him from Africa to China. "We will go no farther now," said he to Aladdin: "I will shew you here some extraordinary things, which, when you have seen, you will thank me for: but while I strike a light, gather up all the loose dry sticks you can see, to kindle a fire with."

Aladdin collected a great heap and the magician presently set them on fire, and when they were in a blaze, threw in some incense which raised a cloud of smoke. This he dispersed on each side, by pronouncing several magical words which the lad did not understand.

At the same time the earth, trembling, opened just before the magician, and uncovered a stone, laid horizontally, with a brass ring fixed into the middle. Aladdin was so frightened at what he saw, that he would have run away; but the magician caught hold of him, abused him, and gave him such a box on the ear that he knocked him down. Aladdin got up trembling, and with tears in his eyes, said to the magician: "What have I done, uncle, to be treated in this severe manner?" "I have my reasons," answered the magician; "I am your uncle, I supply the place of your father, and you ought to make no reply. But, child," added he, softening, "do not be afraid; for I shall not ask anything of you, but that you obey me punctually, if you would reap the advantages which I intend you." These fair promises calmed Aladdin's fears and resentment; and when the magician saw that he was appeased, he said to him: "You see what I have done by virtue of my incense, and the words I pronounced. Know then, that under this stone there is hidden a treasure, destined to be yours, and which will make you richer than the greatest monarch in the world: no person but yourself is permitted to lift this stone, or enter the cave; so you must punctually execute what I may command, for it is a matter of great consequence both to you and me."

Aladdin, amazed at all he saw and heard the magician say of the treasure which was to make him happy forevermore, forgot what was past, and rising, said: "Well, uncle, what is to be done? Command me, I am ready to obey." "I am overjoyed, child," said the African magician, embracing him; "take hold of the ring, and lift up that stone." "Indeed, uncle," replied Aladdin, "I am not strong enough; you must help me." "You have no occasion for my assistance," answered the magician; "if I help you, we shall be able to do nothing; take hold of the ring, pronounce the names of your father and grandfather, then lift it up, and you will find it will come easily." Aladdin did as the magician bade him, raised the stone with ease, and laid it on one side.

At the same time the earth, trembling, opened just before the magician, and uncovered a stone, laid horizontally, with a brass ring fixed into the middle.

When the stone was pulled up, there appeared a cavity of about three or four feet deep, with a little door, and steps to go down lower. "Observe, my son," said the African magician, "what I direct. Descend into the cave, and when you are at the bottom of those steps you will find a door which will lead you into a spacious vault, divided into three great halls, in each of which you will see four large brass cisterns placed on each side, full of gold and silver; but take care you do not meddle with them. Before you enter the first hall, be sure to tuck up your vest, wrap it about you, and then pass through the second into the third without stopping. Above all, have a care that you do not touch the walls; for if you do, you will die instantly. At the end of the third hall, you will find a door which opens into a garden planted with fine trees loaded with fruit; walk directly across the garden by a path which will lead you to five steps that will bring you upon a terrace, where you will see a niche before you, and in that niche a lighted lamp. Take the lamp down, and extinguish it: when you have thrown away the wick, and poured out the liquor, put it in your vestband and bring it to me. Do not be afraid that the liquor will spoil your clothes, for it is not oil; and the lamp will be dry as soon as it is thrown out. If you should wish for any of the fruit of the garden, you may gather as much as you please."

After these words, the magician drew a ring off his finger, and put it on one of Aladdin's, telling him that it was a preservative against all evil, while he should observe what he had prescribed to him. After this instruction he said: "Go down boldly, child, and we shall both be rich all our lives."

Aladdin jumped into the cave, descended the steps, and found the three halls just as the African magician had described. He went through them with all the precaution the fear of death could inspire; crossed the garden without stopping, took down the lamp from the niche, threw out the wick and the liquor, and, as the magician had desired, put it in his vestband. But as he came down from the terrace, he stopped in the garden to observe the fruit, which he only had a glimpse of in crossing it. All the trees were loaded with extraordinary fruit, of different colours on each tree. Some bore fruit entirely white, and some clear and transparent as crystal; some pale red, and others deeper; some green, blue, and purple, and others yellow: in short, there was fruit of all colours. The white were pearls; the clear and transparent, diamonds; the deep red, rubies; the green, emeralds; the blue, turquoises; the purple, amethysts; and those that were of yellow cast, sapphires. Aladdin was altogether ignorant of their worth, and would have preferred figs and grapes, or any other fruits. But though he took them only for coloured glass of little value, yet he was so pleased with the variety of the colours, and the beauty and extraordinary size of the seeming fruit, that he resolved to gather some of every sort; and accordingly filled the two new purses his uncle had bought for him with his clothes. Some he wrapped up in the skirts of his vest, which was of silk, large and full, and he crammed his bosom as full as it could hold.

Aladdin, having thus loaded himself with riches, returned through the three halls with the same precaution, made all the haste he could, that he might not make his uncle wait, and soon arrived at the mouth of the cave, where the African magician expected him with the utmost impatience. As soon as Aladdin saw him, he cried out: "Pray, uncle, lend me your hand, to help me out." "Give me the lamp first," replied the magician; "it will be troublesome to you." "Indeed, uncle," answered Aladdin, "I cannot now; it is not troublesome to me: but I will as soon as I am up." The African magician was so obstinate, that he would have the lamp before he would help him up; and Aladdin, who had encumbered himself so much with his fruit that he could not well get at it, refused to give it to him till he was out of the cave. The African magician, provoked at this obstinate refusal, flew into a passion, threw a little of his incense into the fire, which he had taken care to keep in, and no sooner pronounced two magical words, than the stone which had closed the mouth of the cave moved into its place, with the earth over it in the same manner as it lay at the arrival of the magician and Aladdin.

This action of the African magician's plainly shewed him to be neither Aladdin's uncle, nor Mustapha the tailor's brother; but a true African. Africa is a country whose inhabitants delight most in magic of any in the whole world, and he had applied himself to it from his youth. After forty years' experience in enchantments and reading of magic books, he had found out that there was in the world a wonderful lamp, the possession of which would render him more powerful than any monarch; and by a late operation of geomancy, he had discovered that this lamp lay concealed in a subterranean place in the midst of China. Fully persuaded of the truth of this discovery, he set out from the farthest part of Africa; and after a long and fatiguing journey came to the town nearest to this treasure. But though he had a certain knowledge of the place where the lamp was, he was not permitted to take it himself, nor to enter the subterranean place, but must receive it from the hands of another person. For this reason he had addressed himself to Aladdin, whom he looked upon as a lad fit to serve his purpose, resolving, as soon as he should get the lamp into his hands, to sacrifice him to his avarice and wickedness, by making the fumigation mentioned before, and repeating two magical words, the effect of which would remove the stone into its place, so that no witness would remain of the transaction.

The blow he had given Aladdin was intended to make him obey the more readily, and give him the lamp as soon as he should ask for it. But his too great precipitation, and his fear lest somebody should come that way and discover what he wished to keep secret, produced an effect quite contrary to what he had proposed.

When the African magician saw that all his hopes were frustrated forever, he returned the same day for Africa; but went quite round the town, and at some distance from it, lest some persons who had observed him walk out with the boy, on seeing him come back without him, should entertain suspicions, and stop him.

According to all appearances, there was no prospect of Aladdin being heard of any more. But the magician, when he had contrived his death, forgot the ring he had put upon his finger, which preserved him, though he knew not its virtue. It may seem astonishing that the loss of that, together with the lamp, did not drive the magician to despair; but magicians are so much used to misfortunes that they do not lay them to heart, but still feed themselves, to the end of life, with unsubstantial notions and chimeras.

The surprise of Aladdin, who had never suspected this treachery from his pretended uncle, is more easily to be imagined than expressed. When he found himself buried alive, he cried, and called out to his uncle, to tell him he was ready to give him the lamp; but in vain, since his cries could not be heard. He descended to the bottom of the steps, with a design to get into the garden, but the door, which was opened before by enchantment, was now shut by the same means. He then redoubled his cries, sat down on the steps, without any hopes of ever seeing light again, and in a melancholy certainty of passing from the present darkness into that of a speedy death.

Aladdin remained in this state two days, without eating or drinking, and on the third looked upon death as inevitable. Clasping his hands with resignation to the will of God, he said: "There is no strength or power but in the great and high God." In joining his hands he rubbed the ring which the magician had put on his finger, and of which he knew not yet the virtue. Immediately a genie of enormous size and frightful aspect rose out of the earth, his head reaching the roof of the vault, and said to him: "What wouldst thou have? I am ready to obey thee as the slave of all who may possess the ring on thy finger; I, and the other slaves of that ring."

At another time, Aladdin, who had not been used to such appearances, would have been so frightened at the sight of so extraordinary a figure that he would not have been able to speak; but the danger he was in made him answer without hesitation: "Whoever thou art, deliver me from this place, if thou art able." He had no sooner spoken these words, than he found himself on the very spot where the magician had caused the earth to open.

It was some time before his eyes could bear the light, after being so long in total darkness: but after he had endeavoured by degrees to support it, and began to look about him, he was much surprised not to find the earth open, and could not comprehend how he had got so soon out of its bowels. There was nothing to be seen but the place where the fire had been, by which he could nearly judge the situation of the cave. Then turning himself toward the town, he perceived it at a distance in the midst of the gardens that surrounded it, and saw the way by which the magician had brought him. Returning God thanks to find himself once more in the world, he made the best of his way home. When he got within his mother's door, the joy of seeing her and his weakness for want of food for three days made him faint, and he remained for a long time as dead. His mother, who had given him over for lost, seeing him in this condition, omitted nothing to bring him to himself. As soon as he recovered, the first words he spoke were: "Pray, mother, give me something to eat, for I have not put a morsel of anything into my mouth these three days." His mother brought what she had, and set it before him. "My son," said she, "be not too eager, for it is dangerous; eat but little at a time, and take care of yourself. Besides, I would not have you talk; you will have time enough to tell me what has happened to you when you are recovered. It is a great comfort to me to see you again, after the affliction I have been in since Friday, and the pains I have taken to learn what was become of you."

Aladdin took his mother's advice, and ate and drank moderately. When he had done, "Mother," said he to her, "I cannot help complaining of you, for abandoning me so easily to the discretion of a man who had a design to kill me, and who at this very moment thinks my death certain. You believed he was my uncle, as well as I; and what other thoughts could we entertain of a man who was so kind to me? but I must tell you, mother, he is a rogue and a cheat, and only made me those promises to accomplish my death; but for what reason neither you nor I can guess. You shall judge yourself, when you have heard all that passed from the time I left you, till he came to the execution of his wicked design."

Aladdin then related to his mother all that had happened to him, from the Friday when the magician took him to see the palaces and gardens about the town, till they came to the place between the two mountains where the great deed was to be performed; how, with incense which the magician threw into the fire, and some magical words which he pronounced, the earth opened, and discovered a cave, which led to an inestimable treasure. He did not forget the blow the magician had given him, and in what manner he softened again, and engaged him by great promises, and putting a ring on his finger, to go down into the cave. He did not omit the least circumstance of what he saw in crossing the three halls and the garden, and his taking the lamp, which he pulled out of his bosom and shewed to his mother: as well as the transparent fruit of different colours, which he had gathered in the garden as he returned. But, though these fruits were precious stones, brilliant as the sun, she was as ignorant of their worth as her son. She had been bred in a low rank of life, and her husband's poverty prevented his being possessed of jewels, nor had she, her relations, or neighbours ever seen any; so that we must not wonder that she regarded them as things of no value.

Aladdin put them behind one of the cushions of the sofa, and continued his story. When he had come to an end, Aladdin said to his mother: "I need say no more! this is my adventure, and the dangers I have been exposed to since you saw me."

His mother heard with much interest this surprising relation, notwithstanding it could be no small affliction to a mother who loved her son tenderly; but yet in the most moving part, which discovered the perfidy of the African magician, she could not help showing, by marks of the greatest indignation, how much she detested him; and when her son had finished his story, she broke out into a thousand reproaches against that vile impostor. She called him perfidious traitor, barbarian, assassin, deceiver, magician, and an enemy and destroyer of mankind. "Without doubt, child," added she, "he is a magician, and they are plagues to the world, and by their enchantments and sorceries have commerce with the devil. Bless God for preserving you from his wicked designs; for your death would have been inevitable, if you had not called upon Him, and implored His assistance." She said a great deal more against the magician's treachery; but finding that whilst she talked, Aladdin began to doze, she left him to his repose, and retired.

Aladdin, who had not closed his eyes while he was in the subterranean abode, slept very soundly till late the next morning; when the first thing he said to his mother was, that he wanted something to eat, and that she could not do him a greater kindness than to give him his breakfast. "Alas! child," said she, "I have not a bit of bread to give you, you ate up all the provisions I had in the house yesterday; but have a little patience, and it shall not be long before I will bring you some: I have a little cotton, which I have spun; I will go and sell it, buy bread, and something for our dinner." "Mother," replied Aladdin, "keep your cotton for another time, and give me the lamp I brought home with me yesterday; I will go and sell it, and the money I shall get for it will serve both for breakfast and dinner, and perhaps supper too."

Aladdin's mother took the lamp, and said to her son: "Here it is, but it is very dirty; if it was a little cleaner I believe it would bring something more." She took some fine sand and water to clean it; but had no sooner begun to rub it, than in an instant a hideous genie of gigantic size appeared before her, and said to her in a voice like thunder: "What wouldst thou have? I am ready to obey thee as thy slave, and the slave of all those who have that lamp in their hands; I and the other slaves of the lamp."

Aladdin's mother, terrified at the sight of the genie, fainted; when the lad, who had seen such another phantom in the cavern, snatched the lamp out of his mother's hand, and said to the genie boldly: "I am hungry, bring me something to eat." The genie disappeared immediately, and in an instant returned with a large silver tray, holding twelve covered dishes of the same metal, which contained the most delicious viands; six large white bread-cakes on two plates, two flagons of wine, and two silver cups. All these he placed upon a carpet, and disappeared: this was done before Aladdin's mother recovered from her swoon.

Aladdin fetched some water, and sprinkled it in her face, to recover her: whether that or the smell of the meat brought her to life again, it was not long before she came to herself. "Mother," said Aladdin, "do not mind this; here is what will put you in heart, and at the same time satisfy my extreme hunger: do not let such delicious meat get cold."

His mother was much surprised to see the great tray, twelve dishes, six loaves, the two flagons and cups, and to smell the savoury odour which exhaled from the dishes. "Child," said she, "to whom are we obliged for this great plenty and liberality; has the sultan been made acquainted with our poverty, and had compassion on us?" "It is no matter, mother," said Aladdin; "let us sit down and eat, for you have almost as much need of breakfast as myself; when we have done, I will tell you." Accordingly, both mother and son sat down, and ate with the better relish as the table was so well furnished. But all the time Aladdin's mother could not forbear looking at and admiring the dishes, though she could not judge whether they were silver or any other metal, and the novelty more than the value attracted her attention.

The mother and son sat at breakfast till it was dinner-time, and then they thought it would be best to put the two meals together; yet after this they found they should have enough left for supper, and two meals for the next day.

When Aladdin's mother had taken away what was left, she went and sat by her son on the sofa, saying: "I expect now that you should satisfy my impatience, and tell me exactly what passed between the genie and you while I was in a swoon;" which he readily complied with.

She was in as great amazement at what her son told her, as at the appearance of the genie; and said to him: "But, son, what have we to do with genies? I never heard that any of my acquaintance had ever seen one. How came that vile genie to address himself to me, and not to you, to whom he had appeared before in the cave?" "Mother," answered Aladdin, "the genie you saw is not the one who appeared to me, though he resembles him in size; no, they had quite different persons and habits; they belong to different masters. If you remember, he that I first saw called himself the slave of the ring on my finger; and this you saw, called himself the slave of the lamp you had in your hand: but I believe you did not hear him, for I think you fainted as soon as he began to speak."

"What!" cried the mother, "was your lamp then the occasion of that cursed genie's addressing himself rather to me than to you? Ah! my son, take it out of my sight, and put it where you please. I will never touch it. I had rather you would sell it, than run the hazard of being frightened to death again by touching it: and if you would take my advice, you would part also with the ring, and not have anything to do with genies, who, as our prophet has told us, are only devils."

"With your leave, mother," replied Aladdin, "I shall take care how I sell a lamp which may be so serviceable both to you and me. Have you not been an eye-witness of what it has procured us? and it shall still continue to furnish us with subsistence. My false and wicked uncle would not have taken so much pains, and undertaken so long a journey, if it had not been to get into his possession this wonderful lamp, which he preferred before all the gold and silver which he knew was in the halls. He knew too well the worth of this lamp, not to prefer it to so great a treasure; and since chance hath discovered the virtue of it to us, let us make a profitable use of it, without making any great show, and exciting the envy and jealousy of our neighbours. However, since the genies frighten you so much, I will take it out of your sight, and put it where I may find it when I want it. The ring I cannot resolve to part with; for without that you had never seen me again; and though I am alive now, perhaps, if it was gone, I might not be so some moments hence; therefore I hope you will give me leave to keep it, and to wear it always on my finger. Who knows what dangers you and I may be exposed to, which neither of us can foresee, and from which it may deliver us?" As Aladdin's arguments were just, his mother had nothing to say against them; she only replied, that he might do what he pleased; for her part, she would have nothing to do with genies, but would wash her hands of them.

By the next night they had eaten all the provisions the genie had brought: and the next day Aladdin, who could not bear the thought of hunger, putting one of the silver dishes under his vest, went out early to sell it, and addressing himself to a Jew whom he met in the streets, took him aside, and pulling out the plate, asked him if he would buy it. The cunning Jew took the dish, examined it, and as soon as he found that it was good silver, asked Aladdin at how much he valued it. Aladdin, who knew not its value, and never had been used to such traffic, told him he would trust to his judgment and honour. The Jew was somewhat confounded at this plain dealing; and doubting whether Aladdin understood the material or the full value of what he offered to sell, took a piece of gold out of his purse and gave it to him, though it was but the sixtieth part of the worth of the plate. Aladdin, taking the money very eagerly, retired with so much haste, that the Jew, not content with the exorbitancy of his profit, was vexed he had not penetrated into his ignorance, and was going to run after him, to endeavour to get some change out of the piece of gold; but the lad ran so fast, and had got so far, that it would have been impossible for him to overtake him.

Before Aladdin went home, he called at a baker's, bought some cakes of bread, changed his money, and on his return gave the rest to his mother, who went and purchased provisions enough to last them some time. After this manner they lived, till Aladdin had sold the twelve dishes singly, as necessity pressed, to the Jew, for the same money; who, after the first time, durst not offer him less, for fear of losing so good a bargain. When he had sold the last dish, he had recourse to the tray, which weighed ten times as much as the dishes, and would have carried it to his old purchaser, but that it was too large and cumbersome; therefore he was obliged to bring him home with him to his mother's, where, after the Jew had examined the weight of the tray, he laid down ten pieces of gold, with which Aladdin was very well satisfied.

They lived on these ten pieces in a frugal manner, for Aladdin, though formerly used to an idle life, had left off playing with young lads of his own age ever since his adventure with the African magician. He spent his time in walking about, and conversing with decent people, with whom he gradually got acquainted. Sometimes he would stop at the principal merchants' shops, where people of distinction met, and listen to their discourse, by which he gained some little knowledge of the world.

When all the money was spent, Aladdin had recourse again to the lamp. He took it in his hand, looked for the part where his mother had rubbed it with the sand, and rubbed it also, when the genie immediately appeared, and said: "What wouldst thou have? I am ready to obey thee as thy slave, and the slave of all those who have that lamp in their hands; I, and the other slaves of the lamp." "I am hungry," said Aladdin; "bring me something to eat." The genie disappeared, and presently returned with a tray, and the same number of covered dishes as before, set them down, and vanished.

Aladdin's mother, knowing what her son was going to do, went out about some business, on purpose to avoid being in the way when the genie came; and when she returned, was almost as much surprised as before at the prodigious effect of the lamp. However, she sat down with her son, and when they had eaten as much as they liked, she set enough by to last them two or three days.

As soon as Aladdin found that their provisions were expended, he took one of the dishes, and went to look for his Jew again; but passing by the shop of a goldsmith, who had the character of a very fair and honest man, the goldsmith perceiving him, called to him, and said: "My lad, I have often observed you go by, loaded as you are at present, and talk with such a Jew, and then come back again empty-handed. I imagine that you carry something which you sell to him; but perhaps you do not know that he is the greatest rogue even among the Jews, and that nobody of prudence will have anything to do with him. If you will shew me what you now carry, and it is to be sold, I will give you the full worth of it; or I will direct you to other merchants who will not cheat you."

The hopes of getting more money for his plate induced Aladdin to pull it from under his vest, and shew it to the goldsmith, who at first sight saw that it was made of the finest silver and asked him if he had sold such as that to the Jew, when Aladdin told him that he had sold him twelve such, for a piece of gold each. "What a villain!" cried the goldsmith; "but," added he, "my son, what is past cannot be recalled. By shewing you the value of this plate, which is of the finest silver we use in our shops, I will let you see how much the Jew has cheated you."

The goldsmith took a pair of scales, weighed the dish, and after he had mentioned how much an ounce of fine silver was worth, assured him that his plate would fetch by weight sixty pieces of gold, which he offered to pay down immediately. "If you dispute my honesty," said he, "you may go to any other of our trade, and if he gives you more, I will be bound to forfeit twice as much!"

Aladdin thanked him for his fair dealing, so greatly to his advantage, took the gold, and never after went to any other person, but sold him all his dishes and the tray.

Though Aladdin and his mother had an inexhaustible treasure in their lamp, and might have had whatever they wished for, yet they lived with the same frugality as before, except that Aladdin dressed better; as for his mother, she wore no clothes but what she earned by spinning cotton. After their manner of living, it may easily be supposed that the money for which Aladdin had sold the dishes and tray was sufficient to maintain them for some time.

During this interval, Aladdin frequented the shops of the principal merchants, where they sold cloth of gold and silver, linens, silk stuffs, and jewelry, and oftentimes joining in their conversation, acquired a knowledge of the world, and respectable demeanour. By his acquaintance among the jewellers, he came to know that the fruits which he had gathered when he took the lamp were, instead of coloured glass, stones of inestimable value; but he had the prudence not to mention this to any one, not even to his mother.

One day as Aladdin was walking about the town, he heard an order proclaimed, commanding the people to shut up their shops and houses, and keep within doors, while the Princess Badroulboudour, the sultan's daughter, went to the baths and returned.

This proclamation inspired Aladdin with eager curiosity to see the princess's face, which he could not do without admission into the house of some acquaintance, and then only through a window; but to gratify his curiosity, he presently thought of a scheme, which succeeded; it was to place himself behind the door of the bath, which was so situated that he could not fail of seeing her face.

Aladdin had not waited long before the princess came, and he could see her plainly through a chink of the door without being discovered. She was attended by a great crowd of ladies, slaves, and eunuchs, who walked on each side, and behind her. When she came within three or four paces of the door of the baths, she took off her veil, and gave Aladdin an opportunity of a full view.

As soon as Aladdin had seen the princess, his heart could not withstand those inclinations so charming an object always inspires. She was the most beautiful brunette in the world; her eyes were large, lively, and sparkling; her looks sweet and modest; her nose was of a just proportion and without a fault, her mouth small, her lips of a vermilion red; in a word, all the features of her face were perfectly regular. It is not therefore surprising that Aladdin, who had never before seen such a blaze of charms, was dazzled, and his senses ravished by such an assemblage. With all these perfections the princess had so majestic an air, that the sight of her was sufficient to inspire love and admiration.

After the princess had passed by, and entered the baths, Aladdin remained some time astonished and in a kind of ecstasy, retracing and imprinting the idea of so charming an object deeply in his mind, but at last, he resolved to quit his hiding-place and go home. He could not so far conceal his uneasiness but that his mother perceived it, was surprised to see him so much more thoughtful than usual; and asked if he were ill? He returned her no answer, but sat carelessly down on the sofa, and remained silently musing on the image of the charming Badroulboudour.

After supper, his mother asked him again why he was so melancholy, but could get no information, and he determined to go to bed rather than give her the least satisfaction. As he sat next day on the sofa, opposite his mother, however, as she was spinning cotton, he spoke to her in these words: "I perceive, mother, that my silence yesterday has much troubled you; I was not, nor am I ill; but I assure you, that what I felt then, and now endure, is worse than any disease.

"It was not proclaimed in this quarter of the town, and therefore you could know nothing of it, that the sultan's daughter was yesterday to go to the baths. I had a great curiosity to see her face; and as it occurred to me that when she came nigh the bath, she would pull her veil off, I resolved to conceal myself behind the door. She did so and I had the happiness of seeing her lovely face with the greatest security. This, mother, was the cause of my silence yesterday; I love the princess with more violence than I can express; and as my passion increases every moment, I am resolved to ask her in marriage of the sultan, her father."

Aladdin's mother listened with interest to what her son told her; but when he talked of asking the princess in marriage, she could not help bursting out into a loud laugh. He would have gone on with his rhapsody, but she interrupted him: "Alas! child," said she, "what are you thinking of? you must be mad to talk thus."

"I assure you, mother," replied Aladdin, "that I am not mad, but in my right senses; I foresaw that you would reproach me with folly and extravagance; but I must tell you once more, that I am resolved to demand the princess in marriage!"

"Indeed, son," replied the mother seriously, "I cannot help telling you that you have forgotten yourself, and I do not see who will venture to make the proposal for you." "You yourself," replied he immediately. "I go to the sultan!" answered the mother, amazed. "I shall be cautious how I engage in such an errand. Why, who are you, son," continued she, "that you can have the assurance to think of your sultan's daughter? Have you forgotten that your father was one of the poorest tailors in the capital, and that I am of no better extraction; and do not you know that sultans never marry their daughters but to sons of sovereigns like themselves?"

"Mother," answered Aladdin, "I foresaw all that you have said, or can say: and tell you that neither your discourse nor your remonstrances shall make me change my mind. I have told you that you must ask the princess in marriage for me. I beg of you not to refuse, unless you would rather see me in my grave, than by your compliance give me new life."

The good old woman was much embarrassed, when she found Aladdin persisting in so wild a design. "My son," said she again, "I am your mother, and there is nothing that is reasonable but I would readily do for you. If I were to go and treat about your marriage with some neighbour's daughter, I would do it with all my heart; and even then they would expect you should have some little estate, or be of some trade. When such poor folks as we are wish to marry, the first thing they ought to think of, is how to live. But without reflecting on the meanness of your birth, and the little fortune you have to recommend you, you aim at the highest pitch of exaltation; and your pretensions are no less than to demand in marriage the daughter of your sovereign, who with one single word can crush you to pieces. How could so extraordinary a thought come into your head, as that I should go to the sultan and ask him to give his daughter in marriage to you? Suppose I had the impudence to present myself before the sultan, to whom should I address myself to be introduced to his majesty? Do you not think the first person I should speak to would take me for a mad woman, and chastise me as I should deserve? I know there is no difficulty to those who go to petition for justice, which the sultan distributes equally among his subjects; I know, too, that to those who ask a favour he grants it with pleasure when he sees it is deserved. But do you think you have merited the honour you would have me ask? What have you done to claim such a favour, either for your prince or country? How can I open my mouth to make the proposal to the sultan? His majestic presence and the lustre of his court would absolutely confound me. There is another reason, my son, which you do not think of, which is that nobody ever goes to ask a favour of the sultan without a present. But what presents have you to make? and what proportion could they bear to the favour you would ask? Therefore, reflect well, and consider that you aspire to an object which it is impossible for you to obtain."

Aladdin heard very calmly all that his mother could say to dissuade him from his design, and after he had weighed her representations replied: "I own, mother, it is great rashness in me to presume to carry my pretensions so far; and a great want of consideration to ask you to go and make the proposal to the sultan, without first taking proper measures to procure a favourable reception, and I therefore beg your pardon. But be not surprised that I did not at first see every measure necessary to procure me the happiness I seek. I love the princess, and shall always persevere in my design of marrying her. I am obliged to you for the hint you have given me, and look upon it as the first step I ought to take to procure the happy issue I promise myself.

"You say it is not customary to go to the sultan without a present, and that I have nothing worthy of his acceptance. Do not you think, mother, that what I brought home with me the day on which I was delivered from death may be an acceptable present? I mean those things that you and I both took for coloured glass: but now I can tell you that they are jewels of inestimable value. I know the worth of them by frequenting the shops; and you may take my word that all the precious stones which I saw in the jewellers' shops were not to be compared to those we have, either for size or beauty; I am persuaded that they will be received very favourably by the sultan: you have a large porcelain dish fit to hold them; fetch it, and let us see how they will look, when we have arranged them according to their different colours."

Aladdin's mother brought the china dish, when he took the jewels out of the two purses in which he had kept them, and placed them in order according to his fancy. But the brightness and lustre they emitted in the daytime so dazzled the eyes both of mother and son, that they were astonished beyond measure; for they had only seen them by the light of a lamp; and though the latter had beheld them pendent on the trees like fruit beautiful to the eye, yet as he was then but a boy, he looked on them only as glittering playthings.

After they had admired the beauty of the jewels some time, Aladdin said to his mother: "Now you cannot excuse yourself from going to the sultan, under pretext of not having a present to make him, since here is one which will gain you a favourable reception."

Though the good widow did not believe the precious stones so valuable as her son estimated them, she thought such a present might nevertheless be agreeable to the sultan, but she still hesitated. "My son," said she, "I cannot conceive that the sultan will look upon me with a favourable eye; I am sure, that if I attempt to deliver your strange message, I shall have no power to open my mouth; therefore I shall not only lose my labour, but the present, which you say is so valuable, and shall return home again in confusion, to tell you that your hopes are frustrated. But," added she, "I will do my best to please you, though certainly the sultan will either laugh at me, or be in so great a rage, as to make us both the victims of his fury."

She used many other arguments to endeavour to make Aladdin change his mind; but he persisted in importuning his mother to execute his resolution, and she, out of tenderness, complied with his request.

As it was now late, and the time for admission to the palace was passed, the visit was put off till the next day. The mother and son talked of different matters the remaining hours; and Aladdin strove to encourage her in the task she had undertaken; while she could not persuade herself she should succeed; and it must be confessed she had reason enough to doubt. "Child," said she to Aladdin, "if the sultan should hear my proposal with calmness, and after this should think of asking me where lie your riches and your estate, what answer would you have me return him?"

"Let us not be uneasy, mother," replied Aladdin, "about what may never happen. First, let us see how the sultan receives, and what answer he gives you. If he desires to be informed of what you mention, I am confident that the lamp will not fail me in time of need."

The tailor's widow reflected that the lamp might be capable of doing greater wonders than just providing victuals for them, and this removed all the difficulties which might have prevented her from undertaking the service she had promised. Aladdin, who penetrated into his mother's thoughts, said to her: "Above all things, mother, be sure to keep secret our possession of the lamp, for thereon depends the success we have to expect;" and after this caution they parted to go to rest. Aladdin rose before daybreak, awakened his mother, pressing her to get herself dressed to go to the sultan's palace, and to get admittance, if possible, before the great officers of state went in to take their seats in the divan, where the sultan always assisted in person.

Aladdin's mother took the china dish, in which they had put the jewels the day before, wrapped in two napkins, one finer than the other, which was tied at the four corners for more easy carriage, and set out for the palace. When she came to the gates, the grand vizier, the other viziers, and most distinguished lords of the court, were just gone in; but, notwithstanding the great crowd of people who had business there, she got into the divan, a spacious hall, the entrance into which was very magnificent. She placed herself just before the sultan, grand vizier, and the great lords, who sat in council, on his right and left hand. Several causes were called, according to their order, pleaded and adjudged, until the time the divan generally broke up, when the sultan rising, returned to his apartment, attended by the grand vizier; the other viziers and ministers of state then retired, as also did all those whose business had called them thither; some pleased with gaining their causes, others dissatisfied at the sentences pronounced against them, and some in expectation of being heard the next sitting.

Aladdin's mother, seeing the sultan retire, and all the people depart, judged rightly that he would not sit again that day, and resolved to go home. When Aladdin saw her return with the present, he knew not what to think, and in fear lest she should bring him some ill news, had not courage to ask her any questions; but she, who had never set foot into the sultan's palace before, and knew not what was every day practised there, freed him from his embarrassment, and said to him: "Son, I have seen the sultan, and am very well persuaded he has seen me too; for I placed myself just before him; but he was so much taken up with those who attended on all sides of him, that I pitied him, and wondered at his patience. At last I believe he was heartily tired, for he rose up suddenly, and would not hear a great many who were ready prepared to speak to him, but went away, at which I was well pleased, for indeed I began to lose all patience, and was extremely fatigued with staying so long. But there is no harm done; I will go again to-morrow; perhaps the sultan may not be so busy."

Though his passion was very violent, Aladdin was forced to be satisfied, and to fortify himself with patience. He had at least the satisfaction to find that his mother had got over the greatest difficulty, which was to procure access to the sultan, and hoped that the example of those she saw speak to him would embolden her to acquit herself better of her commission when a favourable opportunity might offer.

The next morning she repaired to the sultan's palace with the present, as early as the day before, but when she came there, she found the gates of the divan shut, and understood that the council sat but every other day, therefore she must come again the next. This news she carried to her son, whose only relief was to guard himself with patience. She went six times afterward on the days appointed and placed herself always directly before the sultan, but with as little success as the first morning, and might have perhaps come a thousand times to as little purpose, if luckily the sultan himself had not taken particular notice of her.

On the sixth day, after the divan was broken up, when the sultan returned to his own apartment, he said to his grand vizier: "I have for some time observed a certain woman, who attends constantly every day that I give audience, with something wrapped up in a napkin: she always stands up from the beginning to the breaking up of the audience, and affects to place herself just before me. Do you know what she wants?"

"Sir," replied the grand vizier, who knew no more than the sultan what she wanted, but did not wish to seem uninformed, "your majesty knows that women often make complaints on trifles; perhaps she may come to complain that somebody has sold her some bad flour, or some such trifling matter." The sultan was not satisfied with this answer, but replied: "If this woman comes to our next audience, do not fail to call her, that I may hear what she has to say." The grand vizier made answer by lowering his hand, and then lifting it up above his head, signifying his willingness to lose it if he failed.

By this time, the tailor's widow was so much used to go to audience, and stand before the sultan, that she did not think it any trouble, if she could but satisfy her son that she neglected nothing that lay in her power to please him: so the next audience-day she went to the divan and placed herself in front of the sultan as usual; and before the grand vizier had made his report of business, the sultan perceived her, and compassionating her for having waited so long, said to the vizier: "Before you enter upon any business, remember the woman I spoke to you about; bid her come near, and let us despatch her business first." The grand vizier immediately called the chief of the mace-bearers, and pointing to her, bade him tell her to come before the sultan.

The chief of the officers went to Aladdin's mother, and at a sign he gave her, she followed him to the foot of the sultan's throne, where he left her, and retired to his place by the grand vizier. The old woman bowed her head down to the carpet, which covered the platform of the throne, and remained in that posture till the sultan bade her rise, when he said to her: "Good woman, I have observed you to stand from the beginning to the rising of the divan; what business brings you here?"

After these words, Aladdin's mother prostrated herself a second time; and when she arose, said: "Monarch of monarchs, before I tell your majesty the extraordinary and incredible business which brings me before your high throne, I beg of you to pardon the boldness of the demand I am going to make, which is so uncommon, that I tremble, and am ashamed to propose it to my sovereign." In order to give her the more freedom to explain herself, the sultan ordered all to quit the divan but the grand vizier, and then told her she might speak without restraint.

Aladdin's mother, not content with this favour of the sultan's to save her the confusion of speaking before so many people, was, notwithstanding, a little apprehensive; therefore, resuming her discourse, she said: "I beg of your majesty, if you should think my demand the least offensive, to assure me first of your forgiveness." "Well," replied the sultan, "I will forgive you, be it what it may, and no hurt shall come to you: speak boldly."

When Aladdin's mother had taken all these precautions, she told him faithfully how Aladdin had seen the Princess Badroulboudour, the violent love that fatal sight had inspired him with, the declaration he had made to her when he came home, and what she had said to dissuade him. "But," continued she, "my son, instead of taking my advice and reflecting on his presumption, was so obstinate as to persevere, and to threaten me with some desperate act, if I refused to come and ask the princess in marriage of your majesty; and it was not without the greatest reluctance that I was led to accede to his request, for which I beg your majesty once more to pardon not only me, but also Aladdin my son, for entertaining so rash a project."

The sultan hearkened to this discourse without shewing the least anger; but before he gave her any answer, asked her what she had brought tied up in the napkin? She took the china dish, which she had set down at the foot of the throne before she prostrated herself before him, untied it, and presented it to the sultan.

The monarch's amazement and surprise were inexpressible, when he saw so many large, beautiful, and valuable jewels collected in the dish. He remained for some time motionless with admiration. At last, when he had recovered himself, he received the present, crying out in a transport of joy: "How rich, how beautiful!" After he had admired and handled all the jewels, one after another, he turned to his grand vizier, and shewing him the dish, said: "Behold, admire, wonder, and confess that your eyes never beheld jewels so rich and beautiful before." The vizier was charmed. "Well," continued the sultan, "what sayest thou to such a present? Is it not worthy of the princess, my daughter? And ought I not to bestow her on one who values her at so great price?"

These words put the grand vizier into extreme agitation. The sultan had some time before signified to him his intention of bestowing the princess on a son of his; therefore he was afraid, and not without grounds, that the present might change his majesty's mind. Therefore going to him, and whispering him in the ear, he said: "I cannot but own that the present is worthy of the princess; but I beg of your majesty to grant me three months before you come to a final resolution. I hope, before that time, my son, on whom you have had the goodness to look with a favourable eye, will be able to make a nobler present than Aladdin, who is an entire stranger to your majesty."

The sultan, though he was fully persuaded that it was not possible for the vizier to provide so considerable a present for his son, yet hearkened to him, and granted his request. Turning therefore to the old widow, he said to her: "Good woman, go home, and tell your son that I agree to the proposal you have made me; but I cannot marry the princess, my daughter, till the paraphernalia I design for her be got ready, which cannot be finished these three months; but at the expiration of that time, come again."

The widow returned home much more gratified than she had expected, since she had met with a favourable answer.

Aladdin thought himself the most happy of all men at hearing this news, and thanked his mother for the pains she had taken in the affair, the good success of which was of so great importance to his peace.

When two of the three months were passed, his mother one evening going to light the lamp, and finding no oil in the house, went out to buy some, and when she came into the city, found a general rejoicing. The shops were open, dressed with foliage, silks, and carpeting, every one striving to shew their zeal in the most distinguished manner according to their ability. The streets were crowded with officers in habits of ceremony, mounted on horses richly caparisoned, each attended by a great many footmen. Aladdin's mother asked the oil-merchant what was the meaning of all this preparation of public festivity? "Whence come you, good woman," said he, "that you do not know that the grand vizier's son is to marry the Princess Badroulboudour, the sultan's daughter, to-night? She will presently return from the baths; and these officers whom you see are to assist at the cavalcade to the palace, where the ceremony is to be solemnised."

This was news enough for Aladdin's mother. She ran till she was quite out of breath home to her son, who little suspected any such event. "Child," cried she, "you are undone! you depend upon the sultan's fine promises, but they will come to nothing." Aladdin was alarmed at these words. "Mother," replied he, "how do you know the sultan has been guilty of a breach of promise?" "This night," answered the mother, "the grand vizier's son is to marry the Princess Badroulboudour." She then related how she had heard it; so that he had no reason to doubt the truth of what she said.

At this account, Aladdin was thunderstruck. Any other man would have sunk under the shock; but a sudden hope of disappointing his rival soon roused his spirits, and he bethought himself of the lamp, which had in every emergency been so useful to him; and without venting his rage in empty words against the sultan, the vizier, or his son, he only said: "Perhaps, mother, the vizier's son may not be so happy to-night as he promises himself: while I go into my chamber a moment, do you get supper ready." She accordingly went about it, but guessed that her son was going to make use of the lamp, to prevent, if possible, the consummation of the marriage.

When Aladdin had got into his chamber, he took the lamp, rubbed it in the same place as before, when immediately the genie appeared, and said to him: "What wouldst thou have? I am ready to obey thee as thy slave, and the slave of all those who have that lamp in their possession; I and the other slaves of the lamp." "Hear me," said Aladdin; "thou hast hitherto brought me whatever I wanted as to provisions; but now I have business of the greatest importance for thee to execute. I have demanded the Princess Badroulboudour in marriage of the sultan, her father; he promised her to me, only requiring three months' delay; but instead of keeping that promise, has this night planned to marry her to the grand vizier's son. What I ask of you is, that as soon as the two are made one, you bring them both hither to me." "Master," replied the genie, "I will obey you. Have you any other commands?" "None at present," answered Aladdin, and then the genie disappeared.

Aladdin having left his chamber, supped with his mother, with the same tranquillity of mind as usual; and after supper talked of the princess's marriage as of an affair wherein he had not the least concern; he then retired to his own chamber again, but sat up waiting the execution of his orders to the genie.

In the meantime, everything was prepared with the greatest magnificence in the sultan's palace to celebrate the princess's nuptials; and the evening was spent with all the usual ceremonies and great rejoicings.

No sooner had the bride and bridegroom slipped away from the company, however, than the genie, as the faithful slave of the lamp, and punctual in executing the command of those who possessed it, to the great amazement of them both, took them up and transported them in an instant to Aladdin's chamber, where he set them down.

Aladdin had waited impatiently for this moment. "Take this new-married man," said he to the genie, "shut him up in the house of office, and come again to-morrow morning before daybreak." The genie instantly carried the vizier's son whither Aladdin had commanded him; and after he had breathed upon him, which prevented his stirring, left him there.

Passionate as was Aladdin's love for the princess, he did not talk much to her when they were alone; but only said with a respectful air: "Fear nothing, adorable princess; you are here in safety. If I have been forced to come to this extremity, it is to prevent an unjust rival's possessing you, contrary to your father's promise in favour of myself."

The princess, who knew nothing of these particulars, gave very little attention to what Aladdin could say. The fright and amazement of so surprising an adventure had alarmed her so much that he could not get one word from her. Badroulboudour never passed a night so ill in her life; and if we consider the condition in which the genie left the grand vizier's son, we may imagine that the new bridegroom spent it much worse.

Aladdin had no occasion the next morning to rub the lamp to call the genie; who appeared at the hour appointed, and said to him: "I am here, master; what are your commands?" "Go," said Aladdin, "fetch the vizier's son out of the place where you left him, and carry the pair to the sultan's palace, from whence you brought them." The genie presently returned with the vizier's son, and in an instant they were transported into the same chamber of the palace from whence they had been brought. But we must observe, that all this time the genie never was visible either to the princess or the grand vizier's son. His hideous form would have made them die with fear. Neither did they hear anything of the discourse between Aladdin and him; they only perceived the motion through the air, and their transportation from one place to another; which we may well imagine was enough to alarm them.

The sultan went to the room of the princess next morning and kissed her between the eyes, according to custom, wishing her a good morrow, but was extremely surprised to see her so melancholy. She only cast at him a sorrowful look, expressive of great affliction. He said a few words to her; but finding that he could not get an answer, was forced to retire. Nevertheless, he suspected that there was something extraordinary in this silence, and thereupon went immediately to the sultaness's apartment, told her in what a state he had found the princess, and how she had received him. "Sir," said the sultaness, "I will go and see her; I am much deceived if she receives me in the same manner."

As soon as the sultaness was dressed, she went to the princess's apartment, who was still in bed. She undrew the curtain, wished her good morrow, and kissed her. But how great was her surprise when she returned no answer; and looking more attentively at her, she perceived her to be much dejected, which made her judge that something had happened, which she did not understand. "How comes it, child," said the sultaness, "that you do not return my caresses? Ought you to treat your mother after this manner? I am induced to believe something extraordinary has happened; come, tell me freely, and leave me no longer in a painful suspense."

At last the princess broke silence with a deep sigh, and said: "Alas! most honoured mother, forgive me if I have failed in the respect I owe you. My mind is so full of the extraordinary circumstances which have befallen me that I have not yet recovered from my amazement and alarm." She then related her surprising adventures, which the sultaness heard very patiently, but could scarcely believe. "You did well, child," said she, "not to speak of this to your father: take care not to mention it to anybody; for you will certainly be thought mad if you talk in this manner." "Madam," replied the princess, "I can assure you I am in my right senses; ask my husband and he will tell you the same circumstances." "I will," said the sultaness; "but if he should talk in the same manner, I shall not be better persuaded of the truth. Come, rise, and throw off this idle fancy; it will be strange if all the feasts and rejoicings in the kingdom should be interrupted by such a vision. Do not you hear the trumpets of congratulation, and concerts of the finest music? Cannot these inspire you with joy and make you forget the fancies of a dream?" At the same time the sultaness called the princess's women, and after she had seen her get up, went to the sultan's apartment, told him that her daughter had got some odd notions in her head, but that there was nothing in them but idle phantasy.

She then sent for the vizier's son, to know of him something of what the princess had told her; but he, thinking himself highly honoured to be allied to the sultan, and not willing to lose the princess, denied what had happened. "That is enough," answered the sultaness; "I ask no more. I see you are wiser than my daughter."

The rejoicings lasted all that day in the palace, and the sultaness, who never left the princess, forgot nothing to divert her, and induce her to take part in the various diversions and shows; but she was so struck with the idea of what had happened to her in the night, that it was easy to see her thoughts were entirely taken up with it. Neither was the grand vizier's son in less tribulation, though his ambition made him disguise his feelings so well, that nobody doubted of his being a happy bridegroom.

Aladdin, who was well acquainted with what passed in the palace, was resolved that the troublesome adventure of the night before should again disturb the unhappy pair, and therefore had recourse to his lamp, and when the genie appeared and offered his service, he said to him: "Bring the grand vizier's son and the Princess Badroulboudour hither to-night, as thou didst yesterday."

The genie obeyed as faithfully and exactly as the day before; the grand vizier's son passed the night as coldly and disagreeably, and the princess had the same alarm and mortification. The genie, according to orders, came the next morning, and returned the new-married couple again to the palace.

The sultan, after the reception the princess had given him, was very anxious to know how she had passed the second night, and therefore went into her chamber as early as the morning before. After the same caresses he had given her the former morning, he bade her good-morrow. "Well, daughter," said he, "are you in a better humour than yesterday?" Still the princess was silent, and the sultan, perceiving her to be in greater confusion than before, doubted not that something very extraordinary was the cause; but provoked that his daughter should conceal it, he said to her in a rage, with his sabre in his hand: "Daughter, tell me what is the matter, or I will cut off your head immediately."

The princess, more frightened at the tone of the enraged sultan than at the sight of the drawn sabre, at last broke silence, and said with tears in her eyes: "My dear father and sultan, I ask your majesty's pardon if I have offended you, and hope that out of your goodness you will have compassion on me."

After this preamble, which appeased the sultan, she told him what had happened to her in so moving a manner, that he, who loved her tenderly, was most sensibly grieved. She added: "If your majesty doubts the truth of this account, you may inform yourself from my husband, who will tell you the same thing."

The sultan immediately felt all the uneasiness so surprising an adventure must have given the princess. "Daughter," said he, "you are much to blame for not telling me this yesterday, since it concerns me as much as yourself. I did not marry you to make you miserable, but that you might enjoy all the happiness you might hope for from a husband, who to me seemed agreeable to you. Efface all these troublesome ideas from your memory; I will take care that you shall have no more such disagreeable experiences."

As soon as the sultan had returned to his own apartment, he sent for the grand vizier: "Vizier," said he, "have you seen your son, and has he told you anything?" The vizier replied: "No." The sultan related all the circumstances of which the princess had informed him, and afterward said: "I do not doubt but that my daughter has told me the truth; but nevertheless I should be glad to have it confirmed by your son, therefore go and ask him how it was."

The grand vizier went immediately to his son, communicated what the sultan had told him, and enjoined him to conceal nothing, but to relate the whole truth. "I will disguise nothing from you, father," replied the son, "for indeed all that the princess has stated is true. Yet I must tell you, that all these experiences do not in the least lessen those sentiments of love and gratitude I entertain for her; but I must confess, that notwithstanding all the honour that attends marrying my sovereign's daughter, I would much rather die than continue in so exalted an alliance, if I must undergo much longer what I have already endured. I do not doubt but that the princess entertains the same sentiments, and that she will readily agree to a separation which is so necessary both for her repose and mine. Therefore, father, I beg, by the same tenderness which led you to procure me so great an honour, to obtain the sultan's consent that our marriage may be declared null and void."

Notwithstanding the grand vizier's ambition to have his son allied to the sultan, the firm resolution he saw he had formed to be separated from the princess caused the father to give his majesty a full account of what had passed, begging him finally to give his son leave to retire from the palace, alleging it was not just that the princess should be a moment longer exposed to so terrible a persecution upon his son's account.

The grand vizier found no great difficulty to obtain what he asked, as the sultan had determined upon it already; orders were given to put a stop to all rejoicings in the palace and town, and expresses despatched to all parts of his dominions to countermand his first orders; and in a short time, all merry-making ceased.

This sudden change gave rise both in the city and kingdom to various speculations and inquiries; but no other account could be given of it, except that both the vizier and his son went out of the palace much dejected. Nobody but Aladdin knew the secret, who rejoiced at the happy success procured by his lamp. Neither the sultan nor the grand vizier, who had forgotten Aladdin and his request, had the least thought that he had any concern in the enchantment which caused the dissolution of the marriage.

Aladdin waited till the three months were completed, which the sultan had appointed for the consummation of the marriage between the Princess Badroulboudour and himself; and the next day sent his mother to the palace, to remind the sultan of his promise.

The widow went to the palace, and stood in the same place as before in the hall of audience. The sultan no sooner cast his eyes upon her than he knew her again, remembered her business, and how long he had put her off: therefore, when the grand vizier was beginning to make his report, the sultan interrupted him, and said: "Vizier, I see the good woman who made me the present of jewels some months ago; forbear your report, till I have heard what she has to say." The vizier, looking about the divan, perceived the tailor's widow, and sent the chief of the mace-bearers to conduct her to the sultan.

Aladdin's mother came to the foot of the throne, prostrated herself as usual, and when she rose, the sultan asked her what she would have. "Sir," said she, "I come to represent to your majesty, in the name of my son, Aladdin, that the three months, at the end of which you ordered me to come again, are expired; and to beg you to remember your promise."

The sultan, when he had fixed a time to answer the request of this good woman, little thought of hearing any more of a marriage, which he imagined would be very disagreeable to the princess; so this summons for him to fulfil his promise was somewhat embarrassing; he declined giving an answer till he had consulted his vizier, and signified to him the little inclination he had to conclude a match for his daughter with a stranger, whose rank he supposed to be very mean.

The grand vizier freely told the sultan his thoughts, and said to him: "In my opinion, sir, there is an infallible way for your majesty to avoid a match so disproportionate, without giving Aladdin, were he known to your majesty, any cause of complaint; which is, to set so high a price upon the princess that, however rich he may be, he cannot comply with it. This is the only way to make him desist from so bold an undertaking."

The sultan, approving of the grand vizier's advice, turned to the tailor's widow and said to her: "Good woman, it is true sultans ought to abide by their words, and I am ready to keep mine, by making your son happy in marriage with the princess, my daughter. But as I cannot marry her without some further valuable consideration from your son, you may tell him, I will fulfil my promise as soon as he shall send me forty trays of massy gold, full of the same sort of jewels you have already made me a present of, and carried by the like number of black slaves, who shall be led by as many young and handsome white slaves, all dressed magnificently. On these conditions I am ready to bestow the princess, my daughter, upon him; therefore, good woman, go and tell him so, and I will wait till you bring me his answer."

Aladdin's mother prostrated herself a second time before the sultan's throne, and retired. On her way home, she laughed within herself at her son's foolish imagination. "Where," said she, "can he get so many large gold trays, and such precious stones to fill them? Must he go again to that subterranean abode and gather them off the trees? and where will he get so many such slaves as the sultan requires? It is altogether out of his power, and I believe he will not be much pleased with my embassy this time." When she came home, full of these thoughts, she said to her son: "Indeed, child, I would not have you think any farther of your marriage with the princess. The sultan received me very kindly, and I believe he was well inclined to you; but if I am not much deceived the grand vizier has made him change his mind." She then gave her son an exact account of what the sultan had said to her, and the conditions on which he consented to the match. Afterward she said to him: "The sultan expects your answer immediately; but," continued she, laughing, "I believe he may wait long enough."

"Not so long, mother, as you imagine," replied Aladdin; "the sultan is mistaken, if he thinks by this exorbitant demand to prevent my entertaining thoughts of the princess. I expected that he would have set a higher price upon her incomparable charms. His demand is but a trifle to what I could have done for her. But while I think of satisfying his request, go and get something for our dinner, and leave the rest to me."

As soon as his mother was gone out, Aladdin took the lamp, and rubbing it, the genie appeared, and offered his service as usual. "The sultan," said Aladdin to him, "gives me the princess his daughter in marriage; but demands first, forty large trays of massy gold, full of the fruits of the garden from whence I took this lamp; and these he expects to have carried by as many black slaves, each preceded by a young handsome white slave, richly clothed. Go, and fetch me this present as soon as possible, that I may send it to him before the divan breaks up." The genie told him his command should be immediately obeyed, and disappeared.

In a little time afterward the genie returned with forty black slaves, each bearing on his head a heavy tray of pure gold, full of pearls, diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and every sort of precious stones, all larger and more beautiful than those formerly presented to the sultan. Each tray was covered with silver tissue, embroidered with flowers of gold: these, together with the white slaves, quite filled the house, which was but a small one, the little court before it, and a small garden behind. The genie asked if he had any other commands, and Aladdin telling him that he wanted nothing further, he disappeared.

When Aladdin's mother came from market, she was much surprised to see so many people and such vast riches. As soon as she had laid down her provisions, she was going to pull off her veil; but her son prevented her, and said: "Mother, let us lose no time; before the sultan and the divan rise, I would have you return to the palace with this present as the dowry demanded for the princess, that he may judge by my diligence of the ardent desire I have to procure myself the honour of this alliance." Without waiting for his mother's reply, Aladdin opened the street-door, and made the slaves walk out; each white slave followed by a black with a tray upon his head. When they were all out, the mother followed the last black slave; he shut the door, and then retired to his chamber, full of hopes that the sultan, after this present, which was such as he required, would receive him as his son-in-law.

The first white slave who went out made all the people who were going by stop; and before they were all clear of the house, the streets were crowded with spectators, who ran to see so extraordinary and magnificent a procession. The dress of each slave was so rich, both for the stuff and the jewels, that those who were dealers in them valued each at no less than a million of money; besides, the neatness and propriety of the dress, the noble air, fine shape and proportion of each slave were unparalleled; their grave walk at an equal distance from each other, the lustre of the jewels, curiously set in their girdles of gold, and the egrets of precious stones in their turbans, put the spectators into such great admiration, that they could not avoid following them with their eyes as far as possible. As soon as the first of these slaves arrived at the palace gate, the porters formed themselves into order, taking him for a prince from the magnificence of his habit, and were going to kiss the hem of his garment; but the slave, who was instructed by the genie, prevented them, and said: "We are only slaves, our master will appear at a proper time."

The first slave, followed by the rest, advanced into the second court, which was very spacious, and in which the sultan's household was ranged during the sitting of the divan. The magnificence of the officers, who stood at the head of their troops, was considerably eclipsed by the slaves who bore Aladdin's present, of which they themselves made a part.

As the sultan, who had been informed of their approach to the palace, had given orders for them to be admitted, they went into the divan in regular order, one part filing to the right, and the other to the left. After they were all entered, and had formed a semicircle before the sultan's throne, the black slaves laid the golden trays on the carpet, prostrating themselves, and at the same time the white slaves did the same. When they rose, the black slaves uncovered the trays, and then all stood with their arms crossed over their breasts.

In the meantime Aladdin's mother advanced to the foot of the throne, and having paid her respects, said to the sultan: "Sir, my son is sensible that this present, which he has sent your majesty, is much below the Princess Badroulboudour's worth; but hopes, nevertheless, that your majesty will accept of it."

The sultan was not able to give the least attention to this compliment. The moment he cast his eyes on the forty trays, full of the most precious and beautiful jewels he had ever seen, and the fourscore slaves, who appeared by the elegance of their persons, and the magnificence of their dress, like so many princes, he was overwhelmed. Instead of answering the compliment of Aladdin's mother, he addressed himself to the grand vizier, who could not any more than the sultan comprehend from whence such a profusion of richness could come. "Well, vizier," said he aloud, "who do you think it can be that has sent me so extraordinary a present? Do you think him worthy of the Princess Badroulboudour, my daughter?"

The vizier, notwithstanding his envy and grief at seeing a stranger preferred to his son, durst not disguise his sentiments. It was too visible that Aladdin's present was more than sufficient to merit his being received into royal alliance; therefore, consulting his master's feelings, he returned this answer: "I am so far from having any thoughts that the person who has made your majesty so noble a present is unworthy of the honour you would do him, that I should say he deserved much more, if I were not persuaded that the greatest treasure in the world ought not to be put in competition with the princess, your majesty's daughter."

The sultan made no longer hesitation, nor thought of informing himself whether Aladdin was endowed with all the qualifications requisite in one who aspired to be his son-in-law. The sight alone of such immense riches, and Aladdin's quickness in satisfying his demand, without starting the least difficulty at the exorbitant conditions he had imposed, easily persuaded him that he could want nothing to render him accomplished, and such as he desired. Therefore, to send Aladdin's mother back with all the satisfaction she could desire, he said to her: "My good lady, go and tell your son that I wait with open arms to embrace him, and the more haste he makes to come and receive the princess, my daughter, from my hands, the greater pleasure he will do me."

As soon as the tailor's widow had retired, overjoyed to see her son raised to such exalted fortune, the sultan put an end to the audience; and rising from his throne, ordered that the princess's eunuchs should come and carry the trays into their mistress's apartment, whither he went himself to examine them with her at his leisure. The fourscore slaves were conducted into the palace; and the sultan, telling the princess of their magnificent appearance, ordered them to be brought before her apartment, that she might see through the lattices that he had not exaggerated in his account of them.

In the meantime, Aladdin's mother got home, and shewed in her countenance the good news she brought her son. "My son," said she to him, "you have now all the reason in the world to be pleased. The sultan, with the approbation of the whole court, has declared that you are worthy to possess the Princess Badroulboudour, and waits to embrace you, and conclude your marriage; therefore, you must think of making preparations for your interview, which may answer the high opinion he has formed of your person."

Aladdin, enraptured with this news, made little reply, but retired to his chamber. There, after he had rubbed the lamp, which had never failed him, the obedient genie appeared. "Genie," said Aladdin, "I want to bathe immediately, and you must afterward provide me the richest and most magnificent habit ever worn by a monarch." No sooner were the words out of his mouth than the genie rendered him invisible, and transported him into a bath of the finest marble, where he was undressed, without seeing by whom, in a magnificent and spacious hall. From the hall he was led to the bath, which was of a moderate heat, and he was there rubbed with various scented waters. After he had passed through several degrees of heat, he came out quite a different man from what he was before. His skin was clear white and red, his body lightsome and free; and when he returned into the hall, he found, instead of his own, a suit the magnificence of which astonished him. The genie helped him to dress, and when he had done, transported him back to his own chamber, where he asked him if he had any other commands? "Yes," answered Aladdin, "I expect you to bring me as soon as possible a charger that surpasses in beauty and goodness the best in the sultan's stables, with a saddle, bridle, and other caparisons worth a million of money. I want also twenty slaves, as richly clothed as those who carried the present to the sultan, to walk by my side, and twenty more to go before me in two ranks. Besides these, bring my mother six women slaves to attend her, as richly dressed at least as any of the Princess Badroulboudour's, each carrying a complete dress fit for any sultaness. I want also ten thousand pieces of gold in ten purses; go, and make haste."

As soon as Aladdin had given these orders, the genie disappeared, but presently returned with the horse, the forty slaves, ten of whom carried each a purse containing ten thousand pieces of gold, and six women slaves, each carrying on her head a different dress for Aladdin's mother, wrapped up in a piece of silver tissue.

Of the ten purses Aladdin took four, which he gave to his mother, telling her, those were to supply her with necessaries; the other six he left in the hands of the slaves who brought them, with an order to throw them by handfuls among the people as they went to the sultan's palace. The six slaves who carried the purses he ordered likewise to march before him, three on the right hand and three on the left. Afterward he presented the six women slaves to his mother, telling her that they were her slaves, and that the dresses they had brought were for her use.

When Aladdin had thus settled matters, he told the genie he would call for him when he wanted him, and thereupon the genie disappeared. Aladdin's thoughts now were only upon answering, as soon as possible, the desire the sultan had shewn to see him. He despatched one of the forty slaves to the palace, with an order to address himself to the chief of the porters, to know when he might have the honour to come and throw himself at the sultan's feet. The slave soon acquitted himself of his commission, and brought for answer that the sultan waited for him with impatience.

Aladdin immediately mounted his charger, and though he never was on horseback before, appeared with such extraordinary grace, that the most experienced horseman would not have taken him for a novice. The streets through which he was to pass were almost instantly filled with an innumerable concourse of people, who made the air echo with their acclamations, especially every time the six slaves who carried the purses threw handfuls of gold among the populace. Neither did these shouts of joy come from those alone who scrambled for the money, but from a superior rank of people, who could not forbear applauding Aladdin's generosity. Not only those who knew him when he played in the streets like a vagabond did not recollect him, but those who saw him but a little while before hardly recognised him, so much were his features altered: such were the effects of the lamp, as to procure by degrees to those who possessed it perfections suitable to the rank to which the right use of it advanced them. Much more attention was paid to Aladdin's person than to the pomp and magnificence of his attendants, as a similar show had been seen the day before, when the slaves walked in procession with the present to the sultan. Nevertheless, the horse was much admired by good judges, who knew how to discern his beauties, without being dazzled by the jewels and richness of his furniture. When the report was everywhere spread that the sultan was going to give the princess in marriage to Aladdin, nobody regarded his birth, nor envied his good fortune, so worthy he seemed of it in the public opinion.

When he arrived at the palace, everything was prepared for his reception; and when he came to the gate of the second court, he would have alighted from his horse, agreeably to the custom observed by the grand vizier, the commander-in-chief of the empire, and governors of provinces of the first rank; but the chief of the mace-bearers, who waited on him by the sultan's order, prevented him, and attended him to the grand hall of audience, where he helped him to dismount. The officers formed themselves into two ranks at the entrance of the hall. The chief put Aladdin on his right hand, and through the midst of them led him to the sultan's throne.

As soon as the sultan perceived Aladdin, he was no less surprised to see him more richly and magnificently habited than ever he had been himself, than struck at his good mien, fine shape, and a certain air of unexpected dignity, very different from the meanness of his mother's late appearance.

But, notwithstanding, his amazement and surprise did not hinder him from rising off his throne, and descending two or three steps, quickly enough to prevent Aladdin's throwing himself at his feet. He embraced him with all possible demonstrations of joy at his arrival. After this civility Aladdin would have thrown himself at his feet again; but he held him fast by the hand, and obliged him to sit close to the throne.

Aladdin then addressed the sultan, saying: "I receive the honour which your majesty out of your great condescension is pleased to confer; but permit me to assure you that I know the greatness of your power, and that I am not insensible how much my birth is below the lustre of the high rank to which I am raised. I ask your majesty's pardon for my rashness, but I cannot dissemble that I should die with grief were I to lose my hopes of seeing myself united to the divine princess who is the object of my wishes."

"My son," answered the sultan, embracing him a second time, "you would wrong me to doubt for a moment of my sincerity: your life from this moment is too dear to me not to preserve it, by presenting you with the remedy which is at my disposal."

After these words, the sultan gave a signal, and immediately the air echoed with the sound of trumpets, hautboys, and other musical instruments: and at the same time he led Aladdin into a magnificent hall, where was laid out a most splendid collation. The sultan and Aladdin ate by themselves, while the grand vizier and the great lords of the court, according to their dignity and rank, sat at different tables. The conversation turned on different subjects; but all the while the sultan took so much pleasure in looking at his intended son-in-law, that he hardly ever took his eyes off him; and throughout the whole of their conversation Aladdin shewed so much good sense, as confirmed the sultan in the high opinion he had formed of him.

After the feast, the sultan sent for the chief judge of his capital, and ordered him to draw up immediately a contract of marriage between the Princess Badroulboudour, his daughter, and Aladdin.

When the judge had drawn up the contract in all the requisite forms, the sultan asked Aladdin if he would stay in the palace, and solemnise the ceremonies of marriage that day; to which he answered: "Sir, though great is my impatience to enjoy your majesty's goodness, yet I beg of you to give me leave to defer it till I have built a palace fit to receive the princess; therefore I petition you to grant me a convenient spot of ground near your abode, that I may the more frequently pay my respects, and I will take care to have it finished with all diligence." "Son," said the sultan, "take what ground you think proper, there is space enough on every quarter round my palace; but consider, I cannot see you too soon united with my daughter, which alone is wanting to complete my happiness." After these words he embraced Aladdin again, who took his leave with as much politeness as if he had been bred up and had always lived at court.

Aladdin returned home in the order he had come, amidst the acclamations of the people, who wished him all happiness and prosperity. As soon as he dismounted, he retired to his own chamber, took the lamp, and called the genie as before, who in the usual manner made him a tender of his service. "Genie," said Aladdin, "I have every reason to commend your exactness in executing hitherto punctually whatever I have demanded; but now, if you have any regard for the lamp, your protector, you must shew, if possible, more zeal and diligence than ever. I would have you build me, as soon as you can, a palace opposite, but at a proper distance from, the sultan's, fit to receive my spouse, the Princess Badroulboudour. I leave the choice of the materials to you, that is to say, porphyry, jasper, agate, lapis lazuli, or the finest marble of various colours, and also the architecture of the building. But I expect that on the terraced roof of this palace you will build me a large hall crowned with a dome, and having four equal fronts; and that instead of layers of bricks, the walls be formed of massy gold and silver, laid alternately: that each front shall contain six windows, the lattices of all of which (except one, which must be left unfinished) shall be so enriched in the most tasteful workmanship, with diamonds, rubies, and emeralds, that they shall exceed anything of the kind ever seen in the world. I would have an inner and outer court in front of the palace, and a spacious garden; but above all things, take care that there be laid in a place which you shall point out to me, a treasure of gold and silver coin. Besides, the edifice must be well provided with kitchens and offices, storehouses, and rooms to keep choice furniture in, for every season of the year. I must have stables full of the finest horses, with their equerries and grooms, and hunting equipage. There must be officers to attend the kitchens and offices, and women slaves to wait on the princess. You understand what I mean; therefore go about it, and come and tell me when all is finished."

By the time Aladdin had instructed the genie respecting the building of his palace, the sun was set. The next morning, before break of day, our bridegroom, whose love for the princess would not let him sleep, was up, when the genie presented himself and said: "Sir, your palace is finished; come and see how you like it." Aladdin had no sooner signified his consent, than the genie transported him thither in an instant, and he found it so much beyond his expectation, that he could not enough admire it. The genie led him through all the apartments, where he met with nothing but what was rich and magnificent, with officers and slaves all habited according to their rank and the services to which they were appointed. The genie then shewed him the treasury, which was opened by a treasurer, where Aladdin saw heaps of purses, of different sizes, piled up to the top of the ceiling, and disposed in most excellent order. The genie assured him of the treasurer's fidelity, and thence led him to the stables, where he shewed him some of the finest horses in the world, and the grooms busy in dressing them; from thence they went to the storehouses, which were filled with all things necessary, both for food and ornament.

When Aladdin had examined the palace from top to bottom, and particularly the hall with the four and twenty windows, and found it much beyond whatever he could have imagined, he said: "Genie, no one can be better satisfied than I am; and indeed I should be much to blame if I found any fault. There is only one thing wanting which I forgot to mention; that is, to lay from the sultan's palace to the door of the apartment designed for the princess, a carpet of fine velvet for her to walk upon." The genie immediately disappeared, and Aladdin saw what he desired executed in an instant. The genie then returned, and carried him home before the gates of the sultan's palace were opened.

When the porters, who had always been used to an open prospect, came to open the gates, they were amazed to find it obstructed, and to see a carpet of velvet spread from the grand entrance. They did not immediately look how far it extended, but when they could discern Aladdin's palace distinctly, their surprise was increased. The news of so extraordinary a wonder was presently spread through the palace. The grand vizier, who arrived soon after the gates were open, being no less amazed than others at this novelty, ran and acquainted the sultan, but endeavoured to make him believe it to be all enchantment. "Vizier," replied the sultan, "why will you have it to be enchantment? You know as well as I that it must be Aladdin's palace, which I gave him leave to build, for the reception of my daughter. After the proof we have had of his riches, can we think it strange that he should raise a palace in so short a time? He wished to surprise us, and let us see what wonders are to be done with money in only one night. Confess sincerely that the enchantment you talk of proceeds from a little envy on account of your son's disappointment."

When Aladdin had been conveyed home, and had dismissed the genie, he found his mother up, and dressing herself in one of those suits which had been brought her. By the time the sultan rose from the council, Aladdin had prepared his mother to go to the palace with her slaves, and desired her, if she saw the sultan, to tell him she should do herself the honour toward evening to attend the princess to her palace. Accordingly she went; but though she and the women slaves who followed her were all dressed like sultanesses, yet the crowd was not near so great as the preceding day, because they were all veiled, and each had on an upper garment agreeable to the richness and magnificence of their habits. Aladdin, taking care not to forget his wonderful lamp, mounted his horse, left his paternal home forever, and went to the palace in the same pomp as the day before.

As soon as the porters of the sultan's palace saw Aladdin's mother, they went and informed the sultan, who immediately ordered the bands of trumpets, cymbals, drums, fifes, and hautboys, placed in different parts of the palace, to play, so that the air resounded with concerts which inspired the whole city with joy: the merchants began to adorn their shops and houses with fine carpets and silks, and to prepare illuminations against night. The artisans of every description left their work, and the populace repaired to the great space between the royal palace and that of Aladdin; which last drew all their attention, not only because it was new to them, but because there was no comparison between the two buildings. But their amazement was to comprehend by what unheard-of miracle so magnificent a palace could have been so soon erected, it being apparent to all that there were no prepared materials, or any foundations laid the day before.

Aladdin's mother was received in the palace with honour, and introduced into the Princess Badroulboudour's apartment by the chief of the eunuchs. As soon as the princess saw her, she rose, saluted, and desired her to sit down on a sofa; and while her women finished dressing, and adorning her with the jewels which Aladdin had presented to her, a collation was served up. At the same time the sultan, who wished to be as much with his daughter as possible before he parted with her, came in and paid the old lady great respect. Aladdin's mother had talked to the sultan in public, but he had never seen her with her veil off, as she was then; and though she was somewhat advanced in years, she had the remains of a good face, which showed what she had been in her youth. The sultan, who had always seen her dressed very meanly, not to say poorly, was surprised to find her as richly and magnificently attired as the princess, his daughter. This made him think Aladdin equally prudent and wise in whatever he undertook.

When it was night, the princess left her own apartment for Aladdin's palace, with his mother on her left hand carried in a superb litter, followed by a hundred women slaves, dressed with surprising magnificence. All the bands of music, which had played from the time Aladdin's mother arrived, being joined together, led the procession, followed by a hundred state ushers, and the like number of black eunuchs, in two files, with their officers at their head. Four hundred of the sultan's young pages carried flambeaux on each side, which, together with the illuminations of the sultan's and Aladdin's palaces, made it as light as day.

At length the princess arrived at the new palace and Aladdin ran with all imaginable joy to receive her at the grand entrance. His mother had taken care to point him out to the princess, in the midst of the officers who surrounded him, and she was charmed with his person. "Adorable princess," said Aladdin, accosting her, and saluting her respectfully, as soon as she had entered her apartment, "if I have the misfortune to have displeased you by my boldness in aspiring to the possession of so lovely a creature, I must tell you, that you ought to blame your bright eyes and charms, not me." "Prince," answered the princess, "I am obedient to the will of my father; and it is enough for me to have seen you, to tell you that I obey without reluctance."

Aladdin, charmed with so agreeable an answer, would not keep the princess standing; but took her by the hand, which he kissed with the greatest demonstration of joy, and led her into a large hall, illuminated with an infinite number of wax candles; where, by the care of the genie, a noble feast was served up. The dishes were of massy gold, and contained the most delicate viands, and all the other ornaments and embellishments of the hall were answerable to this display. The princess, dazzled to see so much riches, said to Aladdin: "I thought, prince, that nothing in the world was so beautiful as the sultan my father's palace, but the sight of this hall alone is sufficient to shew I was deceived."

Then Aladdin led the princess to the place appointed for her, and as soon as she and his mother were seated, a band of the most harmonious instruments, accompanied with the voices of beautiful ladies, began a concert, which lasted without intermission to the end of the repast. The princess was so charmed, that she declared she had never heard anything like it in the sultan her father's court; but she knew not that these musicians were fairies chosen by the genie, the slave of the lamp.

When the supper was ended, there entered a company of female dancers, who performed, according to the custom of the country, several figure dances, singing at the same time verses in praise of the bride and bridegroom. About midnight the happy pair retired to their apartments and the nuptial ceremonies were at an end.

The next morning, when Aladdin arose, his attendants presented themselves to dress him, and brought him another habit as magnificent as that worn the day before. He then ordered one of the horses appointed for his use to be got ready, mounted him, and went in the midst of a large troop of slaves to the sultan's palace. The sultan received him with the same honours as before, embraced him, placed him on the throne near him, and ordered a collation. Aladdin said: "I beg your majesty will dispense with my eating with you to-day; I came to entreat you to take a repast in the princess's palace, attended by your grand vizier, and all the lords of your court." The sultan consented with pleasure, rose up immediately, and, preceded by the principal officers of his palace, and followed by all the great lords of his court, accompanied Aladdin.

The nearer the sultan approached Aladdin's palace, the more he was struck with its beauty, but was much more amazed when he entered it; and could not forbear breaking out into exclamations of approbation. But when he came into the hall, and cast his eyes on the windows, enriched with diamonds, rubies, emeralds, all large perfect stones, he was so much surprised, that he remained some time motionless. After he recovered himself, he said to his vizier; "Is it possible that there should be such a stately palace so near my own, and I be an utter stranger to it till now?" "Sir," replied the grand vizier, "your majesty may remember that the day before yesterday you gave Aladdin, whom you accepted for a son-in-law, leave to build a palace opposite your own, and that very day at sunset there was no palace on this spot, but yesterday I had the honour first to tell you that the palace was built and finished." "I remember," replied the sultan, "but never imagined that the palace was one of the wonders of the world; for where in all the world besides shall we find walls built of massy gold and silver, instead of brick, stone, or marble; and diamonds, rubies, and emeralds composing the windows!"

The sultan would examine and admire the beauty of all the windows, and counting them, found that there were but three and twenty so richly adorned, and he was greatly astonished that the twenty-fourth was left imperfect. "Vizier," said he, for that minister made a point of never leaving him, "I am surprised that a hall of this magnificence should be left thus imperfect." "Sir," replied the grand vizier, "without doubt Aladdin only wanted time to finish this window like the rest; for it is not to be supposed but that he has sufficient jewels for the purpose, or that he will not complete it at the first opportunity."

Aladdin, who had left the sultan to go and give some orders, returned just as the vizier had finished his remark. "Son," said the sultan to him, "this hall is the most worthy of admiration of any in the world; there is only one thing that surprises me, which is, to find one of the windows unfinished. Is it from the forgetfulness or negligence of the workmen, or want of time, that they have not put the finishing stroke to so beautiful a piece of architecture?" "Sir," answered Aladdin, "it was for none of these reasons that your majesty sees it in this state. The omission was by design; it was by my orders that the workmen left it thus, since I wished that your majesty should have the glory of finishing this hall." "If you did it with this intention," replied the sultan, "I take it kindly, and will give orders about it immediately." He accordingly sent for the most considerable jewellers and goldsmiths in his capital.

Aladdin then conducted the sultan into the saloon where he had regaled his bride the preceding night. The princess entered immediately afterward, and received her father with an air that shewed how much she was satisfied with her marriage. Two tables were immediately spread with the most delicious meats, all served up in gold dishes. The sultan was much pleased with the cookery, and owned he had never eaten anything more excellent. He said the same of the wines, which were delicious; but what he most of all admired were four large buffets, profusely furnished with large flagons, basins, and cups, all of massy gold, set with jewels.

When the sultan rose from table, he was informed that the jewellers and goldsmiths attended; upon which he returned to the hall, and shewed them the window which was unfinished: "I sent for you," said he, "to fit up this window in as great perfection as the rest; examine well, and make all the despatch you can."

The jewellers and goldsmiths examined the three and twenty windows with great attention, and after they had consulted together they returned and presented themselves before the sultan, when the principal jeweller, undertaking to speak for the rest, said: "Sir, we are all willing to exert our utmost care and industry to obey your majesty; but among us all we cannot furnish jewels enough for so great a work." "I have more than are necessary," said the sultan; "come to my palace, and you shall choose what may answer your purpose."

When the sultan returned to his palace, he ordered his jewels to be brought out, and the jewellers took a great quantity, particularly those Aladdin had made him a present of, which they soon used, without making any great advance in their work. They came again several times for more, and in a month's time had not finished half their work. In short, they used all the jewels the sultan had, and borrowed of the vizier, but yet the work was not half done.

Aladdin, who knew that all the sultan's endeavours to make this window like the rest were in vain, sent for the jewellers and goldsmiths, and not only commanded them to desist from their work, but ordered them to undo what they had begun, and to carry all their jewels back to the sultan and to the vizier. They undid in a few hours what they had been six weeks about, and retired, leaving Aladdin alone in the hall. He took the lamp, which he carried about him, rubbed it, and presently the genie appeared. "Genie," said Aladdin, "I ordered thee to leave one of the four and twenty windows of this hall imperfect and thou hast executed my commands punctually; now I would have thee make it like the rest." The genie immediately disappeared. Aladdin went out of the hall, and returning soon after, found the window like the others.

In the meantime, the jewellers and goldsmiths repaired to the palace, and were introduced into the sultan's presence; where the chief jeweller, presenting the precious stones which he had brought back, said, in the name of all the rest: "Your majesty knows how long we have been upon the work you were pleased to set us about, in which we used all imaginable industry. It was far advanced, when Prince Aladdin commanded us not only to leave off, but to undo what we had already begun, and bring your majesty your jewels back." The sultan asked them if Aladdin had given them any reason for so doing, and they answering that he had given them none, he ordered a horse to be brought, which he mounted, and rode to his son-in-law's palace, with some few attendants on foot. When he came there, he alighted at the staircase, which led to the hall with the twenty-four windows, and went directly up to it, without giving previous notice to Aladdin; but it happened that at that very juncture Aladdin was opportunely there, and had just time to receive him at the door.

The sultan, without giving Aladdin time to complain obligingly of his not having given notice, that he might have acquitted himself with the more becoming respect, said to him: "Son, I come myself to know the reason why you commanded the jewellers to desist from work, and take to pieces what they had done."

Aladdin disguised the true reason, which was, that the sultan was not rich enough in jewels to be at so great an expense, but said: "I beg of you now to see if anything is wanting."

The sultan went directly to the window which was left imperfect, and when he found it like the rest, fancied that he was mistaken, examined the two windows on each side, and afterward all the four and twenty; but when he was convinced that the window which several workmen had been so long about was finished in so short a time, he embraced Aladdin, and kissed him between his eyes. "My son," said he, "what a man you are to do such surprising things always in the twinkling of an eye: there is not your fellow in the world; the more I know, the more I admire you."

Aladdin received these praises from the sultan with modesty, and replied in these words: "Sir, it is a great honour to me to deserve your majesty's goodwill and approbation, and I assure you, I shall study to deserve them more."

The sultan returned to his palace, but would not let Aladdin attend him. When he came there, he found his grand vizier waiting, to whom he related the wonder he had witnessed with the utmost admiration, and in such terms as left the minister no room to doubt but that the fact was as the sultan related it; though he was the more confirmed in his belief that Aladdin's palace was the effect of enchantment, as he had told the sultan the first moment he saw it. He was going to repeat the observation, but the sultan interrupted him, and said: "You told me so once before; I see, vizier, you have not forgotten your son's espousals to my daughter." The grand vizier plainly saw how much the sultan was prepossessed, therefore avoided disputes, and let him remain in his own opinion. The sultan as soon as he rose every morning went into the closet, to look at Aladdin's palace, and would go many times in a day to contemplate and admire it.

Aladdin did not confine himself in his palace; but took care to show himself once or twice a week in the town, by going sometimes to one mosque, and sometimes to another, to prayers; or to visit the grand vizier, who affected to pay his court to him on certain days; or to do the principal lords of the court the honour to return their visits after he had regaled them at his palace. Every time he went out, he caused two slaves, who walked by the side of his horse, to throw handfuls of money among the people as he passed through the streets and squares, which were generally on these occasions crowded. Besides, no one came to his palace gates to ask alms but returned satisfied with his liberality. In short, he so divided his time, that not a week passed but he went either once or twice a-hunting, sometimes in the environs of the city, sometimes farther off; at which time the villages through which he passed felt the effects of his generosity, which gained him the love and blessings of the people; and it was common for them to swear by his head. With all these good qualities he showed a zeal for the public good which could not be sufficiently applauded. He gave sufficient proofs of both in a revolt on the borders of the kingdom; for he no sooner understood that the sultan was levying an army to disperse the rebels than he begged the command of it, which he found not difficult to obtain. As soon as he was empowered, he marched with so much expedition, that the sultan heard of the defeat of the rebels before he had received an account of his son-in-law's arrival in the army.

Aladdin had conducted himself in this manner several years, when the African magician, who undesignedly had been the instrument of raising him to so high a pitch of prosperity, recalled him to his recollection in Africa, whither, after his expedition, he had returned. And though he was almost persuaded that Aladdin must have died miserably in the subterranean abode where he had left him, yet he had the curiosity to inform himself about his end with certainty; and as he was a great geomancer, he took out of a cupboard a square, covered box, which he used in his geomantic observations. After he had prepared and levelled the sand which was in it with an intention to discover whether or not Aladdin had died, he cast the points, drew the figures, and formed a horoscope, by which, when he came to examine it, he found that instead of dying in the cave, his victim had made his escape, lived splendidly, was in possession of the wonderful lamp, had married a princess, and was much honoured and respected.

The magician no sooner understood, by the rules of his diabolical art, that Aladdin had arrived to this height of good fortune, than his face became inflamed with anger, and he cried out in a rage: "This sorry tailor's son has discovered the secret and virtue of the lamp! I believed his death to be certain; but find that he enjoys the fruit of my labour and study! I will, however, prevent his enjoying it long, or perish in the attempt." He was not a great while deliberating on what he should do, but the next morning mounted a barb, set forward, and never stopped but to refresh himself and his horse, till he arrived at the capital of China. He alighted, took up his lodging in a khan, and stayed there the remainder of the day and the night.

The next day, his first object was to inquire what people said of Aladdin; and, taking a walk through the town, he went to the most public and frequented places, where persons of the best distinction met to drink a certain warm liquor, which he had drunk often during his former visit. As soon as he had seated himself, he was presented with a cup of it, which he took; but listening at the same time to the discourse of the company on each side of him, he heard them talking of Aladdin's palace. When he had drunk off his liquor, he joined them, and taking this opportunity, inquired particularly of what palace they spoke with so much commendation. "From whence come you?" said the person to whom he addressed himself; "you must certainly be a stranger not to have seen or heard talk of Prince Aladdin's palace. I do not say," continued the man, "that it is one of the wonders of the world, but that it is the only wonder of the world; since nothing so grand, rich, and magnificent was ever beheld. Go and see it, and then judge whether I have told you more than the truth." "Forgive my ignorance," replied the African magician; "I arrived here but yesterday from the farthest part of Africa, where the fame of this palace had not reached when I came away. The business which brought me hither was so urgent, that my sole object was to arrive as soon as I could, without stopping anywhere, or making any acquaintance. But I will not fail to go and see it, if you will do me the favour to show me the way thither."

The person to whom the African magician addressed himself took a pleasure in showing him the way to Aladdin's palace, and he got up and went thither instantly. When he came to the palace, and had examined it on all sides, he doubted not but that Aladdin had made use of the lamp to build it. Without attending to the inability of a poor tailor's son, he knew that none but the genies, the slaves of the lamp, could have performed such wonders; and piqued to the quick at Aladdin's happiness and splendour, he returned to the khan where he lodged.

The next point was to ascertain where the lamp was; whether Aladdin carried it about with him, or where he kept it; and this he was to discover by an operation of geomancy. As soon as he entered his lodging, he took his square box of sand, which he always carried with him when he travelled, and after he had performed some operations, he found that the lamp was in Aladdin's palace, and so great was his joy at the discovery that he could hardly contain himself. "Well," said he, "I shall have the lamp, and I defy Aladdin to prevent my carrying it off, thus making him sink to his original meanness, from which he has taken so high a flight."

It was Aladdin's misfortune at that time to be absent in the chase for eight days, and only three were expired, which the magician came to know. After he had performed the magical operation he went to the superintendent of the khan, entered into conversation with him on indifferent subjects, and among the rest, told him he had been to see Aladdin's palace; and after exaggerating on all that he had seen most worthy of observation, added: "But my curiosity leads me further, and I shall not be satisfied till I have seen the person to whom this wonderful edifice belongs." "That will be no difficult matter," replied the master of the khan; "there is not a day passes but he gives an opportunity when he is in town, but at present he has been gone these three days on a hunting-match, which will last eight."

The magician wanted to know no more; he took his leave of the superintendent of the khan, and returning to his own chamber, said to himself: "This is an opportunity I ought by no means to neglect." To that end, he went to a coppersmith and asked for a dozen copper lamps: the master of the shop told him he had not so many by him, but if he would have patience till the next day, he would have them ready. The magician appointed his time, and desired him to take care that they should be handsome and well polished. After promising to pay him well, he returned to his inn.

The next day the magician called for the twelve lamps, paid the man his full price, put them into a basket which he bought on purpose, and with the basket hanging on his arm, went directly to Aladdin's palace; as he approached beginning to cry: "Who will change old lamps for new ones?" As he went along, a crowd of children collected, who hooted, and thought him, as did all who chanced to be passing by, a madman or a fool.

The African magician regarded not their scoffs, hootings, or all they could say to him, but still continued crying: "Who will change old lamps for new?" He repeated this so often, walking backward and forward in front of the palace, that the princess, who was then in the hall with the four and twenty windows, hearing a man cry something and not being able to distinguish his words, owing to the hooting of the children, and increasing mob about him, sent one of her women slaves to know what he cried.

The slave was not long before she returned, and ran into the hall, laughing so heartily that the princess could not forbear herself. "Well, giggler," said the princess, "will you tell me what you laugh at?" "Madam," answered the slave, laughing still, "who can forbear laughing, to see a fool with a basket on his arm, full of fine new lamps, ask to change them for old ones?"

Another female slave hearing this, said: "Now you speak of lamps, I know not whether the princess may have observed it, but there is an old one upon a shelf of the prince's robing-room. If the princess chooses, she may have the pleasure of trying if this fool is so silly as to give a new lamp for an old one, without taking anything for the exchange."

The lamp this slave spoke of was the wonderful lamp, which Aladdin had laid upon the shelf before he departed for the chase: this he had done several times before; but neither the princess, the slaves, nor the eunuchs had ever taken notice of it. At all other times except when hunting he carried it about his person.

The princess, who knew not the value of this lamp, and the interest that Aladdin, not to mention herself, had to keep it safe, entered into the pleasantry, and commanded a eunuch to take it and make the exchange. The eunuch obeyed, went out of the hall, and no sooner got to the palace gates than he saw the African magician, called to him, and showing him the old lamp, said: "Give me a new lamp for this?"

The magician never doubted but this was the lamp he wanted. There could be no other such in the palace, where every utensil was gold or silver. He snatched it eagerly out of the eunuch's hand, and thrusting it as far as he could into his breast, offered him his basket, and bade him choose which he liked best. The eunuch picked out one, and carried it to the princess; but the exchange was no sooner made than the place rang with the shouts of the children, deriding the magician's folly.

The African magician gave everybody leave to laugh as much as they pleased; he stayed not long near the palace, but made the best of his way, without crying any longer; "New lamps for old ones." His end was answered, and by his silence he got rid of the children and the mob.

As soon as he was out of the square between the two palaces, he hastened down the streets which were the least frequented; and having no more occasion for his lamps or basket, set all down in an alley where nobody saw him: then going down another street or two, he walked till he came to one of the city gates, and pursuing his way through the suburbs, which were very extensive, at length reached a lonely spot, where he stopped for a time to execute the design he had in contemplation, never caring for his horse which he had left at the khan; but thinking himself perfectly compensated by the treasure he had acquired.

In this place the African magician passed the remainder of the day, till the darkest time of night, when he pulled the lamp out of his breast and rubbed it. At that summons the genie appeared, and said: "What wouldst thou have? I am ready to obey thee as thy slave, and the slave of all those who have that lamp in their hands; both I and the other slaves of the lamp." "I command thee," replied the magician, "to transport me immediately and the palace which thou and the other slaves of the lamp have built in this city, with all the people in it, to Africa." The genie made no reply, but with the assistance of the other genies, the slaves of the lamp immediately transported him, and the palace entire, to the spot whither he was desired to convey it.

As soon as the sultan rose the next morning, according to custom, he went into his closet, to have the pleasure of contemplating and admiring Aladdin's palace; but when he first looked that way, and instead of a palace saw an empty space such as it was before the palace was built, he thought he was mistaken, and rubbed his eyes; but when he looked again, he still saw nothing more the second time than the first, though the weather was fine, the sky clear, and the dawn advancing had made all objects very distinct. He looked again in front, to the right and left, but beheld nothing more than he had formerly been used to see from his window. His amazement was so great, that he stood for some time turning his eyes to the spot where the palace had stood, but where it was no longer to be seen. He could not comprehend how so large a palace as Aladdin's, which he had seen plainly every day for some years, and but the day before, should vanish so soon, and not leave the least remains behind.

"Certainly," said he to himself, "I am not mistaken; it stood there: if it had fallen, the materials would have lain in heaps; and if it had been swallowed up by an earthquake, there would be some mark left." At last he retired to his apartment, not without looking behind him before he quitted the spot, ordered the grand vizier to be sent for with expedition, and in the meantime sat down, his mind agitated by so many different conjectures that he knew not what to resolve.

The grand vizier did not make the sultan wait long for him, but came with so much precipitation, that neither he nor his attendants, as they passed, missed Aladdin's palace; neither did the porters, when they opened the palace gates, observe any alteration.

When he came into the sultan's presence, he said to him: "The haste in which your majesty sent for me makes me believe something extraordinary has happened, since you know this is a day of public audience, and I should not have failed of attending at the usual time." "Indeed," said the sultan, "it is something very extraordinary, as you say, and you will allow it to be so: tell me what is become of Aladdin's palace?" "His palace!" replied the grand vizier in amazement; "I thought as I passed it stood in its usual place." "Go into my closet," said the sultan, "and tell me if you can see it."

The grand vizier went into the closet, where he was struck with no less amazement than the sultan had been. When he was well assured that there was not the least appearance of the palace, he returned to the sultan. "Well," said the sultan, "have you seen Aladdin's palace?" "No," answered the vizier, "but your majesty may remember, that I had the honour to tell you, that the edifice, which was the subject of your admiration, was only the work of magic and a magician; but your majesty would not pay the least attention to what I said." The sultan, who could not deny what the grand vizier had represented to him, flew into the greater passion: "Where is that impostor, that wicked wretch," said he, "that I may have his head taken off immediately?" "Sir," replied the grand vizier, "it is some days since he came to take his leave of your majesty, on pretence of hunting; he ought to be sent for, to know what is become of his palace, since he cannot be ignorant of what has been transacted." "To send for him would be too great an indulgence," replied the sultan: "command a detachment of horse to bring him to me loaded with chains." The grand vizier gave orders for a detachment, and instructed the officer who commanded the men how they were to act, that Aladdin might not escape. The detachment pursued its orders; and about five or six leagues from the town met him returning from the chase. The officer advanced respectfully, and informed him the sultan was so impatient to see him, that he had sent his party to accompany him home.

Aladdin had not the least suspicion of the true reason of their meeting him; but when he came within half a league of the city, the detachment surrounded him, when the officer addressed himself to him, and said; "Prince, it is with great regret that I declare to you the sultan's order to arrest you, and to carry you before him as a criminal: I beg of you not to take it ill that we acquit ourselves of our duty, and to forgive us." Aladdin, who felt himself innocent, was much surprised at this declaration, and asked the officer if he knew what crime he was accused of; who replied, he did not. Then Aladdin, finding that his retinue was much inferior to this detachment, alighted from his horse, and said to the officers: "Execute your orders; I am not conscious that I have committed any offence against the sultan's person or government." A heavy chain was immediately put about his neck, and fastened round his body, so that both his arms were pinioned down; the officer then put himself at the head of the detachment, and one of the troopers taking hold of the end of the chain and proceeding after the officer, led Aladdin, who was obliged to follow him on foot, into the city.

When this detachment entered the suburbs, the people, who saw Aladdin thus led as a state criminal, never doubted but that his head was to be cut off; and as he was generally beloved, some took sabres and other arms; and those who had none gathered stones, and followed the escort. Their numbers presently increased so much, that the soldiery began to think it would be well if they could get into the sultan's palace before Aladdin was rescued; to prevent which, according to the different extent of the streets, they took care to cover the ground by extending or closing. In this manner they with much difficulty arrived at the palace square, and there drew up in a line, till their officer and troopers with Aladdin had got within the gates, which were immediately shut.

Aladdin was carried before the sultan, who waited for him, attended by the grand vizier; and as soon as he saw him he ordered the executioner, who waited there for the purpose, to strike off his head without hearing him, or giving him leave to clear himself. As soon as the executioner had taken off the chain that was fastened about Aladdin's neck and body, he made the supposed criminal kneel down, and tied a bandage over his eyes. Then drawing his sabre, he took his aim by flourishing it three times in the air, waiting for the sultan's giving the signal to strike.

At that instant the grand vizier perceiving that the populace had crowded the great square before the palace, and were scaling the walls in several places, said to the sultan, before he gave the signal: "I beg of your majesty to consider what you are going to do, since you will hazard your palace being destroyed; and who knows what fatal consequence may follow?" "My palace forced!" replied the sultan; "who can have that audacity?" "Sir," answered the grand vizier, "if your majesty will but cast your eyes toward the great square, and on the palace walls, you will perceive the truth of what I say."

The sultan was so much alarmed when he saw so great a crowd, and how enraged they were, that he ordered the executioner to put his sabre immediately into the scabbard, to unbind Aladdin, and at the same time commanded the porters to declare to the people that the sultan had pardoned him, and that they might retire. Those who had already got upon the walls abandoned their design and got quickly down, overjoyed that they had saved the life of a man they dearly loved, and published the news amongst the rest, which was presently confirmed by the mace-bearers from the top of the terraces. The justice which the sultan had done to Aladdin soon disarmed the populace of their rage; the tumult abated and the mob dispersed.

When Aladdin found himself at liberty, he turned toward the balcony, and perceiving the sultan, raised his voice, and said to him in a moving manner: "I beg of your majesty to add one favour more to that which I have already received, which is, to let me know my crime?" "Your crime," answered the sultan; "perfidious wretch! Do you not know it? Come hither, and I will show it you." Aladdin went up, when the sultan, going before him without looking at him, said: "Follow me;" and then led him into his closet. When he came to the door, he said: "Go in; you ought to know whereabouts your palace stood: look round and tell me what is become of it?"

Aladdin looked, but saw nothing. He perceived the spot upon which his palace had stood; but not being able to divine how it had disappeared, was thrown into such great confusion and amazement that he could not return one word of answer. The sultan, growing impatient, demanded of him again: "Where is your palace, and what is become of my daughter?" Aladdin, breaking silence, replied: "Sir, I perceive and own that the palace which I have built is not in its place, but is vanished; neither can I tell your majesty where it may be, but can assure you I had no concern in its removal."

"I am not so much concerned about your palace," replied the sultan; "I value my daughter ten thousand times more, and would have you find her out, otherwise I will cause your head to be struck off, and no consideration shall divert me from my purpose."

"I beg of your majesty," answered Aladdin, "to grant me forty days to make my inquiries; and if in that time I have not the success I wish, I will offer my head at the foot of your throne, to be disposed of at your pleasure." "I give you the forty days you ask," said the sultan; "but think not to escape my resentment if you fail; for I will find you out in whatsoever part of the world you may conceal yourself."

Aladdin went out of the sultan's presence with great humiliation, and in a condition worthy of pity. He crossed the courts of the palace, hanging down his head, and in such great confusion that he durst not lift up his eyes. The principal officers of the court, who had all professed themselves his friends, instead of going up to him to comfort him, turned their backs to avoid seeing him. But had they accosted him with an offer of service, they would have no more known Aladdin. He did not know himself, and was no longer in his senses, as plainly appeared by his asking everybody he met, and at every house, if they had seen his palace, or could tell him any news of it. These questions made the generality believe that Aladdin was mad. Some laughed at him, but people of sense and humanity, particularly those who had had any connection of business or friendship with him, really pitied him. For three days he rambled about the city in this manner, without coming to any resolution or eating anything but what some compassionate people forced him to take out of charity. At last he took the road to the country; and after he had traversed several fields in wild uncertainty, at the approach of night came to the bank of a river. There, possessed by his despair, he said to himself: "Where shall I seek my palace? In what province, country, or part of the world, shall I find that and my dear princess? I shall never succeed; I would better free myself at once from fruitless endeavours, and such bitter grief as preys upon me." He was just going to throw himself into the river, but, as a good Mussulman, true to his religion, he thought he should not do it without first saying his prayers. Going to prepare himself, he went to the river's brink, in order to perform the usual ablutions. The place being steep and slippery, he slid down, and had certainly fallen into the river, but for a little rock, which projected about two feet out of the earth. Happily also for him, he still had on the ring which the African magician had put on his finger before he went down into the subterranean abode to fetch the precious lamp. In slipping down the bank he rubbed the ring so hard by holding on the rock, that immediately the same genie appeared whom he had seen in the cave where the magician had left him. "What wouldst thou have?" said the genie. "I am ready to obey thee as thy slave, and the slave of all those that have that ring on their finger; both I and the other slaves of the ring."

Aladdin, agreeably surprised at an apparition he so little expected in his present calamity, replied; "Save my life, genie, a second time, either by showing me to the place where the palace I caused to be built now stands, or immediately transporting it back where it first stood." "What you command me," answered the genie, "is not wholly in my power; I am only the slave of the ring; you must address yourself to the slave of the lamp." "If that be the case," replied Aladdin, "I command thee, by the power of the ring, to transport me to the spot where my palace stands, in what part of the world soever it may be, and set me down under the window of the Princess Badroulboudour." These words were no sooner out of his mouth than the genie transported him into Africa, to the midst of a large plain, where his palace stood, and placing him exactly under the window of the princess's apartment, left him. All this was done almost in an instant. Aladdin, notwithstanding the darkness of the night, knew his palace again; but as the night was far advanced and all was quiet, he retired to some distance, and sat down at the foot of a large tree. There, full of hopes, and reflecting on his happiness, for which he was indebted to chance, he found himself in a much more comfortable situation than when he was arrested and carried before the sultan, being now delivered from the immediate danger of losing his life. He amused himself for some time with these agreeable thoughts; but not having slept for two days, was unable to resist the drowsiness which came upon him, but fell fast asleep.

The next morning, as soon as day appeared, Aladdin was agreeably awakened by the singing not only of the birds which had roosted in the tree under which he had passed the night, but also of those which frequented the thick groves of the palace garden. When he cast his eyes on that wonderful edifice, he felt inexpressible joy at thinking he might soon be master of it again, and once more greet his dear Princess Badroulboudour. Pleased with these hopes, he immediately arose, went toward the princess's apartment, and walked some time under her window in expectation of her rising, that he might see her. During this expectation, he began to consider with himself whence the cause of his misfortune had proceeded; and after mature reflection, no longer doubted that it was owing to having trusted the lamp out of his sight. He accused himself of negligence in letting it be a moment away from him. But what puzzled him most was, that he could not imagine who had been so envious of his happiness. He would soon have guessed this, if he had known that both he and his palace were now in Africa, the very name of which would soon have made him remember the magician, his declared enemy; but the genie, the slave of the ring, had not made mention of the name of the country, nor had Aladdin inquired.

The princess rose earlier that morning than she had done since her transportation into Africa by the magician, whose presence she was forced to support once a day, because he was master of the palace; though she had always treated him so harshly that he dared not reside in it. As she was dressing, one of the women looking through the window perceived Aladdin, and instantly told her mistress. The princess, who could not believe the joyful tidings, hastened herself to the window, and seeing Aladdin, immediately opened it. The noise of opening the window made Aladdin turn his head that way, and perceiving the princess he saluted her with joy. "To lose no time," said she to him, "I have sent to have the private door opened for you; enter, and come up." The private door, which was just under the princess's apartment, was soon opened, and Aladdin conducted up into the chamber. It is impossible to express the joy of both at seeing each other, after so cruel a separation. After embracing and shedding tears of joy, they sat down, and Aladdin said: "I beg of you, princess, in Heaven's name, before we talk of anything else, to tell me, both for your own sake, the sultan your father's, and mine, what is become of an old lamp which I left upon a shelf in my robing-chamber, when I departed for the chase."

"Alas! dear husband," answered the princess, "I was afraid our misfortune might be owing to that lamp: and what grieves me most is, that I have been the cause of it." "Princess," replied Aladdin, "do not blame yourself, for I ought to have taken more care of it. But let us now think only of repairing the loss; tell me what has happened, and into whose hands it has fallen." The princess then related how she had changed the old lamp for a new one, and how the next morning she found herself in the unknown country they were then in, which she was told was Africa, by the traitor who had transported her thither by his magic art.

"Princess," said Aladdin, interrupting her, "you have informed me who the traitor is, by telling me we are in Africa. He is the most perfidious of men; but this is neither a time nor place to give you a full account of his villainies. I desire you only to tell me what he has done with the lamp, and where he has put it." "He carries it carefully wrapt up in his bosom," said the princess; "and this I can assure you, because he pulled it out before me, and showed it to me in triumph."

"Princess," said Aladdin, "do not be displeased that I trouble you with so many questions, since they are equally important to us both. But to come to what most particularly concerns me: tell me, I conjure you, how so wicked and perfidious a man treats you?" "Since I have been here," replied the princess, "he repairs once every day to see me; and I am persuaded the little satisfaction he receives from his visits makes him come no oftener. All his addresses tend to persuade me to break that faith I have pledged to you, and to take him for my husband; giving me to understand I need not entertain hopes of ever seeing you again, for that you were dead, having had your head struck off by my father's order. He added, to justify himself, that you were an ungrateful wretch; that your good fortune was owing to him, and a great many other things of that nature which I forbear to repeat: but as he received no other answer from me but grievous complaints and tears, he was always forced to retire with as little satisfaction as he came. I doubt not his intention is to allow me time to overcome my grief, in hopes that afterward I may change my sentiments. But my dear husband's presence removes all my apprehensions."

"I am confident my attempts to punish the magician will not be in vain," replied Aladdin, "since my princess's fears are removed, and I think I have found the means to deliver you from both your enemy and mine; to execute this design, it is necessary for me to go to the town. I shall return by noon, will then communicate my design, and what must be done by you to ensure success. But that you may not be surprised, I think it proper to acquaint you that I shall change my apparel, and beg of you to give orders that I may not wait long at the private door, but that it may be opened at the first knock."

When Aladdin was out of the palace, he looked round him on all sides, and perceiving a peasant going into the country, hastened after him; and when he had overtaken him, made a proposal to him to change habits, which the man agreed to. When they had made the exchange, the countryman went about his business, and Aladdin to the city. After traversing several streets, he came to that part of the town where all descriptions of merchants had their particular streets, according to their trades. He went into that of the druggists; and going into one of the largest and best-furnished shops, asked the druggist if he had a certain powder which he named. The druggist, judging Aladdin by his habit to be very poor, and that he had not money enough to pay for it, told him he had it, but that it was very dear; upon which Aladdin penetrating his thoughts, pulled out his purse, and showing him some gold, asked for half a drachm of the powder; which the druggist weighed, wrapped up in paper, and gave him, telling him the price was a piece of gold. Aladdin put the money into his hand, and returned to the palace, where he waited not long at the private door. When he came into the princess's apartment, he said to her: "Princess, perhaps the aversion you tell me you have for your captor may be an objection to your executing what I am going to propose; but permit me to say it is proper that you should dissemble a little, and do violence to your inclinations, if you would deliver yourself from him.

"If you will take my advice," continued he, "dress yourself this moment in one of your richest habits, and when the African magician comes, make no difficulty to give him the best reception; so that he may imagine time has removed your disgust at his addresses. In your conversation let him understand that you strive to forget me; and that he may be the more fully convinced, invite him to sup with you, and tell him you should be glad to taste of some of the best wines of his country. He will presently go to fetch you some. During his absence, put into one of the cups which you are accustomed to drink of, this powder, and setting it by, charge the slave you may order that night to attend you, on a signal you shall agree upon, to bring that cup to you. When the magician and you have eaten and drunk as much as you choose, let her bring you the cup, and then change cups with him. He will esteem it so great a favour that he will not refuse, but eagerly quaff it off; but no sooner will he have drunk, than you will see him fall backward."

When Aladdin had finished, "I own," answered the princess, "I shall do myself violence in consenting to make the magician such advances; but what cannot one resolve to do against a cruel enemy? I will therefore follow your advice, since both my repose and yours depend upon it." After the princess had agreed to the measures proposed by Aladdin, he took his leave and went and spent the rest of the day in the neighbourhood of the palace till it was night, and he might safely return to the private door.

The princess, who had remained inconsolable at being parted from her husband, had, ever since their cruel separation, lived in great neglect of her person. She had almost forgotten the neatness so becoming persons of her sex and quality, particularly after the first time the magician paid her a visit and she had understood by some of the women, who knew him again, that it was he who had taken the old lamp in exchange for a new one. However, the opportunity of taking the revenge he deserved made her resolve to gratify Aladdin. As soon, therefore, as he was gone, she sat down to dress, and was attired by her women to the best advantage in the richest habit of her wardrobe. Her girdle was of the finest and largest diamonds set in gold, her necklace of pearls, six on a side, so well proportioned to that in the middle, which was the largest ever seen, that the greatest sultanesses would have been proud to have been adorned with only two of the smallest. Her bracelets, which were of diamonds and rubies intermixed, corresponded admirably to the richness of the girdle and necklace.

When the Princess Badroulboudour was completely dressed, she consulted her glass and women upon her adjustment; and when she found she wanted no charms to flatter the foolish passion of the African magician, she sat down on a sofa expecting his arrival. The magician came at the usual hour, and as soon as he entered the great hall where the princess waited to receive him, she rose with an enchanting grace and smile, and pointed with her hand to the most honourable place, waiting till he sat down, that she might sit at the same time, which was a civility she had never shown him before.

The African magician, dazzled more with the lustre of the princess's eyes than the glittering of her jewels, was much surprised. The smiling air with which she received him, so opposite to her former behaviour, quite fascinated his heart. When he was seated, the princess, to free him from his embarrassment, broke silence first, looking at him all the time in such a manner as to make him believe that he was not so odious to her as she had given him to understand hitherto, and said; "You are doubtless amazed to find me so much altered to-day; but your surprise will not be so great when I acquaint you, that I am naturally of a disposition so opposite to melancholy and grief, that I always strive to put them as far away as possible when I find the subject of them is past. I have reflected on what you told me of Aladdin's fate, and know my father's temper so well that I am persuaded, with you, he could not escape the terrible effects of the sultan's rage: therefore, should I continue to lament him all my life, my tears cannot recall him. For this reason, since I have paid all the duties decency requires of me to his memory, now he is in the grave I think I ought to endeavour to comfort myself. These are the motives of the change you see in me; I am resolved to banish melancholy entirely; and persuaded that you will bear me company to-night, I have ordered a supper to be prepared; but as I have no wines but those of China, I have a great desire to taste of the produce of Africa, and doubt not your procuring some of the best."

The African magician, who had looked upon the happiness of getting so soon and so easily into the Princess Badroulboudour's good graces as impossible, could not think of words expressive enough to testify how sensible he was of her favours: but to put an end the sooner to a conversation which would have embarrassed him, if he had engaged farther in it, he turned it upon the wines of Africa, and said: "Of all the advantages Africa can boast, that of producing the most excellent wines is one of the principal. I have a vessel of seven years old, which has never been broached; and it is indeed not praising it too much to say it is the finest wine in the world. If my princess," added he, "will give me leave, I will go and fetch two bottles, and return again immediately." "I should be sorry to give you that trouble," replied the princess; "you had better send for them." "It is necessary I should go myself," answered the African magician, "for nobody but myself knows where the key of the cellar is laid, or has the secret to unlock the door." "If it be so," said the princess, "make haste back; for the longer you stay the greater will be my impatience, and we shall sit down to supper as soon as you return." The African magician, full of hopes of his expected happiness, rather flew than ran, and returned quickly with the wine. The princess, not doubting but he would make haste, put with her own hand the powder Aladdin had given her into the cup set apart for that purpose. They sat down at the table opposite to each other, the magician's back toward the buffet. The princess presented him with the best at the table, and said to him: "If you please, I will entertain you with a concert of vocal and instrumental music; but as we are only two, I think conversation may be more agreeable." This the magician took as a new favour. After they had eaten some time, the princess called for some wine, drank the magician's health, and afterward said to him: "Indeed you had a full right to commend your wine, since I never tasted any so delicious." "Charming princess," said he, holding in his hand the cup which had been presented to him, "my wine becomes more exquisite by your approbation." "Then drink my health," replied the princess: "you will find I understand wines." He drank the princess's health, and returning the cup said; "I think myself fortunate, princess, that I reserved this wine for so happy an occasion; and own I never before drank any in every respect so excellent." When they had each drunk two or three cups more, the princess, who had completely charmed the African magician by her obliging behaviour, gave the signal to the slave who served them with wine, bidding her bring the cup which had been filled for herself, and at the same time bring the magician a full goblet. When they both had their cups in their hands, she said to him: "I know not how you express your loves in these parts when drinking together. With us in China lovers reciprocally exchange cups, and drink each other's health:" at the same time she presented to him the cup which was in her hand, and held out her hand to receive his. He hastened to make the exchange with the more pleasure, because he looked upon this favour as a token of conquest over the princess, which raised his rapture to the highest pitch. Before he drank, he said to her, with the cup in his hand: "Indeed, princess, we Africans are not so refined in the art of love as you Chinese: and your instructing me in a lesson I was ignorant of, informs me how sensible I ought to be of the favour done me. I shall never, lovely princess, forget my recovering, by drinking out of your cup, that life, which your cruelty, had it continued, must have made me despair of."

The princess, who began to be tired with his declarations, interrupted him and said: "Let us drink first, and then say what you will afterward:" at the same time she set the cup to her lips, while the African magician, who was eager to get his wine off first, drank up the very last drop. In finishing it, he leaned his head back to show his eagerness, and remained some time in that state. The princess kept the cup at her lips till she saw his eyes turn in his head, when he fell backward lifeless on the sofa. The princess had no occasion to order the private door to be opened to Aladdin; for her women were so disposed from the great hall to the foot of the staircase, that the word was no sooner given that the magician was fallen, than the door was immediately opened. As soon as Aladdin entered the hall, he saw the magician stretched backward on the sofa. The princess rose from her seat, and ran overjoyed to embrace him; but he stopped her and said: "Princess, it is not yet time; let me be left alone a moment, while I endeavour to transport you back to China as speedily as you were brought from thence." When the princess, her women and eunuchs, were gone out of the hall, Aladdin shut the door, and, going directly to the dead body of the magician, opened his vest, took out the lamp which was carefully wrapped up, as the princess had told him, and unfolding and rubbing it, the genie immediately appeared. "Genie," said Aladdin, "I have called to command thee, on the part of thy good mistress, this lamp, to transport this palace instantly into China, to the place from whence it was brought hither." The genie bowed his head in token of obedience, and disappeared. Immediately the palace was transported into China, and its removal was only felt by two little shocks, the one when it was lifted up, the other when it was set down, and both in a very short interval of time.

From the time of the transportation of Aladdin's palace, the princess's father had been inconsolable for the loss of her. Before the disaster he used to go every morning into his closet to please himself with viewing the palace; he went now many times in the day to renew his tears, and plunge himself into the deepest melancholy, by reflecting how he had lost what was most dear to him in this world.

The very morning of the return to the palace, the sultan went into his closet to indulge his sorrows. Absorbed in himself, and in a pensive mood, he cast his eyes toward the spot, expecting only to see an open space; but perceiving the vacancy filled up, he at first imagined the appearance to be the effect of a fog; looking more attentively, he was convinced beyond the power of doubt that it was his son-in-law's palace. Joy and gladness succeeded to sorrow and grief. He returned immediately into his apartment, and ordered a horse to be saddled and brought to him without delay, which he mounted that instant, thinking he could not make haste enough to the palace.

Aladdin, who foresaw what would happen, rose that morning by daybreak, put on one of the most magnificent habits his wardrobe afforded, and went up into the hall of twenty-four windows, from whence he perceived the sultan approaching, and got down soon enough to receive him at the foot of the great staircase. "Aladdin," said the sultan, "I cannot speak to you till I have seen and embraced my daughter." The happy father was then led to the princess's apartment and embraced her with his face bathed in tears of joy. The sultan was some time before he could open his lips, so great was his surprise and joy to find his daughter again, after he had given her up for lost; and the princess, upon seeing her father, let fall tears of rapture and affection.

At last the sultan broke silence, and said: "I would believe, daughter, your joy to see me makes you seem as little changed as if no misfortune had befallen you; yet I cannot be persuaded but that you have suffered much alarm; for a large palace cannot be so suddenly transported as yours has been, without causing great fright and apprehension. I would have you tell me all that has happened, and conceal nothing from me."

The princess, who took great pleasure in giving the sultan the satisfaction he demanded, said: "If I appear so little altered, I beg of your majesty to consider that I received new life yesterday morning by the presence of my dear husband and deliverer, Aladdin, whom I looked upon and bewailed as lost to me. My greatest suffering was to find myself forced not only from your majesty, but from my dear husband; not only from the love I bore him, but from the uneasiness I laboured under through fear that he, though innocent, might feel the effects of your anger. As to what relates to my transportation, I was myself the innocent cause of it." To persuade the sultan of the truth of what she said, she gave him a full account of how the African magician had disguised himself, and offered to change new lamps for old ones; how she had amused herself in making that exchange; how the palace and herself were carried away and transported into Africa, with the magician, who was recognised by two of her women and the eunuch who made the exchange of the lamp, when he had the audacity, after the success of his daring enterprise, to propose himself for her husband; how he persecuted her till Aladdin's arrival; how they had concerted measures to get the lamp from him again, and the success they had fortunately met with by her dissimulation in inviting him to supper, and giving him the cup with the powder prepared for him. "For the rest," added she, "I leave it to Aladdin to recount."

Aladdin had not much to tell the sultan, but only said: "When the private door was opened I went up into the great hall, where I found the magician lying dead on the sofa; and as I thought it not proper for the princess to stay there any longer, I desired her to go down into her own apartment, with her women and eunuchs. As soon as I was alone, and had taken the lamp out of the magician's breast, I made use of the same secret he had done, to remove the palace, and carry off the princess; and by that means the palace was reconveyed to the place where it stood before; and I have the happiness to restore the princess to your majesty. But that your majesty may not think that I impose upon you, if you will give yourself the trouble to go up into the hall, you may see the magician punished as he deserved."

The sultan rose instantly and went into the hall, where, when he saw the African magician dead, and his face already livid by the strength of the poison, he embraced Aladdin with great tenderness, and said: "My son, be not displeased at my proceedings against you; they arose from my paternal love; and therefore you ought to forgive the excesses to which it hurried me." "Sir," replied Aladdin, "I have not the least reason to complain of your majesty's conduct, since you did nothing but what your duty required. This infamous magician, the basest of men, was the sole cause of my misfortune. When your majesty has leisure, I will give you an account of another villainous action he was guilty of toward me, which was no less black and base than this." "I will take an opportunity, and that very shortly," replied the sultan, "to hear it; but in the meantime let us think only of rejoicing."

The sultan then commanded the drums, trumpets, cymbals, and other instruments of music to announce his joy to the public, and a festival of ten days to be proclaimed for the return of the princess and Aladdin.

Within a few years afterward, the sultan died in a good old age, and as he left no male children, the Princess Badroulboudour, as lawful heir of the throne, succeeded him, and communicating the power to Aladdin, they reigned together many years, and left a numerous and illustrious progeny.



The Story Of Prince Agib


I was a king, and the son of a king; and when my father died, I succeeded to his throne, and governed my subjects with justice and beneficence. I took pleasure in sea-voyages; and my capital was on the shore of an extensive sea, interspersed with fortified and garrisoned islands, which I desired, for my amusement, to visit; I therefore embarked with a fleet of ten ships, and took with me provisions sufficient for a whole month. I proceeded twenty days, after which there arose against us a contrary wind; but at daybreak it ceased, and the sea became calm, and we arrived at an island, where we landed, and cooked some provisions and ate; after which we remained there two days. We then continued our voyage; and when twenty days more had passed, we found ourselves in strange waters, unknown to the captain, and desired the watch to look out from the mast head: so he went aloft, and when he had come down he said to the captain: "I saw, on my right hand, fish floating upon the surface of the water; and looking toward the midst of the sea, I perceived something looming in the distance, sometimes black, and sometimes white."

When the captain heard this report of the watch, he threw his turban on the deck, and plucked his beard, and said to those who were with him: "Receive warning of our destruction, which will befall all of us: not one will escape!" So saying, he began to weep; and all of us in like manner bewailed our lot. I desired him to inform us of that which the watch had seen. "O my lord," he replied, "know that we have wandered from our course since the commencement of the contrary wind that was followed in the morning by a calm, in consequence of which we remained stationary two days: from that period we have deviated from our course for twenty-one days, and we have no wind to carry us back from the fate which awaits us after this day. To-morrow we shall arrive at a mountain of black stone, called loadstone: the current is now bearing us violently toward it, and the ships will fall in pieces, and every nail in them will fly to the mountain, and adhere to it; for God hath given to the loadstone a secret property by virtue of which everything of iron is attracted toward it. On that mountain is such a quantity of iron as no one knoweth but God, whose name be exalted; for from times of old great numbers of ships have been destroyed by the influence of that mountain. There is, upon the summit of the mountain, a cupola of brass supported by ten columns, and upon the top of this is a horseman upon a horse of brass, having in his hand a brazen spear, and upon his breast suspended a tablet of lead, upon which are engraved mysterious names and talismans: and as long, O King, as this horseman remains upon the horse, so long will every ship that approaches be destroyed, with every person on board, and all the iron contained in it will cleave to the mountain: no one will be safe until the horseman shall have fallen from the horse." The captain then wept bitterly; and we felt assured that our destruction was inevitable, and every one of us bade adieu to his friend.

On the following morning we drew near to the mountain; the current carried us toward it with violence, and when the ships were almost close to it, they fell asunder, and all the nails, and everything else that was of iron, flew from them toward the loadstone. It was near the close of day when the ships fell in pieces. Some of us were drowned, and some escaped; but the greater number were drowned, and of those who saved their lives none know what became of the others, so stupefied were they by the waves and the boisterous wind. As for myself, God, whose name be exalted, spared me on account of the trouble and torment and affliction that He had predestined to befall me. I placed myself upon a plank, and the wind and waves cast it upon the mountain; and when I had landed, I found a practicable way to the summit, resembling steps cut in the rock: so I exclaimed: "In the name of God!" and offered up a prayer, and attempted the ascent, holding fast by the notches; and presently God stilled the wind, so that I arrived in safety at the summit. Rejoicing greatly in my escape, I immediately entered the cupola, and performed prayers in gratitude to God for my preservation; after which I slept beneath the cupola, and heard a voice saying to me: "O son of Khasib, when thou awakest, dig beneath thy feet, and thou wilt find a bow of brass, and three arrows of lead, whereon are engraved talismans: then take the bow and arrows and shoot at the horseman that is upon the top of the cupola, and relieve mankind from this great affliction; for when thou hast shot at the horseman he will fall into the sea; the bow will also fall, and do thou bury it in its place; and as soon as thou hast done this, the sea will swell and rise until it attains the summit of the mountain; and there will appear upon it a boat bearing a man, different from him whom thou shalt have cast down, and he will come to thee, having an oar in his hand: then do thou embark with him; but utter not the name of God; and he will convey thee in ten days to a safe sea, where, on thy arrival, thou wilt find one who will take thee to thy city. All this shall be done if thou utter not the name of God."

Awaking from my sleep, I sprang up, and did as the voice had directed. I shot at the horseman, and he fell into the sea; and the bow having fallen from my hand, I buried it: the sea then became troubled, and rose to the summit of the mountain, and when I had stood waiting there a little while, I beheld a boat in the midst of the sea, approaching me. I praised God, whose name be exalted, and when the boat came to me, I found in it a man of brass, with a tablet of lead upon his breast, engraven with names and talismans. Without uttering a word, I embarked in the boat, and the man rowed me ten successive days, after which I beheld the islands of security, whereupon, in the excess of my joy, I exclaimed: "There is no deity but God! God is most great!" -- and as soon as I had done this, the man cast me out of the boat, and sank in the sea.

Being able to swim, I swam until night, when my arms and shoulders were tired, and, in this perilous situation, I repeated the profession of the faith, and gave myself up as lost; but the sea rose with the violence of the wind, and a wave like a vast castle threw me upon the land, in order to the accomplishment of the purpose of God. I ascended the shore, and after I had wrung out my clothes, and spread them upon the ground to dry, I slept; and in the morning I put on my clothes again, and, looking about to see which way I should go, I found a tract covered with trees; and when I had walked round it, I found that I was upon a small island in the midst of the sea; upon which I said within myself: "Every time that I escape from one calamity I fall into another that is worse:" but while I was reflecting upon my unfortunate case, and wishing for death, I beheld a vessel bearing a number of men. I arose immediately, and climbed into a tree; and lo, the vessel came to the shore, and there landed from it ten black slaves bearing axes. They proceeded to the middle of the island, and, digging up the earth, uncovered and lifted up a trap-door, after which they returned to the vessel, and brought from it bread and flour, and clarified butter and honey, and sheep and everything that the wants of an inhabitant would require, continuing to pass backward and forward between the vessel and the trap-door, bringing loads from the former, and entering the latter, until they had removed all the stores from the ship. They then came out of the vessel with various clothes of the most beautiful description, and in the midst of them was an old sheikh, enfeebled and wasted by extreme age, leading by the hand a young man cast in the mould of graceful symmetry, and invested with such perfect beauty as deserved to be a subject for proverbs. He was like a fresh and slender twig, enchanting and captivating every heart by his elegant form. The party proceeded to the trap-door, and, entering it, became concealed from my eyes.

They remained beneath about two hours, or more; after which, the sheikh and the slaves came out; but the youth came not with them; and they replaced the earth, and embarked and set sail. Soon after, I descended from the tree, and went to the excavation. I removed the earth, and, entering the aperture, saw a flight of wooden steps, which I descended; and, at the bottom, I beheld a handsome dwelling-place, furnished with a variety of silken carpets; and there was the youth, sitting upon a high mattress, with sweet-smelling flowers and fruits placed before him. On seeing me, his countenance became pale; but I saluted him, and said: "Let thy mind be composed, O my master: thou hast nothing to fear; for I am a man, and the son of a king, like thyself: fate hath impelled me to thee, that I may cheer thee in thy solitude." The youth, when he heard me thus address him, and was convinced that I was one of his own species, rejoiced exceedingly at my arrival, his colour returned, and, desiring me to approach him, he said: "O my brother, my story is wonderful: my father is a jeweller; he had slaves who made voyages by his orders, for the purposes of commerce, and he had dealings with kings; but he had never been blest with a son; and he dreamt that he was soon to have a son, but one whose life would be short; and he awoke sorrowful. Shortly after, in accordance with the decrees of God, my mother gave birth to me; and my father was greatly rejoiced: the astrologers, however, came to him, and said: Thy son will live fifteen years: his fate is intimated by the fact that there is in the sea a mountain called the Mountain of Loadstone, whereon is a horseman on a horse of brass, on the former of which is a tablet of lead suspended to his neck; and when the horseman shall be thrown down from his horse, thy son will be slain: the person who is to slay him is he who will throw down the horseman, and his name is King Agib, the son of King Khasib. My father was greatly afflicted at this announcement; and when he had reared me until I had nearly attained the age of fifteen years, the astrologers came again, and informed him that the horseman had fallen into the sea, and that it had been thrown down by King Agib, the son of King Khasib; on hearing which, he prepared for me this dwelling, and here left me to remain until the completion of the term, of which there now remain ten days. All this he did from fear lest King Agib should kill me."

And when the boat came to me I found in it a man of brass, with a tablet of lead upon his breast, engraven with names and talismans.

When I heard this, I was filled with wonder, and said within myself: "I am King Agib, the son of King Khasib, and it was I who threw down the horseman; but, by Allah, I will neither kill him nor do him any injury." Then said I to the youth: "Far from thee be both destruction and harm, if it be the will of God: thou hast nothing to fear: I will remain with thee to serve thee, and will go forth with thee to thy father, and beg of him to send me back to my country, for the which he will obtain a reward." The youth rejoiced at my words, and I sat and conversed with him until night, when I spread his bed for him, and covered him, and slept near to his side. And in the morning I brought him water, and he washed his face, and said to me: "May God requite thee for me with every blessing. If I escape from King Agib, I will make my father reward thee with abundant favours." "Never," I replied, "may the day arrive that would bring thee misfortune!" I then placed before him some refreshments, and after we had eaten together, we passed the day conversing with the utmost cheerfulness.

I continued to serve him for nine days; and on the tenth day the youth rejoiced at finding himself in safety, and said to me: "O my brother, I wish that thou wouldst in thy kindness warm for me some water, that I may wash myself and change my clothes; for I have smelt the odour of escape from death, in consequence of thy assistance." "With pleasure," I replied; and I arose, and warmed the water; after which, he entered a place concealed from my view, and, having washed himself and changed his clothes, laid himself upon the mattress to rest after his bath. He then said to me: "Cut up for me, O my brother, a water-melon, and mix its juice with some sugar:" so I arose, and, taking a melon, brought it upon a plate, and said to him; "Knowest thou, O my master, where is the knife?" "See, here it is," he answered, "upon the shelf over my head." I sprang up hastily, and took it from its sheath, and as I was drawing back, my foot slipped, as God had decreed, and I fell upon the youth, grasping in my hand the knife, which entered his body, and he died instantly. When I perceived that he was dead, and that I had killed him, I uttered a loud shriek, and beat my face, and rent my clothes: saying: "This is, indeed, a calamity! O my Lord, I implore thy pardon, and declare to Thee my innocence of his death! Would that I had died before him!"

With these reflections I ascended the steps, and, having replaced the trap-door, returned to my first station, and looked over the sea, where I saw the vessel that had come before, approaching, and cleaving the waves in its rapid course. Upon this I said within myself: "Now will the men come forth from the vessel, and find the youth slain, and they will slay me also:" so I climbed into a tree, and concealed myself among its leaves, and sat there till the vessel arrived and cast anchor, when the slaves landed with the old sheikh, the father of the youth, and went to the place, and removed the earth. They were surprised at finding it moist, and, when they had descended the steps, they discovered the youth lying on his back, exhibiting a face beaming with beauty, though dead, and clad in white and clean clothing, with the knife remaining in his body. They all wept at the sight, and the father fell down in a swoon, which lasted so long that the slaves thought he was dead. At length, however, he recovered, and came out with the slaves, who had wrapped the body of the youth in his clothes. They then took back all that was in the subterranean dwelling to the vessel, and departed.

I remained, by day hiding myself in a tree, and at night walking about the open part of the island. Thus I continued for the space of two months; and I perceived that, on the western side of the island, the water of the sea every day retired, until, after three months, the land that had been beneath it became dry. Rejoicing at this, and feeling confident now in my escape, I traversed this dry tract, and arrived at an expanse of sand; whereupon I emboldened myself, and crossed it. I then saw in the distance an appearance of fire, and, advancing toward it, found it to be a palace, overlaid with plates of red copper, which, reflecting the rays of the sun, seemed from a distance to be fire: and when I drew near to it, reflecting upon this sight, there approached me an old sheikh, accompanied by ten young men who were all blind of one eye, at which I was extremely surprised. As soon as they saw me, they saluted me, and asked me my story, which I related to them from first to last; and they were filled with wonder. They then conducted me into the palace, where I saw ten benches, upon each of which was a mattress covered with a blue stuff; and each of the young men seated himself upon one of these benches, while the sheikh took his place upon a smaller one; after which they said to me: "Sit down, O young man, and ask no question respecting our condition, nor respecting our being blind of one eye." Then the sheikh arose, and brought to each of them some food, and the same to me also; and next he brought to each of us some wine: and after we had eaten, we sat drinking together until the time for sleep, when the young men said to the sheikh: "Bring to us our accustomed supply" -- upon which the sheikh arose, and entered a closet, from which he brought, upon his head, ten covered trays. Placing these upon the floor, he lighted ten candles, and stuck one of them upon each tray; and, having done this, he removed the covers, and there appeared beneath them ashes mixed with pounded charcoal. The young men then tucked up their sleeves above the elbow, and blackened their faces, and slapped their cheeks, exclaiming: "We were reposing at our ease, and our impertinent curiosity suffered us not to remain so!" Thus they did until the morning, when the sheikh brought them some hot water, and they washed their faces, and put on other clothes.

On witnessing this conduct, my reason was confounded, my heart was so troubled that I forgot my own misfortunes, and I asked them the cause of their strange behaviour; upon which they looked toward me, and said: "O young man, ask not respecting that which doth not concern thee; but be silent; for in silence is security from error." I remained with them a whole month, during which, every night they did the same, and at length I said to them: "I conjure you by Allah to remove this disquiet from my mind, and to inform me of the cause of your acting in this manner, and of your exclaiming; 'We were reposing at our ease, and our impertinent curiosity suffered us not to remain so!' if ye inform me not, I will leave you, and go my way." On hearing these words, they replied: "We have not concealed this affair from thee but in our concern for thy welfare, lest thou shouldst become like us, and the same affliction that hath befallen us happen also to thee." I said, however: "Ye must positively inform me of this matter." "We give thee good advice," said they, "and do thou receive it, and ask us not respecting our case; otherwise thou wilt become blind of one eye, like us" -- but I still persisted in my request; whereupon they said: "O young man, if this befall thee, know that thou wilt be banished from our company." They then all arose, and, taking a ram, slaughtered and skinned it, and said to me: "Take this knife with thee, and introduce thyself into the skin of the ram, and we will sew thee up in it, and go away; whereupon a bird called the roc will come to thee, and, taking thee up by its talons, will fly away with thee, and set thee down upon a mountain: then cut open the skin with this knife, and get out, and the bird will fly away. Thou must arise, as soon as it hath gone, and journey for half a day, and thou wilt see before thee a lofty palace, encased with red gold, set with various precious stones such as emeralds and rubies; and if thou enter it thy case will be as ours; for our entrance into that palace was the cause of our being blind of one eye; and if one of us would relate to thee all that hath befallen him, his story would be too long for thee to hear."

They then sewed me up in the skin, and entered their palace; and soon after, there came an enormous white bird, which seized me, and flew away with me, and set me down upon the mountain; whereupon I cut open the skin, and got out; and the bird, as soon as it saw me, flew away. I rose up quickly, and proceeded toward the palace, which I found to be as they had described it to me; and when I had entered it, I beheld, at the upper end of a saloon, forty young damsels, beautiful as so many moons, and magnificently attired, who, as soon as they saw me, exclaimed: "Welcome! Welcome! O our master and our lord! We have been for a month expecting thee. Praise be to God who hath blessed us with one who is worthy of us, and one of whom we are worthy!" After having thus greeted me, they seated me upon a mattress, and said; "Thou art from this day our master and prince, and we are thy handmaids, and entirely under thy authority." They then brought to me some refreshments, and, when I had eaten and drunk, they sat and conversed with me, full of joy and happiness. So lovely were these ladies, that even a devotee, if he saw them, would gladly consent to be their servant, and to comply with all that they would desire. At the approach of night they all assembled around me, and placed before me a table of fresh and dried fruits, with other delicacies that the tongue cannot describe, and wine; and one began to sing, while another played upon the lute. The wine-cups circulated among us, and joy overcame me to such a degree as to obliterate from my mind every earthly care, and make me exclaim: "This is indeed a delightful life!" I passed a night of such enjoyment as I had never before experienced; and on the morrow I entered the bath; and, after I had washed myself, they brought me a suit of the richest clothing, and we again sat down to a repast.

In this manner I lived with them a whole year; but on the first day of the new year, they seated themselves around me, and began to weep, and bade me farewell, clinging to my skirts. "What calamity hath befallen you?" said I. "Ye are breaking my heart." They answered: "Would that we had never known thee; for we have associated with many men, but have seen none like thee. May God, therefore, not deprive us of thy company." And they wept afresh. I said to them: "I wish that you would acquaint me with the cause of this weeping." "Thou," they replied, "art the cause; yet now, if thou wilt attend to what we tell thee, we shall never be parted; but if thou act contrary to it, we are separated from this time; and our hearts whisper to us that thou wilt not regard our warning." "Inform me," said I, "and I will attend to your directions." And they replied: "If then thou wouldst inquire respecting our history, know that we are the daughters of kings: for many years it hath been our custom to assemble here, and every year we absent ourselves during a period of forty days; then returning, we indulge ourselves for a year in feasting and drinking. This is our usual practice; and now we fear that thou wilt disregard our directions when we are absent from thee. We deliver to thee the keys of the palace, which are a hundred in number, belonging to a hundred closets. Open each of these, and amuse thyself, and eat and drink, and refresh thyself, excepting the closet that hath a door of red gold; for if thou open this, the consequence will be a separation between us and thee. We conjure thee, therefore, to observe our direction, and to be patient during this period." Upon hearing this, I swore to them that I would never open the closet to which they alluded; and they departed, urging me to be faithful to my promise.

I remained alone in the palace, and at the approach of evening I opened the first closet, and, entering it, found a mansion like paradise, with a garden containing green trees loaded with ripe fruits, abounding with singing birds, and watered by copious streams. My heart was soothed by the sight, and I wandered among the trees, scenting the fragrance of the flowers, and listening to the warbling of the birds as they sang the praises of the One, the Almighty. After admiring the mingled colours of the apple resembling the hue upon the cheek of the beloved maid and the sallow countenance of the perplexed and timid lover, the sweet-smelling quince diffusing an odour like musk and ambergris, and the plum shining as the ruby, I retired from this place, and, having locked the door, opened that of the next closet, within which I beheld a spacious tract planted with numerous palm-trees, and watered by a river flowing among rose-trees, and jasmine, and marjoram, and eglantine, and narcissus, and gilliflower, the odours of which, diffused in every direction by the wind, inspired me with the utmost delight. I locked again the door of the second closet, and opened that of the third. Within this I found a large saloon, paved with marbles of various colours, and with costly minerals and precious gems, and containing cages constructed of sandal and aloes-wood with singing birds within them, and others upon the branches of trees which were planted there. My heart was charmed, my trouble was dissipated, and I slept there until the morning. I then opened the door of the fourth closet, and within this door I found a great building in which were forty closets with open doors; and entering these, I beheld pearls, and rubies, and chrysolites, and emeralds, and other precious jewels such as the tongue cannot describe. I was astonished at the sight, and said: "Such things as these, I imagine, are not found in the treasury of any king. I am now the King of my age, and all these treasures, through the goodness of God, are mine."

At the approach of evening I opened the first closet and, entering it, found a mansion like paradise.

Thus I continued to amuse myself, passing from one place to another, until thirty-nine days had elapsed, and I had opened the doors of all the closets excepting that which they had forbidden me to open. My heart was then disturbed by curiosity respecting this hundredth closet, and the Devil, in order to plunge me into misery, induced me to open it. I had not patience to abstain, though there remained of the appointed period only one day: so I approached the closet, and opened the door; and when I had entered, I perceived a fragrant odour, such as I had never before smelt, which intoxicated me so that I fell down insensible, and remained some time in this state: but at length recovering, I fortified my heart, and proceeded. I found the floor overspread with saffron, and the place illuminated by golden lamps and by candles, which diffused the odours of musk and ambergris. I saw also a black horse, of the hue of the darkest night, before which was a manger of white crystal filled with cleansed sesame, and another, similar to it, containing rose-water infused with musk: he was saddled and bridled, and his saddle was of red gold. Wondering at the sight of him, I said within myself: "This must be an animal of extraordinary qualities;" and, seduced by the Devil, I led him out, and mounted him; but he moved not from his place. I kicked him with my heel; but still he moved not: so I took a switch and struck him with it; and as soon as he felt the blow he uttered a sound like thunder, and, expanding a pair of wings, soared with me to an immense height through the air, and then alighted upon the roof of another palace, where he threw me from his back, and, by a violent blow with his tail upon my face, struck out my eye, and left me.

Thus it was I became blind of one eye. I then recollected the predictions of the ten young men. The horse again took wing, and soon disappeared. I got up much vexed at the misfortune I had brought upon myself. I walked upon the terrace, covering my eye with one of my hands, for it pained me exceedingly, and then descended, and entered into a hall. I soon discovered by the ten benches in a circle, and the eleventh in the middle, smaller than the rest, that I was in the castle whence I had been carried by the roc.

The ten young men were not in the hall when I entered; but came in soon after, attended by the sheikh. They seemed not at all surprised to see me, nor at the loss of my eye; but said: "We are sorry that we cannot congratulate you on your return, as we could wish; but we are not the cause of your misfortune." "I should do you wrong," I replied, "to lay it to your charge; I have only myself to accuse." "If," said they, "it be a subject of consolation to the afflicted to know that others share their sufferings, you have in us this alleviation of your misfortune. All that has happened to you we have also endured; we each of us tasted the same pleasures during a year; and we had still continued to enjoy them, had we not opened the golden door, when the princesses were absent. You have been no wiser than we, and have incurred the same punishment. We would gladly receive you into our company, to join with us in the penance to which we are bound, and the duration of which we know not. But we have already stated to you the reasons that render this impossible: depart, therefore, and proceed to the court of Bagdad, where you will meet with the person who is to decide your destiny." After they had explained to me the road I was to travel, I departed from them, with mournful heart and weeping eye, and, God having decreed me a safe journey hither, I arrived at Bagdad, after I had shaved my beard, and become a mendicant. Praise be to God, whose name be exalted, and whose purposes concerning me are as yet hid in darkness.



The Story Of The City Of Brass


There was, in olden time, in Damascus of Syria, a king, named Abd-El-Melik the son of Marwan; and he was sitting, one day, having with him the great men of his empire, consisting of kings and sultans, when a discussion took place among them, respecting the traditions of former nations. They called to mind the stories of Solomon, son of David, and the dominion which God had bestowed upon him over mankind, and the genies, and the birds, and the wild beasts, and they said: "We have heard from those who were before us, that God bestowed not upon any one the power which He bestowed upon Solomon, so that he used to imprison the genies and the devils in bottles of brass, and pour molten lead over them, and seal a cover over them with his signet."

Then Talib, one of the sultans, related, that a man once embarked in a ship with a company of others, and they voyaged to the island of Sicily and ceased not in their course until there arose against them a wind which bore them away to an unknown land. This happened during the black darkness of night, and when the day shone forth, there came out to them, from caves in that land, people of black complexion and with naked bodies, like wild beasts, not understanding speech. They had a king of their own race, and none of them knew Arabic save their king. So when they saw the ship and those who were in her, he came forth to them attended by a party of his companions, and saluted them and welcomed them: They acquainted him with their state; and he said to them, "No harm shall befall you; there hath not come to us any one of the sons of Adam before you." And he entertained them with a banquet of the flesh of birds and of wild beasts and of fish. And after this, the people of the ship went down to divert themselves in the city, and they found one of the fishermen who had cast his net in the sea to catch fish, and he drew it up, and, lo, in it was a bottle of brass stopped with lead, which was sealed with the signet of Solomon the son of David. And the fisherman came forth and broke it; whereupon there proceeded from it a blue smoke, which united with the clouds of heaven; and they heard a horrible voice, saying: "Repentance! repentance! O Prophet of God!" Then, of that smoke there was formed a person of terrible aspect, of terrific make, whose head would reach as high as a mountain; and he disappeared from before their eyes. As to the people of the ship, their hearts were almost eradicated; but the blacks thought nothing of the event. And a man returned to the king, and asked him respecting this; and the king answered him: "Know that this is one of the genies whom Solomon, the son of David, when he was incensed against them, imprisoned in these bottles, and he poured lead over them, and threw them into the sea. When the fisherman casteth his net, it generally bringeth up these bottles; and when they are broken, there cometh forth from them a genie, who imagineth that Solomon is still living; wherefore he repenteth, and saith: 'Repentance! O Prophet of God!'"

And the Prince of the Faithful, Abd-El-Melik, wondered at these words, and said: "By Allah, I desire to see some of these bottles!" So Talib replied: "O Prince of the Faithful, thou art able to do so, and yet remain in thy country. Send to thy brother Abd-El-Azeez, that he may write orders to the Emeer Moosa to journey from the Western Country to this mountain which we have mentioned, and to bring thee what thou desirest of these bottles; for the furthest tract of his province is adjacent to this mountain." And the Prince of the Faithful approved of his advice, and said: "O Talib, thou hast spoken truth and I desire that thou be my messenger to Moosa for this purpose." To this, Talib replied: "Most willingly, O Prince of the Faithful." And the king said to him: "Go in dependence on the blessing of God, and his aid." Then he gave orders that they should write for him a letter to his brother Abd-El-Azeez, his viceroy in Egypt, and another letter to Moosa, his viceroy in the Western Country, commanding him to journey, himself, in search of the bottles of Solomon. He sealed the two letters, and delivered them to Talib, commanding him to hasten, and he gave him riches and riders and footmen to aid him in his way.

So Talib went forth on his way to Egypt, and when the Emeer Moosa knew of his approach, he went forth to him and met him, and rejoiced at his arrival; and Talib handed to him the letter. So he took it and read it, and understood its meaning; and he put it upon his head, saying: "I hear and obey the command of the Prince of the Faithful." He determined to summon his great men; and they presented themselves; and he inquired of them respecting that which had been made known to him by the letter; whereupon they said: "O Emeer, if thou desire him who will guide thee to that place, have recourse to the Sheikh Abd-Es-Samad; for he is a knowing man, and hath travelled much, and he is acquainted with the deserts and wastes and the seas, and their inhabitants and their wonders, and the countries and their districts. Have recourse therefore to him, and he will direct thee to the object of thy desire." Accordingly he gave orders to bring him, and he came before him; and, lo, he was a very old man, whom the vicissitudes of years and times had rendered decrepit. The Emeer Moosa saluted him, and said to him: "O Sheikh Abd-Es-Samad, our lord, the Prince of the Faithful, hath commanded us thus and thus, and I possess little knowledge of that land, and it hath been told me that thou art acquainted with that country and the routes. Hast thou then a wish to accomplish the affair of the Prince of the Faithful?" The sheikh replied: "Know, O Emeer, that this route is difficult, far extending, with few tracks." The emeer said to him: "How long a period doth it require?" He answered: "It is a journey of two years and some months going, and the like returning; and on the way are difficulties and horrors, and extraordinary and wonderful things. But," he said, "God will assuredly make this affair easy to us through the blessing attendant upon thee, O Viceroy of the Prince of the Faithful."

After this they departed, and they continued their journey until they arrived at a palace; whereupon the sheikh said: "Advance with us to this palace, which presenteth a lesson to him who will be admonished." So the Emeer Moosa advanced thither, together with the Sheikh Abd-Es-Samad and his chief companions, till they came to its entrance. And they found it open, and having lofty angles, and steps, among which were two wide steps of coloured marbles, the like of which hath not been seen: the ceilings and walls were decorated with gold and silver and minerals, and over the entrance was a slab, whereon was an inscription in ancient Greek; and the Sheikh Abd-Es-Samad said: "Shall I read it, O Emeer?" The emeer answered; "Advance and read." So he read it; and, lo, it was poetry; and it was this:

Here was a people whom, after their works, thou shalt see wept over for their lost dominion; And in this palace is the last information respecting lords collected in the dust.

Death hath destroyed them and disunited them, and in the dust they have lost what they amassed; As though they had only put down their loads to rest a while: quickly have they departed!

And the Emeer Moosa wept and said: "There is no deity but God, the Living, the Enduring without failure!"

Then they attentively viewed the palace; and, lo, it was devoid of inhabitants, destitute of household and occupants: its courts were desolate, and its apartments were deserted; and in the midst of it was a chamber covered with a lofty dome, rising high into the air, around which were four hundred tombs.

And the Emeer Moosa drew near to the dome-crowned chamber, and, lo, it had eight doors of sandalwood, with nails of gold, ornamented with stars of silver set with various jewels, and he beheld in it a long tomb, of terrible appearance, whereon was a tablet of iron of China; and the Sheikh Abd-Es-Samad drew near to it, and read its inscription; and, lo, on it was written:

Shouldst thou think upon me after the length of my age, and the vicissitudes of days and circumstances, I am the son of Sheddad, who held dominion over mankind and each tract of the whole earth. All the stubborn troops became abject unto me, and Esh-Sham from Misr unto Adnan. In glory I reigned, abasing their kings, the people of the earth fearing my dominion; And I beheld the tribes and armies in my power, and saw the countries and their inhabitants dread me. When I mounted, I beheld my army comprising a million bridles upon neighing steeds; And I possessed wealth that could not be calculated, which I treasured up against misfortunes, Determining to devote the whole of my property for the purpose of extending the term of my life.

But the Deity would nought save the execution of his purpose; and thus I became separated from my brethren. Death, the disuniter of mankind, came to me, and I was removed from grandeur to the mansion of contempt; And I found the recompense of all my past actions, for which I am pledged: for I was sinful! Then raise thyself, lest thou be upon a brink; and beware of calamities! Mayest thou be led aright!

And again the Emeer Moosa wept, in considering the fates of the people; after which, as they were going about through the different apartments of the palace, and viewing attentively its chambers and its places of diversion, they came to a table upon four legs of alabaster, whereon was inscribed:

Upon this table have eaten a thousand one-eyed kings, and a thousand kings each sound in both eyes. All of them have quitted the world, and taken up their abode in the burial-grounds and the graves.

And the Emeer Moosa wrote down all this. Then he went forth, and took not with him from the palace aught save the table.

The soldiers proceeded, with the Sheikh Abd-Es-Samad before them shewing them the way, until all the first day had passed, and the second, and the third. They then came to a high hill, at which they looked, and, lo, upon it was a horseman of brass, on the top of whose spear was a wide and glistening head that almost deprived the beholder of sight, and on it was inscribed:

O thou who comest unto me, if thou know not the way that leadeth to the City of Brass, rub the hand of the horseman, and he will turn, and then will stop, and in whatsoever direction he stoppeth, thither proceed, without fear and without difficulty; for it will lead thee to the City of Brass.

And when the Emeer Moosa had rubbed the hand of the horseman, it turned like the blinding lightning, and faced a different direction from that in which they were travelling.

The party therefore turned thither and journeyed on, and it was the right way. They took that route, and continued their course the same day and the next night until they had traversed a wide tract of country. And as they were proceeding, one day, they came to a pillar of black stone, wherein was a person sunk to his arm-pits, and he had two huge wings, and four arms; two of them like those of the sons of Adam, and two like the fore-legs of lions, with claws. He had hair upon his head like the tails of horses, and two eyes like two burning coals, and he had a third eye, in his forehead, like the eye of the lynx, from which there appeared sparks of fire. He was black and tall; and he was crying out: "Extolled be the perfection of my Lord, who hath appointed me this severe affliction and painful torture until the day of resurrection!" When the party beheld him, their reason fled from them, and they were stupefied at the sight of his form, and retreated in flight; and the Emeer Moosa said to the Sheikh Abd-Es-Samad: "What is this?" He answered: "I know not what he is." And the emeer said: "Draw near to him, and investigate his case: perhaps he will discover it, and perhaps thou wilt learn his history." So the Sheikh Abd-Es-Samad drew near to him, and said to him: "O thou person, what is thy name, and what is thy nature, and what hath placed thee here in this manner?" And the person answered him: "As to me, I am an efreet of the genies, and my name is Dahish, and I am restrained here by the majesty of God." Then the Emeer Moosa said: "O Sheikh Abd-Es-Samad, ask him what is the cause of his confinement in this pillar." He therefore asked respecting that, and the efreet answered him: "Verily my story is wonderful; and it is this:

"There belonged to one of the sons of Iblees an idol of red carnelian, of which I was made guardian; and there used to worship it one of the Kings of the Sea, of great glory, leading, among his troops of the genies, a million warriors who smote with swords before him, and who answered his prayer in cases of difficulty. These genies who obeyed him were under my command and authority, following my words when I ordered them: all of them were in rebellion against Solomon, the son of David; and I used to enter the body of the idol, and command them and forbid them. Now the daughter of that king was a frequent adorer of the idol, assiduous in the worship of it, and she was the handsomest of the people of her age, endowed with beauty and loveliness, and elegance and perfection; and I described her to Solomon, on whom be peace! So he sent to her father, saying to him: 'Marry to me thy daughter, and break thy carnelian-idol, and bear witness that there is no deity but God, and that Solomon is the Prophet of God. But if thou refuse, I will come to thee with forces that shall leave thee like yesterday that hath passed.' And when the messenger of Solomon came to him, the King of the Sea was insolent, and magnified himself and was proud. Then he said to his viziers: 'What say ye respecting the affair of Solomon? For he hath sent demanding my daughter, and commanding me to break my carnelian-idol, and to adopt his faith.' And they replied: 'O great King, can Solomon do aught unto thee, when thou art in the midst of this vast sea? He cannot prevail against thee; since the genies will fight on thy side; and thou shalt seek aid against him of thine idol that thou worshippest. The right opinion is, that thou consult thy red carnelian-idol, and hear what will be his reply: if he counsel thee to fight him, fight him; but otherwise, do not.' And upon this the king went immediately, and, going in to his idol, after he had offered a sacrifice and slain victims, fell down before it prostrate, and began to weep, and to seek counsel.

"Thereupon I entered the body of the idol, by reason of my ignorance, and my solicitude respecting the affair of Solomon, and recited this couplet:

'As for me, I am not in fear of him; for I am acquainted with everything. If he wish to wage war with me, I will go forth, and I will snatch his soul from him.'

So when the king heard my reply to him, his heart was strengthened, and he determined to wage war with Solomon the Prophet of God and to fight against him. Accordingly, when the messenger of Solomon came, he inflicted upon him a painful beating, and returned him a shameful reply; and he sent to threaten Solomon, saying to him, by the messenger: 'Dost thou threaten me with false words? Either come thou to me, or I will go to thee.'

"Then the messenger returned to Solomon, and acquainted him with all that had occurred. And when the Prophet of God heard that, his resolution was roused, and he prepared his forces, consisting of genies and men, and wild beasts, and birds and reptiles. He commanded his vizier, Ed-Dimiryat, the king of the genies, to collect them from every place: so he collected for him, of the devils, six hundred millions. He also commanded Asaf, his vizier of men, to collect his soldiers of mankind; and their number was one million, or more. He made ready the accoutrements and weapons, and mounted, with his forces, upon the magic carpet, with the birds flying over his head, and the wild beasts beneath the carpet marching, until he alighted upon his enemy's coast, and surrounded his island, having filled the land with the forces. He then sent to our king, saying to him: 'Behold, I have arrived: therefore submit thyself to my authority, and acknowledge my mission, and break thine idol, and worship the One, the Adored God, and marry to me thy daughter according to law, and say thou, and those who are with thee, I testify that there is no deity but God, and I testify that Solomon is the Prophet of God. If thou say that, peace and safety shall be thy lot. But if thou refuse, thy defending thyself from me in this island shall not prevent thee: for God hath commanded the wind to obey me, and I will order it to convey me unto thee on the carpet, and will make thee an example to restrain others.' So the messenger came to him, and communicated to him the message of the Prophet! But the king said to him: 'There is no way for the accomplishment of this thing that he requireth: therefore inform him that I am coming forth unto him.' Accordingly the messenger returned to Solomon, and gave him the reply. The king then sent to the people of his country, and collected for himself, of the genies that were under his authority, a million; and to these he added others, of the devils that were in the islands and on the mountains; after which he made ready his forces, and opened the armouries, and distributed to them the weapons. And as to the Prophet of God, he disposed his troops, commanding the wild beasts to form themselves into two divisions, on the right of the people and on their left, and commanding the birds to be upon the islands. He ordered them also when the assault should be made, to tear out the eyes of their antagonists with their beaks, and to beat their faces with their wings; and he ordered the wild beasts to tear in pieces their horses; and they replied: 'We hear and obey God and thee, O Prophet of God!' Then Solomon set for himself a couch of alabaster adorned with jewels, and plated with plates of red gold, and he placed his vizier Asaf on the right side, and his vizier, Ed-Dimiryat, on the left side, and the kings of mankind on his right, and the kings of the genies on his left, and the wild beasts and the vipers and serpents before him.

"After this, they came upon us all together, and we contended with him in a wide tract for a period of two days; and calamity befell us on the third day, and the decree of God was executed among us. The first who charged upon Solomon were I and my troops; and I said to my companions: 'Keep in your places in the battle-field while I go forth to them and challenge Ed-Dimiryat.' And, lo, he came forth, like a great mountain, his fires flaming, and his smoke ascending; and he approached, and smote me with a flaming fire; and his arrow prevailed over my fire. He cried out at me with a prodigious cry, so that I imagined the heaven had fallen, and the mountains shook at his voice. Then he commanded his companions, and they charged upon us all together: we also charged upon them: the fires rose and the smoke ascended, the hearts of the combatants were almost cleft asunder, and the battle raged. The birds fought in the air; and the wild beasts in the dust; and I contended with Ed-Dimiryat until he wearied me and I wearied him; after which my companions and troops were enervated, and my tribes were routed. I flew from before Ed-Dimiryat; but he followed me a journey of three months, until he overtook me. I had fallen down through fatigue, and he rushed upon me, and made me a prisoner. So I said to him: 'By Him who hath exalted thee and abased me, pity me, and take me before Solomon.' But when I came before Solomon, he met me in a most evil manner: he caused this pillar to be brought, and hollowed it, and put me in it, and sealed me with his signet; after which, he chained me, and Ed-Dimiryat conveyed me to this place, where he set me down as thou seest me; and this pillar is my prison until the day of resurrection."

The party therefore wondered at him, and at the horrible nature of his form; and the Emeer Moosa said: "There is no deity but God!" And the Sheikh Abd-Es-Samad said to the efreet: "O thou, I ask thee concerning a thing of which do thou inform us." The efreet replied: "Ask concerning what thou wilt." And the sheikh said: "Are there in this place any of the efreets confined in bottles of brass from the time of Solomon?" He answered: "Yes, in the Sea of El-Karkar, where are a people of the descendants of Noah, whose country the deluge reached not, and they are separated there from the rest of the sons of Adam." "And where," said the sheikh, "is the way to the City of Brass, and the place wherein are the bottles? What distance is there between us and it?" The efreet answered: "It is near." So the party left him, and proceeded; and there appeared to them in the distance a great black object, with two fires corresponding with each other in position; whereupon the Emeer Moosa said to the sheikh: "What is this great black object, and these two corresponding fires?" The guide answered him: "Be rejoiced, O Emeer; for this is the City of Brass, and this is the appearance of it that I find described in the Book of Hidden Treasures; that its wall is of black stones, and it hath two towers of brass, which the beholder seeth resembling two corresponding fires; and thence it is named the City of Brass." They ceased not to proceed until they arrived at it; and, lo, it was lofty, strongly fortified, rising high into the air, impenetrable: the height of its walls was eighty cubits, and it had five and twenty gates, none of which would open but by means of some artifice. They stopped before it, and endeavoured to discover one of its gates; but they could not; and the Emeer Moosa said to the Sheikh Abd-Es-Samad: "O sheikh, I see not to this city any gate." The sheikh replied: "O Emeer, thus do I find it described in the Book of Hidden Treasures; that it hath five and twenty gates, and that none of its gates may be opened but from within the city." "And how," said the emeer, "can we contrive to enter it, and divert ourselves with a view of its wonders?"

Then the Emeer Moosa ordered one of his young men to mount a camel, and ride round the city, in the hope that he might discover a trace of a gate. So one of his young men mounted, and proceeded around it for two days with their nights, prosecuting his journey with diligence, and not resting; and when the third day arrived, he came in sight of his companions, and he was astounded at that which he beheld of the extent of the city, and its height. Then he said: "O Emeer, the easiest place in it is this place at which ye have alighted." And thereupon the Emeer Moosa took Talib and the Sheikh Abd-Es-Samad, and they ascended a mountain opposite the city, and overlooking it; and when they had ascended that mountain, they saw a city than which eyes had not beheld any greater. Its pavilions were lofty, and its domes were shining; its rivers were running, its trees were fruitful, and its gardens bore ripe produce. It was a city with impenetrable gates, empty, still, without a voice but the owl hooting in its quarters, and the raven croaking in its thoroughfare-streets, and bewailing those who had been in it.

And the Emeer Moosa fainted with sorrow; his tears ran down upon his cheeks, and he said: "By Allah, indifference to the world is the most appropriate and the most sure course!"

And when they came back to the troops, they passed the day devising means of entering the city; and the Emeer Moosa said to those of his chief officers who were around him: "How shall we contrive to enter the city, that we may see its wonders? Perhaps we shall find in it something by which we may ingratiate ourselves with the Prince of the Faithful." Talib replied: "Let us make a ladder, and mount upon it, and perhaps we shall gain access to the gate from within." And the emeer said: "This is what occurred to my mind, and excellent is the advice." Then he called to the carpenters and blacksmiths, and ordered them to make straight some pieces of wood, and to construct a ladder covered with plates of iron. And they did so, and made it strong. They employed themselves in constructing it a whole month, and many men were occupied in making it. And they set it up and fixed it against the wall, and it proved to be equal to the wall in height, as though it had been made for it before that day. So the Emeer Moosa wondered at it, and said: "God bless you! It seemeth, from the excellence of your work, as though ye had adapted it by measurement to the wall." He then said to the people: "Which of you will ascend this ladder, and mount upon the wall, and walk along it, and contrive means of descending into the city, that he may see how the case is, and then inform us of the mode of opening the gate?" And one of them answered: "I will ascend it, O Emeer, and descend and open the gate." The emeer therefore replied: "Mount. God bless thee!" Accordingly, the man ascended the ladder until he reached the top of it; when he stood, and fixed his eyes toward the city, clapped his hands, and cried out with his loudest voice, saying: "Thou art beautiful!" Then he cast himself down into the city, and was destroyed. So the Emeer Moosa said: "If we do thus with all our companions, there will not remain of them one; and we shall be unable to accomplish our affair, and the affair of the Prince of the Faithful. Depart ye; for we have no concern with this city." But one of them said: "Perhaps another than this may be more steady than he." And a second ascended, and a third, and a fourth, and a fifth; and they ceased not to ascend by that ladder to the top of the wall, one after another, until twelve men of them had gone, acting as acted the first. Therefore the Sheikh Abd-Es-Samad said: "There is none for this affair but myself, and the experienced is not like the inexperienced." But the Emeer Moosa said to him: "Thou shalt not do that, nor will I allow thee to ascend to the top of this wall; for shouldst thou die, thou wouldst be the cause of the death of us all, and there would not remain of us one; since thou art the guide of the party." The sheikh, however, replied: "Perhaps the object will be accomplished by my means, through the will of God, whose name be exalted!" And thereupon all the people agreed to his ascending.

And when they had ascended that mountain they saw a city than which eyes had not beheld any greater.

Then Abd-Es-Samad arose, and, having said: "In the name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful!" -- he ascended the ladder, repeating the praises of God, and reciting the Verses of Safety, until he reached the top of the wall; when he clapped his hands, and fixed his eyes. The people therefore all called out to him, and said: "O Sheikh Abd-Es-Samad, do not cast thyself down! If Abd-Es-Samad fall, we all perish!" Then Abd-Es-Samad sat a long time repeating the praises of God, and reciting the Verses of Safety; after which he rose with energy, and called out with his loudest voice: "O Emeer, no harm shall befall you; for God hath averted from me the effect of the artifice of the Devil." So the emeer said to him: "What hast thou seen, O Sheikh?" He answered: "When I reached the top of the wall I beheld ten damsels, like moons, who made a sign with their hands, as though they would say: 'Come to us!' And it seemed to me that beneath me was a sea of water; whereupon I desired to cast myself down, as our companions did: but I beheld them dead; so I withheld myself from them, and recited some words of the book of God, whereupon He averted from me the influence of those damsels, and they departed; therefore I cast not myself down. There is no doubt that this is an enchantment which the people of this city contrived in order to repel from it every one who should wish to obtain access to it."

He then walked along the wall till he came to the two towers of brass, when he saw that they had gates of gold, without any sign of the means of opening them. Therefore the sheikh, looking attentively, saw in the middle of one of the gates a figure of a horseman of brass, having one hand extended, as though he were pointing with it, and on it was an inscription, which the sheikh read, and, lo, it contained these words:

Turn the pin that is in the middle of the front of the horseman's body twelve times, and then the gate will open.

So he turned the pin twelve times; whereupon the gate opened immediately, with a noise like thunder; and the sheikh entered. He was a learned man, acquainted with all languages and characters. And he walked on until he entered a long passage, whence he descended some steps, and he found a place with handsome wooden benches, on which were people dead, and over their heads were elegant shields, and keen swords, and strung bows, and notched arrows. And behind the next gate were a bar of iron, and barricades of wood, and locks of delicate fabric, and strong apparatus. Upon this, the sheikh said within himself: "Perhaps the keys are with these people." Then he looked, and, lo, there was a sheikh who appeared to be the oldest of them, and he was upon a high wooden bench among the dead men. So Abd-Es-Samad said: "May not the keys of the city be with this sheikh! Perhaps he was the gate-keeper of the city, and these were under his authority." He therefore drew near to him, and lifted up his garments, and, lo, the keys were hung to his waist. At the sight of them, Abd-Es-Samad rejoiced exceedingly; and he took the keys, opened the locks, and pulled the gate and the barricades and other apparatus, which opened and the gate also opened, with a noise like thunder. Upon this the sheikh exclaimed: "God is most great!" and the people made the same exclamation with him, rejoicing at the event. The Emeer Moosa also rejoiced at the safety of Abd-Es-Samad, and at the opening of the gate of the city; the people thanked him for that which he had done, and all the troops hastened to enter the gate. But the Emeer Moosa cried out to them, saying to them: "O people, if all of us enter, we shall not be secure from accident. Half shall enter, and half shall remain behind."

The Emeer Moosa then entered the gate, and with him half of the people, who bore their weapons of war. And the party saw their companions lying dead: so they buried them. They saw also the gate-keepers and servants and chamberlains and lieutenants lying upon beds of silk, all of them dead. And they entered the market of the city, and beheld that the shops were open, and the scales hung up, and the utensils of brass ranged in order, and the stores were full of all kinds of goods. And they saw the merchants dead in their shops: their skins were dried, and they had become examples to him who would be admonished. And they left this place, and passed on to the silk-market, in which were silks and brocades interwoven with red gold and white silver upon various colours, and the owners were dead, lying upon skins, and appearing almost as though they would speak. Leaving these, they went on to the market of jewels and pearls and jacinths; and they left it, and passed on to the market of the money-changers, whom they found dead, with varieties of silks beneath them, and their shops were filled with gold and silver. These they left, and they proceeded to the markets of the perfumers; and, lo, their shops were filled with varieties of perfumes, and bags of musk, and ambergris, and aloes-wood, and camphor; and the owners were all dead, not having with them any food. And when they went forth from the market of the perfumers, they found near unto it a palace, decorated, and strongly constructed; and they entered it, and found banners unfurled, and drawn swords, and strung bows and shields hung up by chains of gold and silver, and helmets gilded with red gold. And in the passages of that palace were benches of ivory, ornamented with plates of brilliant gold, and with silk, on which were men whose skins had dried upon the bones; the ignorant would imagine them to be sleeping; but, from the want of food, they had died, and tasted mortality.

And the Emeer Moosa went on into the interior of the palace. There he beheld a great hall, and four large and lofty chambers, each one fronting another, wide, decorated with gold and silver and with various colours. In the midst of the hall was a great fountain of alabaster, over which was a canopy of brocade; and in those chambers were fountains lined with marble; and channels of water flowed along the floors of those chambers, the four streams meeting in a great tank lined with marbles of various colours. The Emeer Moosa then said to the Sheikh Abd-Es-Samad: "Enter these chambers with us." So they entered the first chamber; and they found it filled with gold and with white silver, and pearls and jewels, and jacinths and precious minerals. They found in it also chests full of red and yellow and white brocades. And they went thence to the second chamber, and opened a closet in it, and, lo, it was filled with arms and weapons of war, consisting of gilded helmets, and coats of mail, and swords, and lances, and maces, and other instruments of war and battle. Then they passed thence to the third chamber, in which they found closets having upon their doors closed locks, and over them were curtains worked with various kinds of embroidery. They opened one of these closets, and found it filled with weapons decorated with varieties of gold and silver and jewels. And they went thence to the fourth chamber, where also they found closets, one of which they opened, and they found it full of utensils for food and drink, consisting of various vessels of gold and silver, and saucers of crystal, and cups set with brilliant pearls and cups of carnelian, and other things. So they began to take what suited them of those things, and each of the soldiers carried off what he could. And when they determined to go forth from those chambers, they saw there a door inlaid with ivory and ebony, and adorned with plates of brilliant gold. Over it was hung a curtain of silk worked with various kinds of embroidery, and upon it were locks of white silver, to be opened by artifice, without a key. The Sheikh Abd-Es-Samad therefore advanced to those locks, and he opened them by his knowledge and excellent skill. And the party entered a passage paved with marble, upon the sides of which were curtains whereon were figured various wild beasts and birds, all these being worked with red gold and white silver, and their eyes were of pearls and jacinths: whosoever beheld them was confounded.

They then passed on, and found a saloon constructed of polished marble adorned with jewels. The beholder imagined that upon its floor was running water, and if any one walked upon it he would slip. The Emeer Moosa therefore ordered the Sheikh Abd-Es-Samad to throw upon it something that they might be enabled to walk on it; and he did this, and contrived so that they passed on. And they found in it a great dome constructed of stones gilded with red gold. The party had not beheld, in all that they had seen, anything more beautiful than it. And in the midst of that dome was a great dome-crowned structure of alabaster, around which were lattice windows, decorated, and adorned with oblong emeralds, such as none of the kings could procure. In it was a pavilion of brocade, raised upon columns of red gold, and within this were birds, the feet of which were of emeralds; beneath each bird was a net of brilliant pearls, spread over a fountain; and by the brink of the fountain was placed a couch adorned with pearls and jewels and jacinths, whereon was a damsel resembling the shining sun. Eyes had not beheld one more beautiful. Upon her was a garment of brilliant pearls, on her head was a crown of red gold, with a fillet of jewels, on her neck was a necklace of jewels in the middle of which were refulgent gems, and upon her forehead were two jewels the light of which was like that of the sun; and she seemed as though she were looking at the people, and observing them to the right and left. When the Emeer Moosa beheld this damsel, he wondered extremely at her loveliness, and was confounded by her beauty and the redness of her cheeks and the blackness of her hair. Any beholder would imagine that she was alive, and not dead. And they said to her: "Peace be on thee, O damsel!" But Talib said to the emeer: "May God amend thy state! Know that this damsel is dead. There is no life in her. How then can she return the salutation?" And he added: "O Emeer, she is skilfully embalmed; and her eyes have been taken out after her death, and quicksilver hath been put beneath them, after which they have been restored to their places; so they gleam; and whenever the air putteth them in motion, the beholder imagineth that she twinkleth her eyes, though she is dead."

And as to the couch upon which was the damsel, it had steps, and upon the steps were two slaves, one of them white and the other black; and in the hand of one of them was a weapon of steel, and in the hand of the other a jewelled sword that blinded the eyes; and before the two slaves was a tablet of gold, whereon was read an inscription, which was this:

In the name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful. Praise be to God, the Creator of Man; and He is the Lord of lords, and the Cause of causes. O thou, if thou know me not, I will acquaint thee with my name and my descent. I am Tedmur, the daughter of the King of the Amalekites. I possessed what none of the kings possessed, and ruled with justice, and acted impartially toward my subjects: I gave and bestowed, and I lived a long time in the enjoyment of happiness and an easy life, and possessing emancipated female and male slaves. Thus I did until the summoner of death came to my abode, and disasters occurred before me. And the case was this: Seven years in succession came upon us, during which no water descended on us from heaven, nor did any grass grow for us on the face of the earth. So we ate what food we had in our dwellings, and after that, we fell upon the beasts and ate them, and there remained nothing. Upon this, therefore, I caused the wealth to be brought, and meted it with a measure, and sent it by trusty men, who went about with it through all the districts, not leaving unvisited a single large city, to seek for some food. But they found it not; and they returned to us with the wealth, after a long absence. So thereupon we exposed to view our riches and our treasures, locked the gates of the fortresses in our city, and submitted ourselves to the decree of our Lord, committing our case to our Master; and thus we all died, as thou beholdest, and left what we had built and what we had treasured. This is our story: Whoso arriveth at our city, and entereth it, let him take of the wealth what he can, but not touch anything that is on my body; for it is the covering of my person. Therefore let him fear God, and not seize aught of it; for he would destroy himself. Peace be on you! I beg God, moreover, to save you from the evil of trials and sickness.

The Emeer Moosa, when he heard these words, again wept and was admonished by what he witnessed. He then said to his companions: "Bring the sacks, and fill them with part of these riches and these vessels and rarities and jewels." And thereupon, Talib, the son of Sahl, said to the Emeer Moosa: "O Emeer, shall we leave this damsel with the things that are upon her? They are things that have no equal, nor is the like of them at any time found, and they are more than the riches thou hast taken, and will be the best present by which thou mayest ingratiate thyself with the Prince of the Faithful." But the emeer replied: "Heardest thou not that which the damsel hath given as a charge, in the inscription upon this tablet? Moreover, and especially, she hath given it as a charge offered in confidence, and we are not of the people of treachery." The Vizier Talib, however, said: "And on account of these words wilt thou leave these riches and these jewels, when she is dead? What then should she do with these things, which are the ornaments of the world, and the decoration of the living? With a garment of cotton might this damsel be covered, and we are more worthy of the things than she." Then he drew near to the steps, and ascended them until he reached the spot between the two slaves, when, lo, one of these two smote him upon his back, and the other smote him with the sword that was in his hand, and struck off his head, and he fell down dead. So the Emeer Moosa said: "May God not regard with mercy thy resting-place! There was, in these riches, a sufficiency; and covetousness doth dishonour the person in whom it existeth!" He thereupon gave orders for the entry of the troops, who accordingly entered, and they loaded the camels with part of those riches and minerals; after which the Emeer Moosa commanded them to close the gate as it was before.

They then proceeded along the sea-coast until they came in sight of a high mountain overlooking the sea. In it were many caves, and, lo, in these was a people of the blacks, clad in hides, and with burnouses of hides upon their heads, whose language was not known. And when they saw the troops, they ran away from them, and fled, while their women and their children stood at the entrances of the caves. So the Emeer Moosa said: "O Sheikh Abd-Es-Samad, what are these people?" And he answered: "These are the objects of the inquiry of the Prince of the Faithful." They therefore alighted, and the tents were pitched, and the riches were put down; and they had not rested when the king of the blacks came down from the mountain, and drew near to the troops. He was acquainted with the Arabic language; wherefore, when he came to the Emeer Moosa, he saluted him; and the emeer returned his salutation, and treated him with honour. Then the king of the blacks said to the emeer: "Are ye of mankind, or of the genies?" The emeer answered: "As to us, we are of mankind; and as to you, there is no doubt but that ye are of the genies, because of your seclusion in this mountain that is separated from the world, and because of the greatness of your make." But the king of the blacks replied: "Nay, we are a people of the race of Adam, of the sons of Ham, the son of Noah, on whom be peace! And as to this sea, it is known by the name of El-Karkar."

The Emeer Moosa then said to him: "We are the associates of the King of El-Islam, Abd-El-Melik the son of Marwan; and we have come on account of the bottles of brass that are here in your sea, and wherein are the devils imprisoned from the time of Solomon, the son of David. He hath commanded us to bring him some of them, that he may see them, and divert himself by the view of them." And the king of the blacks replied: "Most willingly." Then he feasted him with fish, and ordered the divers to bring up from the sea some of the bottles of Solomon; and they brought up for them twelve bottles; wherewith the Emeer Moosa was delighted, and the Sheikh Abd-Es-Samad also, and the soldiers, on account of the accomplishment of the affair of the Prince of the Faithful. The Emeer Moosa thereupon presented to the king of the blacks many presents, and gave him large gifts. In like manner, too, the king of the blacks gave to the Emeer Moosa a present consisting of wonders of the sea.

Then they bade him farewell, and they journeyed back until they came to the land of Syria, and went in to the Prince of the Faithful; whereupon the Emeer Moosa acquainted him with all that he had seen, and all that had occurred to him with respect to the verses and histories and admonitions, and told him of the case of Talib the son of Sahl. And the Prince of the Faithful said to him: "Would that I had been with you, that I might have beheld what ye beheld!" He then took the bottles, and proceeded to open one after another, and the devils came forth from them, saying: "Repentance, O Prophet of God! We will not return to the like conduct ever!" And Abd-El-Melik the son of Marwan wondered at this. After this, the Prince of the Faithful caused the riches to be brought before him, and divided them among the people. And he said: "God hath not bestowed upon any one the like of what He bestowed upon Solomon the son of David."

This is the end of that which hath come down to us, of the history of the City of Brass, entire. And God is all-knowing.



The Story Of Ali Baba And The Forty Thieves


In a town in Persia, there lived two brothers, one named Cassim, the other Ali Baba. Their father left them scarcely anything; but as he had divided his little property equally between them, it would seem that their fortune ought to have been equal; but chance determined otherwise.

Cassim married a wife, who soon after became heiress to a large sum, and to a warehouse full of rich goods; so that he all at once became one of the richest and most considerable merchants, and lived at his ease. Ali Baba, on the other hand, who had married a woman as poor as himself, lived in a very wretched habitation, and had no other means to maintain his wife and children but his daily labour of cutting wood, and bringing it to town to sell, upon three asses, which were his whole substance.

One day, when Ali Baba was in the forest, and had just cut wood enough to load his asses, he saw at a distance a great cloud of dust, which seemed to be driven toward him: he observed it very attentively, and distinguished soon after a body of horse. Though there had been no rumour of robbers in that country, Ali Baba began to think that they might prove such, and without considering what might become of his asses, was resolved to save himself. He climbed up a large, thick tree, whose branches, at a little distance from the ground, were so close to one another that there was but little space between them. He placed himself in the middle, from whence he could see all that passed without being discovered; and the tree stood at the base of a single rock, so steep and craggy that nobody could climb up it.

The troop, who were all well mounted and armed, came to the foot of this rock, and there dismounted. Ali Baba counted forty of them, and, from their looks and equipage, was assured that they were robbers. Nor was he mistaken in his opinion; for they were a troop of banditti, who, without doing any harm to the neighbourhood, robbed at a distance, and made that place their rendezvous; but what confirmed him in his opinion was, that every man unbridled his horse, tied him to some shrub, and hung about his neck a bag of corn which they brought behind them. Then each of them took his saddle wallet, which seemed to Ali Baba to be full of gold and silver from its weight. One, who was the most personable amongst them, and whom he took to be their captain, came with his wallet on his back under the tree in which Ali Baba was concealed, and making his way through some shrubs, pronounced these words so distinctly: "Open, Sesame," that Ali Baba heard him. As soon as the captain of the robbers had uttered these words, a door opened in the rock; and after he had made all his troop enter before him, he followed them, when the door shut again of itself. The robbers stayed some time within the rock, and Ali Baba, who feared that some one, or all of them together, might come out and catch him, if he should endeavour to make his escape, was obliged to sit patiently in the tree. He was nevertheless tempted to get down, mount one of their horses, and lead another, driving his asses before him with all the haste he could to town; but the uncertainty of the event made him choose the safest course.

At last the door opened again, and the forty robbers came out. As the captain went in last, he came out first, and stood to see them all pass by him, when Ali Baba heard him make the door close by pronouncing these words: "Shut, Sesame." Every man went and bridled his horse, fastened his wallet, and mounted again; and when the captain saw them all ready, he put himself at their head, and they returned the way they had come. Ali Baba did not immediately quit his tree; for, said he to himself, they may have forgotten something and may come back again, and then I shall be taken. He followed them with his eyes as far as he could see them; and afterward stayed a considerable time before he descended. Remembering the words the captain of the robbers used to cause the door to open and shut, he had the curiosity to try if his pronouncing them would have the same effect. Accordingly, he went among the shrubs, and perceiving the door concealed behind them, stood before it, and said: "Open, Sesame!" The door instantly flew wide open. Ali Baba, who expected a dark dismal cavern, was surprised to see it well lighted and spacious, in the form of a vault, which received the light from an opening at the top of the rock. He saw all sorts of provisions, rich bales of silk stuff, brocade, and valuable carpeting, piled upon one another; gold and silver ingots in great heaps, and money in bags. The sight of all these riches made him suppose that this cave must have been occupied for ages by robbers, who had succeeded one another. Ali Baba did not stand long to consider what he should do, but went immediately into the cave, and as soon as he had entered, the door shut of itself, but this did not disturb him, because he knew the secret to open it again. He never regarded the silver, but made the best use of his time in carrying out as much of the gold coin as he thought his three asses could carry. He collected his asses, which were dispersed, and when he had loaded them with the bags, laid wood over in such a manner that they could not be seen. When he had done he stood before the door, and pronouncing the words: "Shut, Sesame!" the door closed after him, for it had shut of itself while he was within, but remained open while he was out. He then made the best of his way to town.

When Ali Baba got home, he drove his asses into a little yard, shut the gates very carefully, threw off the wood that covered the bags, carried them into his house, and ranged them in order before his wife, who sat on a sofa. His wife handled the bags, and finding them full of money, suspected that her husband had been robbing, insomuch that she could not help saying: "Ali Baba, have you been so unhappy as to --  -- " "Be quiet, wife," interrupted Ali Baba, "do not frighten yourself; I am no robber, unless he may be one who steals from robbers. You will no longer entertain an ill opinion of me, when I shall tell you my good fortune." He then emptied the bags, which raised such a great heap of gold as dazzled his wife's eyes; and when he had done, told her the whole adventure from beginning to end; and, above all, recommended her to keep it secret. The wife, cured of her fears, rejoiced with her husband at their good fortune, and would count all the gold piece by piece. "Wife," replied Ali Baba, "you do not know what you undertake, when you pretend to count the money; you will never have done. I will dig a hole, and bury it; there is no time to be lost." "You are in the right, husband," replied she; "but let us know, as nigh as possible, how much we have. I will borrow a small measure in the neighbourhood, and measure it, while you dig the hole." "What you are going to do is to no purpose, wife," said Ali Baba; "if you would take my advice, you had better let it alone; but keep the secret, and do what you please." Away the wife ran to her brother-in-law Cassim, who lived just by, but was not then at home; and addressing herself to his wife, desired her to lend her a measure for a little while. Her sister-in-law asked her, whether she would have a great or a small one. The wife asked for a small one. The sister-in-law agreed to lend one, but as she knew Ali Baba's poverty, she was curious to know what sort of grain his wife wanted to measure, and artfully putting some suet at the bottom of the measure, brought it to her with an excuse, that she was sorry that she had made her stay so long, but that she could not find it sooner. Ali Baba's wife went home, set the measure upon the heap of gold, filled it and emptied it often upon the sofa, till she had done: when she was very well satisfied to find the number of measures amounted to so many as they did, and went to tell her husband, who had almost finished digging the hole. While Ali Baba was burying the gold, his wife, to show her exactness and diligence to her sister-in-law, carried the measure back again, but without taking notice that a piece of gold had stuck to the bottom. "Sister," said she, giving it to her again, "you see that I have not kept your measure long; I am obliged to you for it, and return it with thanks."

As soon as her sister-in-law was gone, Cassim's wife looked at the bottom of the measure, and was inexpressibly surprised to find a piece of gold stuck to it. Envy immediately possessed her breast. "What!" said she, "has Ali Baba gold so plentiful as to measure it? Where has that poor wretch got all this wealth?" Cassim, her husband, was not at home, but at his counting-house, which he left always in the evening. His wife waited for him, and thought the time an age; so great was her impatience to tell him the circumstance, at which she guessed he would be as much surprised as herself.

When Cassim came home, his wife said to him: "Cassim, I know you think yourself rich, but you are much mistaken; Ali Baba is infinitely richer than you; he does not count his money, but measures it." Cassim desired her to explain the riddle, which she did, by telling him the stratagem she had used to make the discovery, and showed him the piece of money, which was so old that they could not tell in what prince's reign it was coined. Cassim, instead of being pleased, conceived a base envy at his brother's prosperity; he could not sleep all that night, and went to him in the morning before sunrise, although after he had married the rich widow, he had never treated him as a brother, but neglected him. "Ali Baba," said he, accosting him, "you are very reserved in your affairs; you pretend to be miserably poor, and yet you measure gold." "How, brother?" replied Ali Baba; "I do not know what you mean: explain yourself." "Do not pretend ignorance," replied Cassim, showing him the piece of gold his wife had given him. "How many of these pieces," added he, "have you? My wife found this at the bottom of the measure you borrowed yesterday."

By this discourse, Ali Baba perceived that Cassim and his wife, through his own wife's folly, knew what they had so much reason to conceal; but what was done could not be recalled; therefore, without shewing the least surprise or trouble, he confessed all, told his brother by what chance he had discovered this retreat of the thieves, in what place it was; and offered him part of his treasure to keep the secret. "I expect as much," replied Cassim haughtily; "but I must know exactly where this treasure is, and how I may visit it myself when I choose; otherwise I will go and inform against you, and then you will not only get no more, but will lose all you have, and I shall have a share for my information."

Ali Baba, more out of his natural good temper, than frightened by the menaces of his unnatural brother, told him all he desired, and even the very words he was to use to gain admission into the cave.

Cassim, who wanted no more of Ali Baba, left him, resolving to be beforehand with him, and hoping to get all the treasure to himself. He rose the next morning long before the sun, and set out for the forest with ten mules bearing great chests, which he designed to fill; and followed the road which Ali Baba had pointed out to him. He was not long before he reached the rock, and found out the place by the tree, and other marks, which his brother had given him. When he reached the entrance of the cavern, he pronounced the words: "Open, Sesame!" and the door immediately opened, and when he was in, closed upon him. In examining the cave, he was in great admiration to find much more riches than he had apprehended from Ali Baba's account. He was so covetous, and greedy of wealth, that he could have spent the whole day in feasting his eyes with so much treasure, if the thought that he came to carry some away had not hindered him. He laid as many bags of gold as he could carry at the door of the cavern, but his thoughts were so full of the great riches he should possess, that he could not think of the necessary word to make it open, but instead of "Sesame," said: "Open, Barley!" and was much amazed to find that the door remained fast shut. He named several sorts of grain, but still the door would not open. Cassim had never expected such an incident, and was so alarmed at the danger he was in, that the more he endeavoured to remember the word "Sesame," the more his memory was confounded, and he had as much forgotten it as if he had never heard it mentioned. He threw down the bags he had loaded himself with and walked distractedly up and down the cave, without having the least regard to the riches that were round him. About noon the robbers chanced to visit their cave, and at some distance from it saw Cassim's mules straggling about the rock, with great chests on their backs. Alarmed at this novelty, they galloped full speed to the cave. They drove away the mules, which Cassim had neglected to fasten, and they strayed through the forest so far, that they were soon out of sight. The robbers never gave themselves the trouble to pursue them, being more concerned to know to whom they belonged, and while some of them searched about the rock, the captain and the rest went directly to the door, with their naked sabres in their hands, and pronouncing the proper words, it opened.

Cassim, who heard the noise of the horses' feet from the middle of the cave, never doubted of the arrival of the robbers, and his approaching death; but was resolved to make one effort to escape from them. To this end he rushed to the door, and no sooner heard the word Sesame, which he had forgotten, and saw the door open, than he ran out and threw the leader down, but could not escape the other robbers, who with their sabres soon deprived him of life. The first care of the robbers after this was to examine the cave. They found all the bags which Cassim had brought to the door, to be ready to load his mules, and carried them again to their places, without missing what Ali Baba had taken away before. Then holding a council, and deliberating upon this occurrence, they guessed that Cassim, when he was in, could not get out again; but could not imagine how he had entered. It came into their heads that he might have got down by the top of the cave; but the aperture by which it received light was so high, and the rocks so inaccessible without, that they gave up this conjecture. That he came in at the door they could not believe, however, unless he had the secret of making it open. In short, none of them could imagine which way he had entered; for they were all persuaded nobody knew their secret, little imagining that Ali Baba had watched them. It was a matter of the greatest importance to them to secure their riches. They agreed therefore to cut Cassim's body into quarters, to hang two on one side and two on the other, within the door of the cave, to terrify any person who should attempt again to enter. They had no sooner taken this resolution than they put it in execution, and when they had nothing more to detain them, left the place of their hoards well closed. They then mounted their horses, went to beat the roads again, and to attack the caravans they might meet.

Cassim ... was so alarmed at the danger he was in that the more he endeavoured to remember the word Sesame the more his memory was confounded.

In the meantime, Cassim's wife was very uneasy when night came, and her husband was not returned. She ran to Ali Baba in alarm, and said: "I believe, brother-in-law, that you know Cassim, your brother, is gone to the forest, and upon what account; it is now night, and he is not returned; I am afraid some misfortune has happened to him." Ali Baba, who had expected that his brother, after what he had said, would go to the forest, had declined going himself that day, for fear of giving him any umbrage; therefore told her, without any reflection upon her husband's unhandsome behaviour, that she need not frighten herself, for that certainly Cassim would not think it proper to come into the town till the night should be pretty far advanced.

Cassim's wife, considering how much it concerned her husband to keep the business secret, was the more easily persuaded to believe her brother-in-law. She went home again, and waited patiently till midnight. She repented of her foolish curiosity, and cursed her desire of penetrating into the affairs of her brother and sister-in-law. She spent all the night in weeping; and as soon as it was day, went to them, telling them, by her tears, the cause of her coming. Ali Baba did not wait for his sister-in-law to desire him to go and see what was become of Cassim, but departed immediately with his three asses, begging of her first to moderate her affliction. He went to the forest, and when he came near the rock, having seen neither his brother nor the mules in his way, was seriously alarmed at finding some blood spilt near the door, which he took for an ill omen; but when he had pronounced the word, and the door had opened, he was struck with horror at the dismal sight of his brother's body. Without adverting to the little fraternal affection his brother had shewn for him, Ali Baba went into the cave to find something to enshroud his remains, and having loaded one of his asses with them, covered them over with wood. The other two asses he loaded with bags of gold, covering them with wood also as before; and then bidding the door shut, came away; but was so cautious as to stop some time at the end of the forest, that he might not go into the town before night. When he came home, he drove the two asses loaded with gold into his little yard, and left the care of unloading them to his wife, while he led the other to his sister-in-law's house.

Ali Baba knocked at the door, which was opened by Morgiana, an intelligent slave, fruitful in inventions to insure success in the most difficult undertakings: and Ali Baba knew her to be such. When he came into the court, he unloaded the ass, and taking Morgiana aside, said to her: "The first thing I ask of you is an inviolable secrecy, both for your mistress's sake and mine. Your master's body is contained in these two bundles, and our business is, to bury him as if he had died a natural death. Go, tell your mistress I want to speak with her; and mind what I have said to you."

Morgiana went to her mistress, and Ali Baba followed her. "Well, brother," said she, with impatience, "what news do you bring me of my husband? I perceive no comfort in your countenance." "Sister," answered Ali Baba, "I cannot satisfy your inquiries unless you hear my story without speaking a word; for it is of as great importance to you as to me to keep what has happened secret." "Alas!" said she, "this preamble lets me know that my husband is not to be found; but at the same time I know the necessity of secrecy, and I must constrain myself: say on, I will hear you."

Ali Baba then detailed the incidents of his journey, till he came to the finding of Cassim's body. "Now," said he, "sister, I have something to relate which will afflict you the more, because it is what you so little expect; but it cannot now be remedied; if my endeavours can comfort you, I offer to put that which God hath sent me to what you have, and marry you: assuring you that my wife will not be jealous, and that we shall live happily together. If this proposal is agreeable to you, we must think of acting so that my brother should appear to have died a natural death. I think you may leave the management of the business to Morgiana, and I will contribute all that lies in my power to your consolation." What could Cassim's widow do better than accept of this proposal? for though her first husband had left behind him a plentiful substance, his brother was now much richer, and by the discovery of this treasure might be still more so. Instead, therefore, of rejecting the offer, she regarded it as the sure means of comfort; and drying up her tears, which had begun to flow abundantly, and suppressing the outcries usual with women who have lost their husbands, showed Ali Baba that she approved of his proposal. Ali Baba left the widow, recommended to Morgiana to act her part well, and then returned home with his ass.

Morgiana went out at the same time to an apothecary, and asked for a sort of lozenges which he prepared, and were very efficacious in the most dangerous disorders. The apothecary inquired who was ill at her master's? She replied with a sigh, her good master Cassim himself: that they knew not what his disorder was, but that he could neither eat nor speak. After these words, Morgiana carried the lozenges home with her, and the next morning went to the same apothecary's again, and with tears in her eyes, asked for an essence which they used to give to sick people only when at the last extremity. "Alas!" said she, taking it from the apothecary, "I am afraid that this remedy will have no better effect than the lozenges; and that I shall lose my good master." On the other hand, as Ali Baba and his wife were often seen to go between Cassim's and their own house all that day, and to seem melancholy, nobody was surprised in the evening to hear the lamentable shrieks and cries of Cassim's wife and Morgiana, who gave out everywhere that her master was dead. The next morning, soon after day appeared, Morgiana, who knew a certain old cobbler that opened his stall early, before other people, went to him, and bidding him good morrow, put a piece of gold into his hand. "Well," said Baba Mustapha, which was his name, and who was a merry old fellow, looking at the gold, "this is good hansel: what must I do for it? I am ready."

"Baba Mustapha," said Morgiana, "you must take with you your sewing tackle, and go with me; but I must tell you, I shall blindfold you when you come to such a place." Baba Mustapha seemed to hesitate a little at these words. "Oh! oh!" replied he, "you would have me do something against my conscience or against my honour?" "God forbid!" said Morgiana, putting another piece of gold into his hand, "that I should ask anything that is contrary to your honour; only come along with me, and fear nothing."

Baba Mustapha went with Morgiana, who, after she had bound his eyes with a handkerchief, conveyed him to her deceased master's house, and never unloosed his eyes till he had entered the room where she had put the corpse together. "Baba Mustapha," said she, "you must make haste and sew these quarters together; and when you have done, I will give you another piece of gold." After Baba Mustapha had finished his task, she blindfolded him again, gave him the third piece of gold as she had promised, and recommending secrecy to him, carried him back to the place where she first bound his eyes, pulled off the bandage, and let him go home, but watched him that he returned toward his stall, till he was quite out of sight, for fear he should have the curiosity to return and track her.

By the time Morgiana had warmed some water to wash the body, Ali Baba came with incense to embalm it, after which it was sewn up in a winding-sheet. Not long after, the joiner, according to Ali Baba's orders, brought the bier, which Morgiana received at the door, and helped Ali Baba to put the body into it; when she went to the mosque to inform the imaum that they were ready. The people of the mosque, whose business it was to wash the dead, offered to perform their duty, but she told them that it was done already. Morgiana had scarcely got home before the imaum and the other ministers of the mosque arrived. Four neighbours carried the corpse on their shoulders to the burying-ground, following the imaum, who recited some prayers. Morgiana, as a slave to the deceased, followed the corpse, weeping, beating her breast, and tearing her hair; and Ali Baba came after with some neighbours, who often relieved the others in carrying the corpse to the burying-ground. Cassim's wife stayed at home mourning, uttering lamentable cries with the women of the neighbourhood, who came according to custom during the funeral, and joining their lamentations with hers, filled the quarter far and near with sorrow. In this manner Cassim's melancholy death was concealed and hushed up between Ali Baba, his wife, Cassim's widow, and Morgiana, with so much contrivance, that nobody in the city had the least knowledge or suspicion of the cause of it.

Three or four days after the funeral, Ali Baba removed his few goods openly to the widow's house; but the money he had taken from the robbers he conveyed thither by night: soon after the marriage with his sister-in-law was published, and as these marriages are common in the Mussulman religion, nobody was surprised. As for Cassim's warehouse, Ali Baba gave it to his own eldest son, promising that if he managed it well, he would soon give him a fortune to marry very advantageously according to his situation.

Let us now leave Ali Baba to enjoy the beginning of his good fortune, and return to the forty robbers. They came again at the appointed time to visit their retreat in the forest; but great was their surprise to find Cassim's body taken away, with some of their bags of gold. "We are certainly discovered," said the captain, "and if we do not speedily apply some remedy, shall gradually lose all the riches which we have, with so much pains and danger, been so many years amassing together. All that we can think of the loss which we have sustained is, that the thief whom we surprised had the secret of opening the door, and we arrived luckily as he was coming out: but his body being removed, and with it some of our money, plainly shows that he had an accomplice; and as it is likely that there were but two who had discovered our secret, and one has been caught, we must look narrowly after the other. What say you, my lads?" All the robbers thought the captain's proposal so advisable, that they unanimously approved of it, and agreed that they must lay all other enterprises aside, to follow this closely, and not give it up till they had succeeded.

"I expected no less," said the captain, "from your fidelity: but, first of all, one of you who is artful, and enterprising, must go into the town disguised as a traveller, to try if he can hear any talk of the strange death of the man whom we have killed, as he deserved; and endeavour to find out who he was, and where he lived. This is a matter of the first importance for us to ascertain, that we may do nothing which we may have reason to repent of, by discovering ourselves in a country where we have lived so long unknown. But to warn him who shall take upon himself this commission, and to prevent our being deceived by his giving us a false report, I ask you all, if you do not think that in case of treachery, or even error of judgment, he should suffer death?" Without waiting for the suffrages of his companions, one of the robbers started up, and said: "I submit to this condition, and think it an honour to expose my life, by taking the commission upon me; but remember, at least, if I do not succeed, that I neither wanted courage nor good will to serve the troop." After this robber had received great commendations from the captain, he disguised himself, and taking his leave of the troop that night, went into the town just at daybreak; and walked up and down, till accidentally he came to Baba Mustapha's stall, which was always open before any of the shops.

Baba Mustapha was seated with an awl in his hand, just going to work. The robber saluted him, bidding him good morrow; and perceiving that he was old, said: "Honest man, you begin to work very early: is it possible that one of your age can see so well? I question, even if it were somewhat lighter, whether you could see to stitch."

"Certainly," replied Baba Mustapha, "you must be a stranger, and do not know me; for old as I am, I have extraordinarily good eyes; and you will not doubt it when I tell you that I sewed a dead body together in a place where I had not so much light as I have now." The robber was overjoyed to think that he had addressed himself, at his first coming into the town, to a man who in all probability could give him the intelligence he wanted. "A dead body!" replied he with affected amazement. "What could you sew up a dead body for? You mean you sewed up his winding-sheet." "No, no," answered Baba Mustapha, "I perceive your meaning; you want to have me speak out, but you shall know no more." The robber wanted no farther assurance to be persuaded that he had discovered what he sought. He pulled out a piece of gold, and putting it into Baba Mustapha's hand, said to him: "I do not want to learn your secret, though I can assure you I would not divulge it, if you trusted me with it; the only thing which I desire of you is, to do me the favour to shew me the house where you stitched up the dead body."

"If I were disposed to do you that favour," replied Baba Mustapha, holding the money in his hand, ready to return it, "I assure you I cannot. I was taken to a certain place, where I was blinded, I was then led to the house, and afterward brought back again in the same manner; you see, therefore, the impossibility of my doing what you desire."

"Well," replied the robber, "you may, however, remember a little of the way that you were led blindfolded. Come, let me blind your eyes at the same place. We will walk together; perhaps you may recognise some part; and as everybody ought to be paid for his trouble, there is another piece of gold for you; gratify me in what I ask you." So saying, he put another piece of gold into his hand.

The two pieces of gold were great temptations to Baba Mustapha. He looked at them a long time in his hand, without saying a word, thinking with himself what he should do; but at last he pulled out his purse, and put them in. "I cannot assure you," said he to the robber, "that I can remember the way exactly; but since you desire, I will try what I can do." At these words Baba Mustapha rose up, to the great joy of the robber, and without shutting his shop, where he had nothing valuable to lose, he led the robber to the place where Morgiana had bound his eyes. "It was here," said Baba Mustapha, "I was blindfolded; and I turned as you see me." The robber, who had his handkerchief ready, tied it over his eyes, walked by him till he stopped, partly leading, and partly guided by him. "I think," said Baba Mustapha, "I went no farther," and he had now stopped directly at Cassim's house, where Ali Baba then lived. The thief, before he pulled off the band, marked the door with a piece of chalk, which he had ready in his hand; and then asked him if he knew whose house that was; to which Baba Mustapha replied, that as he did not live in that neighbourhood he could not tell. The robber, finding he could discover no more from Baba Mustapha, thanked him for the trouble he had taken, and left him to go back to his stall, while he returned to the forest, persuaded that he should be very well received. A little after the robber and Baba Mustapha had parted, Morgiana went out of Ali Baba's house upon some errand, and upon her return, seeing the mark the robber had made, stopped to observe it. "What can be the meaning of this mark?" said she to herself. "Somebody intends my master no good: however, with whatever intention it was done, it is advisable to guard against the worst." Accordingly, she fetched a piece of chalk, and marked two or three doors on each side in the same manner, without saying a word to her master or mistress.

In the meantime the thief rejoined his troop in the forest, and recounted to them his success. All the robbers listened to him with the utmost satisfaction; when the captain, after commending his diligence, addressing himself to them all, said: "Comrades, we have no time to lose: let us set off well armed; but that we may not excite any suspicion, let only one or two go into the town together, and join at our rendezvous, which shall be the great square. In the meantime, our comrade who brought us the good news, and I, will go and find out the house, that we may consult what had best be done."

This plan was approved of by all, and they were soon ready. They filed off in parties of two each, and got into the town without being in the least suspected. The captain, and he who had visited the town in the morning as spy, came in the last. He led the captain into the street where he had marked Ali Baba's residence; and when they came to the first of the houses which Morgiana had marked, he pointed it out. But the captain observed that the next door was chalked in the same manner: and shewing it to his guide, asked him which house it was, that, or the first? The guide was so confounded, that he knew not what answer to make; but still more puzzled, when he saw five or six houses similarly marked. He assured the captain, with an oath, that he had marked but one, and could not tell who had chalked the rest so that he could not distinguish the house which the cobbler had stopped at.

The captain, finding that their design had proved abortive, went directly to the place of rendezvous, and told the first of his troop whom he met that they had lost their labour, and must return to their cave. When the troop was all got together, the captain told them the reason of their returning; and presently the conductor was declared by all worthy of death. He condemned himself, acknowledging that he ought to have taken better precaution, and prepared to receive the stroke from him who was appointed to cut off his head. Another of the gang, who promised himself that he should succeed better, immediately presented himself, and his offer being accepted, he went and corrupted Baba Mustapha, as the other had done; and being shewn the house, marked it in a place more remote from sight, with red chalk.

Not long after, Morgiana, whose eyes nothing could escape, went out, and seeing the red chalk, and arguing with herself as she had done before, marked the other neighbours' houses in the same place and manner. The robber, at his return to his company, valued himself much on the precaution he had taken, which he looked upon as an infallible way of distinguishing Ali Baba's house from the others; and the captain and all of them thought it must succeed. They conveyed themselves into the town with the same precaution as before; but when the robber and his captain came to the street, they found the same difficulty: at which the captain was enraged, and the robber in as great confusion as his predecessor. Thus the captain and his troop were forced to retire a second time, and much more dissatisfied; while the unfortunate robber, who had been the author of the mistake, underwent the same punishment; which he willingly submitted to.

The captain, having lost two brave fellows of his troop, was afraid of diminishing it too much by pursuing this plan to get information of the residence of their plunderer. He found by their example that their heads were not so good as their hands on such occasions; and therefore resolved to take upon himself the important commission. Accordingly, he went and addressed himself to Baba Mustapha, who did him the same service he had done to the other robbers. He did not set any particular mark on the house, but examined and observed it so carefully, by passing often by it, that it was impossible for him to mistake it.

The captain, well satisfied with his attempt, and informed of what he wanted to know, returned to the forest; and when he came into the cave, where the troop waited for him, said: "Now, comrades, nothing can prevent our full revenge, as I am certain of the house, and in my way hither I have thought how to put it into execution, but if any one can form a better expedient, let him communicate it." He then told them his contrivance; and as they approved of it, ordered them to go into the villages about, and buy nineteen mules, with thirty-eight large leather jars, one full of oil, and the others empty. In two or three days' time the robbers had purchased the mules and jars, and as the mouths of the jars were rather too narrow for his purpose, the captain caused them to be widened; and after having put one of his men into each, with the weapons which he thought fit, leaving open the seam which had been undone to leave them room to breathe, he rubbed the jars on the outside with oil from the full vessel. Things being thus prepared, when the nineteen mules were loaded with thirty-seven robbers in jars, and the jar of oil, the captain, as their driver, set out with them, and reached the town by the dusk of the evening, as he had intended. He led them through the streets till he came to Ali Baba's, at whose door he designed to have knocked; but was prevented by his sitting there after supper to take a little fresh air. He stopped his mules, addressed himself to him, and said: "I have brought some oil a great way, to sell at to-morrow's market; and it is now so late that I do not know where to lodge. If I should not be troublesome to you, do me the favour to let me pass the night with you, and I shall be very much obliged by your hospitality."

Though Ali Baba had seen the captain of the robbers in the forest, and had heard him speak, it was hardly possible to know him in the disguise of an oil-merchant. He told him he should be welcome, and immediately opened his gates for the mules to go into the yard. At the same time he called to a slave, and ordered him, when the mules were unloaded, to put them into the stable, and give them fodder; and then went to Morgiana, to bid her get a good supper. He did more. When he saw the captain had unloaded his mules, and that they were put into the stables as he had ordered, and he was looking for a place to pass the night in the air, he brought him into the hall where he received his company, telling him he would not suffer him to be in the court. The captain excused himself on pretence of not being troublesome; but really to have room to execute his design, and it was not till after the most pressing importunity that he yielded. Ali Baba, not content to keep company, till supper was ready, with the man who had a design on his life, continued talking with him till it was ended, and repeating his offer of service. The captain rose up at the same time with his host; and while Ali Baba went to speak to Morgiana he withdrew into the yard, under pretence of looking at his mules. Ali Baba, after charging Morgiana afresh to take care of his guest, said to her: "To-morrow morning I design to go to the bath before day; take care my bathing linens be ready, give them to Abdoollah," which was the slave's name, "and make me some good broth against I return." After this he went to bed.

In the meantime, the captain went from the stable to give his people orders what to do; and beginning at the first jar, and so on to the last, said to each man: "As soon as I throw some stones out of the chamber window where I lie, do not fail to cut the jar open with the knife you have about you for the purpose, and come out, and I will immediately join you." After this he returned into the house, when Morgiana, taking up a light, conducted him to his chamber, where she left him; and he, to avoid any suspicion, put the light out soon after, and laid himself down in his clothes, that he might be the more ready to rise.

Morgiana, remembering Ali Baba's orders, got his bathing linens ready, and ordered Abdoollah to set on the pot for the broth; but while she was preparing it, the lamp went out, and there was no more oil in the house, nor any candles. What to do she did not know, for the broth must be made. Abdoollah seeing her very uneasy, said: "Do not fret and tease yourself, but go into the yard, and take some oil out of one of the jars." Morgiana thanked Abdoollah for his advice, took the oil-pot, and went into the yard; when as she came nigh the first jar, the robber within said softly: "Is it time?" Though the robber spoke low, Morgiana was struck with the voice the more, because the captain, when he unloaded the mules, had taken the lids off this and all the other jars to give air to his men, who were ill enough at their ease, almost wanting room to breathe. As much surprised as Morgiana naturally was at finding a man in a jar, instead of the oil she wanted, many would have made such an outcry as to have given an alarm; whereas Morgiana comprehending immediately the importance of keeping silence, and the necessity of applying a speedy remedy without noise, conceived at once the means, and collecting herself without shewing the least emotion, answered: "Not yet, but presently." She went in this manner to all the jars, giving the same answer, till she came to the jar of oil.

By this means, Morgiana found that her master Ali Baba, who thought that he had entertained an oil merchant, had admitted thirty-eight robbers into his house, regarding this pretended merchant as their captain. She made what haste she could to fill her oil-pot, and returned into her kitchen; where, as soon as she had lighted her lamp, she took a great kettle, went again to the oil-jar, filled the kettle, set it on a large wood-fire, and as soon as it boiled went and poured enough into every jar to stifle and destroy the robber within.

When this action, worthy of the courage of Morgiana, was executed without any noise, she returned into the kitchen with the empty kettle; and having put out the great fire she had made to boil the oil, and leaving just enough to make the broth, put out the lamp also, and remained silent; resolving not to go to rest till she had observed what might follow through a window of the kitchen, which opened into the yard.

She had not waited long before the captain of the robbers got up, opened the window, and finding no light, and hearing no noise, or any one stirring in the house, gave the appointed signal, by throwing little stones, several of which hit the jars, as he doubted not by the sound they gave. He then listened, but not hearing or perceiving anything whereby he could judge that his companions stirred, he began to grow very uneasy, threw stones again a second and also a third time, and could not comprehend the reason that none of them should answer his signal. Much alarmed, he went softly down into the yard, and going to the first jar, whilst asking the robber, whom he thought alive, if he was in readiness, smelt the hot boiled oil, which sent forth a steam out of the jar. Hence he suspected that his plot to murder Ali Baba and plunder his house was discovered. Examining all the jars one after another, he found that all the members of his gang were dead; and by the oil he missed out of the last jar guessed the means and manner of their death. Enraged to despair at having failed in his design, he forced the lock of a door that led from the yard to the garden, and climbing over the walls, made his escape.

When Morgiana heard no noise, and found, after waiting some time, that the captain did not return, she concluded that he had chosen rather to make his escape by the garden than the street door, which was double-locked. Satisfied and pleased to have succeeded so well, in saving her master and family, she went to bed.

Ali Baba rose before day, and, followed by his slave, went to the baths, entirely ignorant of the important event which had happened at home; for Morgiana had not thought it safe to wake him before, for fear of losing her opportunity; and after her successful exploit she thought it needless to disturb him.

When he returned from the baths, the sun was risen; he was very much surprised to see the oil jars and that the merchant was not gone with the mules. He asked Morgiana, who opened the door, and had let all things stand as they were, that he might see them, the reason of it. "My good master," answered she, "God preserve you and all your family; you will be better informed of what you wish to know when you have seen what I have to show you, if you will but give yourself the trouble to follow me."

As soon as Morgiana had shut the door, Ali Baba followed her; when she requested him to look into the first jar and see if there was any oil. Ali Baba did so, and seeing a man, started back in alarm, and cried out. "Do not be afraid," said Morgiana; "the man you see there can neither do you nor anybody else any harm. He is dead." "Ah, Morgiana!" said Ali Baba, "what is it you show me? Explain yourself." "I will," replied Morgiana; "moderate your astonishment, and do not excite the curiosity of your neighbours. Look into all the other jars."

Ali Baba examined all the other jars, and when he came to that which had the oil in, found it prodigiously sunk, and stood for some time motionless, sometimes looking at the jars, and sometimes at Morgiana, without saying a word, so great was his surprise: at last, when he had recovered himself, he said: "And what is become of the merchant?"

"Merchant!" answered she, "he is as much one as I am; I will tell you who he is, and what is become of him: but you had better hear the story in your own chamber; for it is time for your health that you had your broth after your bathing."

While Ali Baba retired to his chamber, Morgiana went into the kitchen to fetch the broth, but before he would drink it, he first entreated her to satisfy his impatience, and tell him what had happened, with all the circumstances; and she obeyed him.

"This," she said, when she had completed her story, "is the account you asked of me; and I am convinced it is the consequence of what I observed some days ago, but did not think fit to acquaint you with; for when I came in one morning early I found our street door marked with white chalk, and the next morning with red; upon which, both times without knowing what was the intention of those chalks, I marked two or three neighbours' doors on each side in the same manner. If you reflect on this, and what has since happened, you will find it to be a plot of the robbers of the forest, of whose gang there are two wanting, and now they are reduced to three: all this shows that they had sworn your destruction, and it is proper you should be upon your guard, while there is one of them alive: for my part, I shall neglect nothing necessary to your preservation, as I am in duty bound."

When Morgiana had left off speaking, Ali Baba was so sensible of the great service she had done him, that he said to her: "I will not die without rewarding you as you deserve; I owe my life to you, and for the first token of my acknowledgment, give you your liberty from this moment, till I can complete your recompense as I intend. I am persuaded with you, that the forty robbers have laid snares for my destruction. God, by your means, has delivered me from them as yet, and I hope will continue to preserve me from their wicked designs, and deliver the world from their persecution. All that we have to do is to bury the bodies of these pests of mankind immediately, and with all the secrecy imaginable, that nobody may suspect what is become of them. But that labour Abdoollah and I will undertake."

Ali Baba's garden was very long, and shaded at the farther end by a great number of large trees. Under these he and the slave dug a trench, long and wide enough to hold all the robbers. Afterward they lifted the bodies out of the jars, took away their weapons, carried them to the end of the garden, laid them in the trench, and levelled the ground again. When this was done, Ali Baba hid the jars and weapons; and as he had no occasion for the mules, he sent them at different times to be sold in the market by his slave.

While Ali Baba took these measures to prevent the public from knowing how he came by his riches in so short a time, the captain of the forty robbers returned to the forest with inconceivable mortification; and in his confusion at his ill success, so contrary to what he had promised himself, entered the cave, not being able, all the way from the town, to come to any resolution how to revenge himself of Ali Baba.

The loneliness of the gloomy cavern became frightful to him. "Where are you, my brave lads," cried he, "old companions of my watchings, inroads, and labour? What can I do without you? Did I collect you only to lose you by so base a fate, and so unworthy of your courage! Had you died with your sabres in your hands, like brave men, my regret had been less! When shall I enlist so gallant a troop again? And if I could, can I undertake it without exposing so much gold and treasure to him who hath already enriched himself out of it? I cannot, I ought not to think of it, before I have taken away his life. I will undertake that alone, which I could not accomplish with your powerful assistance; and when I have taken measures to secure this treasure from being pillaged, I will provide for it new masters and successors after me, who shall preserve and augment it to all posterity." This resolution being taken, he was not at a loss how to execute his purpose; but full of hopes, slept all that night very quietly.

When he awoke early next morning, he dressed himself, agreeably to the project he had formed, went to the town, and took a lodging in a khan. As he expected what had happened at Ali Baba's might make a great noise, he asked his host what news there was in the city? Upon which the innkeeper told him a great many circumstances, which did not concern him in the least. He judged by this, that the reason why Ali Baba kept his affairs so secret, was for fear people should know where the treasure lay; and because he knew his life would be sought on account of it. This urged him the more to neglect nothing to rid himself of so cautious an enemy.

The captain now assumed the character of a merchant, and conveyed gradually a great many sorts of rich stuffs and fine linen to his lodging from the cavern, but with all the necessary precautions imaginable to conceal the place whence he brought them. In order to dispose of the merchandise, when he had amassed them together, he took a warehouse, which happened to be opposite to Cassim's, which Ali Baba's son had occupied since the death of his uncle.

He took the name of Khaujeh Houssain, and as a newcomer, was, according to custom, extremely civil and complaisant to all the merchants his neighbours. Ali Baba's son was from his vicinity one of the first to converse with Khaujeh Houssain, who strove to cultivate his friendship more particularly when, two or three days after he was settled, he recognised Ali Baba, who came to see his son, and stopped to talk with him as he was accustomed to do. When he was gone, the impostor learnt from his son who he was. He increased his assiduities, caressed him in the most engaging manner, made him some small presents, and often asked him to dine and sup with him.

Ali Baba's son did not choose to lie under such obligation to Khaujeh Houssain, without making the like return; but was so much straitened for want of room in his house, that he could not entertain him so well as he wished; he therefore acquainted his father Ali Baba with his intention, and told him that it did not look well for him to receive such favours from Khaujeh Houssain without inviting him in return.

Ali Baba, with great pleasure, took the treat upon himself. "Son," said he, "to-morrow being Friday, which is a day that the shops of such great merchants as Khaujeh Houssain and yourself are shut, get him to take a walk with you, and as you come back, pass by my door and call in. It will look better to have it happen accidentally, than if you gave him a formal invitation. I will go and order Morgiana to provide a supper."

The next day Ali Baba's son and Khaujeh Houssain met by appointment, took their walk, and as they returned, Ali Baba's son led Khaujeh Houssain through the street where his father lived; and when they came to the house, stopped and knocked at the door. "This, sir," said he, "is my father's house; who, from the account I have given him of your friendship, charged me to procure him the honour of your acquaintance."

Though it was the sole aim of Khaujeh Houssain to introduce himself into Ali Baba's house, that he might kill him without hazarding his own life or making any noise; yet he excused himself, and offered to take his leave. But a slave having opened the door, Ali Baba's son took him obligingly by the hand, and in a manner forced him in.

Ali Baba received Khaujeh Houssain with a smiling countenance, and in the most obliging manner. He thanked him for all the favours he had done his son; adding withal, the obligation was the greater, as he was a young man not much acquainted with the world.

Khaujeh Houssain returned the compliment, by assuring Ali Baba, that though his son might not have acquired the experience of older men, he had good sense equal to the knowledge of many others. After a little more conversation on different subjects, he offered again to take his leave; when Ali Baba, stopping him, said: "Where are you going, sir, in so much haste? I beg you would do me the honour to sup with me, though what I have to give you is not worth your acceptance; but such as it is, I hope you will accept it as heartily as I give it." "Sir," replied Khaujeh Houssain, "I am thoroughly persuaded of your good will; and if I ask the favour of you not to take it ill that I do not accept your obliging invitation, I beg of you to believe that it does not proceed from any slight or intention to affront, but from a reason which you would approve if you knew it.

"And what may that reason be, sir," replied Ali Baba, "if I may be so bold as to ask you?" "It is," answered Khaujeh Houssain, "that I can eat no victuals that have any salt in them; therefore judge how I should feel at your table." "If that is the only reason," said Ali Baba, "it ought not to deprive me of the honour of your company at supper; for, in the first place, there is no salt ever put into my bread, and as to the meat we shall have to-night, I promise you there shall be none in that. Therefore you must do me the favour to stay. I will return immediately."

Ali Baba went into the kitchen, and ordered Morgiana to put no salt to the meat that was to be dressed that night; and to make quickly two or three ragouts besides what he had ordered, but be sure to put no salt in them.

Morgiana, who was always ready to obey her master, could not help seeming somewhat dissatisfied at his strange order. "Who is this difficult man," said she, "who eats no salt with his meat? Your supper will be spoiled, if I keep it back so long." "Do not be angry, Morgiana," replied Ali Baba; "he is an honest man; therefore do as I bid you."

Morgiana obeyed, though with no little reluctance, and had a curiosity to see this man who ate no salt. To this end, when she had finished what she had to do in the kitchen, she helped Abdoollah to carry up the dishes; and looking at Khaujeh Houssain, knew him at first sight, notwithstanding his disguise, to be the captain of the robbers, and examining him very carefully, perceived that he had a dagger under his garment. "I am not in the least amazed," said she to herself, "that this wicked wretch, who is my master's greatest enemy, would eat no salt with him, since he intends to assassinate him; but I will prevent him."

Morgiana, while they were eating, made the necessary preparations for executing one of the boldest acts ever meditated, and had just determined, when Abdoollah came for the dessert of fruit, which she carried up, and as soon as he had taken the meat away, set upon the table; after that, she placed three glasses by Ali Baba, and going out, took Abdoollah with her to sup, and to give Ali Baba the more liberty of conversation with his guest.

Khaujeh Houssain, or rather the captain of the robbers, thought he had now a favourable opportunity of being revenged on Ali Baba. "I will," said he to himself, "make the father and son both drunk: the son, whose life I intend to spare, will not be able to prevent my stabbing his father to the heart; and while the slaves are at supper, or asleep in the kitchen, I can make my escape over the gardens as before."

Instead of going to supper, Morgiana, who had penetrated the intentions of the counterfeit Khaujeh Houssain, would not give him time to put his villainous design into execution, but dressed herself neatly with a suitable head-dress like a dancer, girded her waist with a silver-gilt girdle, to which there hung a poniard with a hilt and guard of the same metal, and put a handsome mask on her face. When she had thus disguised herself, she said to Abdoollah: "Take your tabor, and let us go and divert our master and his son's guest, as we do sometimes when he is alone."

Abdoollah took his tabor and played all the way into the hall before Morgiana, who when she came to the door made a low obeisance, with a deliberate air, in order to draw attention, and by way of asking leave to exhibit her skill. Abdoollah, seeing that his master had a mind to say something, left off playing. "Come in, Morgiana," said Ali Baba, "and let Khaujeh Houssain see what you can do, that he may tell us what he thinks of you. But, sir," said he, turning toward his guest, "do not think that I put myself to any expense to give you this diversion, since these are my slave and my cook and housekeeper; and I hope you will not find the entertainment they give us disagreeable."

Khaujeh Houssain, who did not expect this diversion after supper, began to fear he should not be able to improve the opportunity he thought he had found: but hoped, if he now missed his aim, to secure it another time, by keeping up a friendly correspondence with the father and son; therefore, though he could have wished Ali Baba would have declined the dance, he had the complaisance to express his satisfaction at what he saw pleased his host.

As soon as Abdoollah saw that Ali Baba and Khaujeh Houssain had done talking, he began to play on the tabor, and accompanied it with an air; to which Morgiana, who was an excellent performer, danced in such a manner as would have created admiration in any other company besides that before which she now exhibited, among whom, perhaps, none but the false Khaujeh Houssain was in the least attentive to her, the rest having seen her so frequently.

After she had danced several dances with equal propriety and grace, she drew the poniard, and holding it in her hand, began a dance, in which she outdid herself, by the many different figures, light movements, and the surprising leaps and wonderful exertions with which she accompanied it. Sometimes she presented the poniard to one person's breast, sometimes to another's, and oftentimes seemed to strike her own. At last, as if she was out of breath, she snatched the tabor from Abdoollah with her left hand, and holding the dagger in her right, presented the other side of the tabor, after the manner of those who get a livelihood by dancing, and solicit the liberality of the spectators.

Ali Baba put a piece of gold into the tabor, as did also his son: and Khaujeh Houssain, seeing that she was coming to him, had pulled his purse out of his bosom to make her a present; but while he was putting his hand into it, Morgiana, with a courage and resolution worthy of herself, plunged the poniard into his heart. Ali Baba and his son, shocked at this action, cried out aloud. "Unhappy wretch!" exclaimed Ali Baba, "what have you done to ruin me and my family?" "It was to preserve, not to ruin you," answered Morgiana; "for see here," continued she (opening the pretended Khaujeh Houssain's garment, and showing the dagger), "what an enemy you had entertained! Look well at him, and you will find him to be both the fictitious oil-merchant, and the captain of the gang of forty robbers. Remember, too, that he would eat no salt with you; and what would you have more to persuade you of his wicked design? Before I saw him, I suspected him as soon as you told me you had such a guest. I knew him, and you now find that my suspicion was not groundless."

Ali Baba, who immediately felt the new obligation he had to Morgiana for saving his life a second time, embraced her: "Morgiana," said he, "I gave you your liberty, and then promised you that my gratitude should not stop there, but that I would soon give you higher proofs of its sincerity, which I now do by making you my daughter-in-law." Then addressing himself to his son, he said: "I believe you, son, to be so dutiful a child, that you will not refuse Morgiana for your wife. You see that Khaujeh Houssain sought your friendship with a treacherous design to take away my life; and, if he had succeeded, there is no doubt but he would have sacrificed you also to his revenge. Consider, that by marrying Morgiana you marry the preserver of my family and your own."

The son, far from showing any dislike, readily consented to the marriage; not only because he would not disobey his father, but also because it was agreeable to his inclination.

After this, they thought of burying the captain of the robbers with his comrades, and did it so privately that nobody discovered their bones till many years after, when no one had any concern in the publication of this remarkable history.

A few days afterward, Ali Baba celebrated the nuptials of his son and Morgiana with great solemnity, a sumptuous feast, and the usual dancing and spectacles; and had the satisfaction to see that his friends and neighbours, whom he invited, had no knowledge of the true motives of the marriage; but that those who were not unacquainted with Morgiana's good qualities commended his generosity and goodness of heart.

Ali Baba forbore, after this marriage, from going again to the robbers' cave, as he had done, for fear of being surprised, from the time he had brought away his brother Cassim's mangled remains. He had kept away after the death of the thirty-seven robbers and their captain, supposing the other two, whom he could get no account of, might be alive.

At the year's end, when he found that they had not made any attempt to disturb him, he had the curiosity to make another journey, taking the necessary precautions for his safety. He mounted his horse, and when he came to the cave, and saw no footsteps of men or beasts, looked upon it as a good sign. He alighted, tied his horse to a tree, then approaching the entrance and pronouncing the words, Open, Sesame! the door opened. He entered the cavern, and by the condition he found things in, judged that nobody had been there since the false Khaujeh Houssain, when he had fetched the goods for his shop; that the gang of forty robbers was completely destroyed, and no longer doubted that he was the only person in the world who had the secret of opening the cave, so that all the treasure was at his sole disposal. Having brought with him a wallet, he put into it as much gold as his horse would carry, and returned to town.

Afterward Ali Baba carried his son to the cave, and taught him the secret, which they handed down to their posterity, who, using their good fortune with moderation, lived in great honour and splendour.



The History Of Codadad And His Brothers


There formerly reigned in the city of Harran a most magnificent and potent sultan, who loved his subjects, and was equally beloved by them. He was endued with all virtues, and wanted nothing to complete his happiness but an heir. He continually prayed to Heaven for a child; and one night in his sleep, a prophet appeared to him and said: "Your prayers are heard; you have obtained what you have desired; rise as soon as you awake, go to your prayers, and make two genuflexions; then walk into the garden of your palace, call your gardener, and bid him bring you a pomegranate; eat as many of the seeds as you please, and your wishes shall be accomplished."

The sultan calling to mind his dream when he awoke, returned thanks to Heaven, got up, prayed, made two genuflexions, and then went into his garden, where he took fifty pomegranate seeds, which he counted, and ate. Some time afterward forty-nine of his wives presented him with sons, each one as vigorous as a young palm-tree, but Pirouze, the fiftieth wife, remained childless. The sultan, therefore, took an aversion to this lady and would have had her put to death had not his vizier prevented him, advising rather that she be sent to Samaria, to her brother, Sultan Samer, with orders that she be well treated.

Not long after Pirouze had been retired to her brother's country, a most beautiful prince was born to her. The prince of Samaria wrote immediately to the sultan of Harran, to acquaint him with the birth of a son, and to congratulate him on the occasion. The sultan was much rejoiced at this intelligence, and answered Prince Samer as follows: "Cousin, all my other wives have each presented me with a prince. I desire you to educate the child of Pirouze, to give him the name of Codadad, and to send him to me when I may apply for him."

The prince of Samaria spared nothing that might improve the education of his nephew. He taught him to ride, draw the bow, and all other accomplishments becoming the son of a sovereign; so that Codadad, at eighteen years of age, was looked upon as a prodigy. The young prince, being inspired with a courage worthy his birth, said one day to his mother: "Madam, I begin to grow weary of Samaria; I feel a passion for glory; give me leave to seek it amidst the perils of war. My father the sultan of Harran has many enemies. Why does he not call me to his assistance? Must I spend my life in sloth, when all my brothers have the happiness to be fighting by his side?" "My son," answered Pirouze, "I am no less impatient to have your name become famous; I could wish you had already signalised yourself against your father's enemies; but we must wait till he requires it." "No, madam," replied Codadad, "I have already waited too long. I burn to see the sultan, and am tempted to offer him my service, as a young stranger: no doubt but he will accept of it, and I will not discover myself till I have performed some glorious actions." Pirouze approved of his generous resolutions, and Codadad departed from Samaria, as if he had been going to the chase, without acquainting Prince Samer, lest he should thwart his design.

He was mounted on a white charger, who had a bit and shoes of gold, his housing was of blue satin embroidered with pearls; the hilt of his cimeter was of one single diamond, and the scabbard of sandalwood, adorned with emeralds and rubies, and on his shoulder he carried his bow and quiver. In this equipage, which greatly set off his handsome person, he arrived at the city of Harran, and soon found means to offer his service to the sultan; who being charmed with his beauty, and perhaps indeed by natural sympathy, gave him a favourable reception, and asked his name and quality. "Sir," answered Codadad, "I am son to an emir of Grand Cairo; an inclination to travel has made me quit my country, and understanding that you were engaged in war, I am come to your court to offer your majesty my service." The sultan, upon hearing this, shewed him extraordinary kindness, and gave him a command in his army.

The young prince soon gained the esteem of the officers, and was admired by the soldiers. Having no less wit than courage, he so far advanced himself in the sultan's esteem, as to become his favourite. All the ministers and other courtiers daily resorted to Codadad, and were so eager to purchase his friendship, that they neglected the sultan's sons. The princes could not but resent this conduct, and all conceived an implacable hatred against him; but the sultan's affection daily increasing, he was never weary of giving him fresh testimonies of his regard. He always would have him near his person; and to shew his high opinion of his wisdom and prudence, committed to his care the other princes, though he was of the same age as they; so that Codadad was made governor of his brothers.

This only served to heighten their hatred. "Is it come to this," said they, "that the sultan, not satisfied with loving a stranger more than us, will have him to be our governor, and not allow us to act without his leave? This is not to be endured. We must rid ourselves of this foreigner." "Let us go together," said one of them, "and despatch him." "No, no," answered another; "we had better be cautious how we sacrifice ourselves. His death would render us odious to the sultan. Let us destroy him by some stratagem. We will ask his permission to hunt, and, when at a distance from the palace, proceed to some other city and stay there some time. The sultan will wonder at our absence, and perceiving we do not return, perhaps put the stranger to death, or at least will banish him from court, for suffering us to leave the palace."

All the princes applauded this artifice. They went together to Codadad, and desired him to allow them to take the diversion of hunting, promising to return the same day. Pirouze's son was taken in the snare, and granted the permission his brothers desired. They set out, but never returned. They had been three days absent, when the sultan asked Codadad where the princes were, for it was long since he had seen them. "Sir," answered Codadad, after making a profound reverence, "they have been hunting these three days, but they promised me they would return sooner." The sultan grew uneasy, and his uneasiness increased when he perceived the princes did not return the next day. He could not check his anger: "Indiscreet stranger," said he to Codadad, "why did you let my sons go without bearing them company? Go, seek them immediately, and bring them to me, or your life shall be forfeited."

These words chilled with alarm Pirouze's unfortunate son. He armed himself, departed from the city, and like a shepherd who had lost his flock, searched the country for his brothers, inquiring at every village whether they had been seen; but hearing no news of them, abandoned himself to the most lively grief. He was inconsolable for having given the princes permission to hunt, or for not having borne them company.

After some days spent in fruitless search, he came to a plain of prodigious extent, in the midst whereof was a palace built of black marble. He drew near, and at one of the windows beheld a most beautiful lady; but set off with no other ornament than her own charms; for her hair was dishevelled, her garments torn, and on her countenance appeared all the marks of affliction. As soon as she saw Codadad, and judged he might hear her, she directed her discourse to him, saying: "Young man, depart from this fatal place, or you will soon fall into the hands of the monster that inhabits it: a black, who feeds only on human blood, resides in this palace; he seizes all persons whom their ill fate conducts to this plain, and shuts them up in his dungeons, whence they are never released, but to be devoured by him."

"Madam," answered Codadad, "tell me who you are, and be not concerned for myself." "I am a lady of quality of Grand Cairo," replied the captive; "I was passing by this castle yesterday, on my way to Bagdad, and met with the black, who killed all my attendants, and brought me hither. I beg of you," she cried, "to make your escape: the black will soon return; he is gone out to pursue some travellers he espied at a distance on the plain. Lose no time, but fly."

She had scarcely done speaking before the black appeared. He was of monstrous bulk, and of a dreadful aspect, mounted on a large Tartar horse, and bore a heavy cimeter, that none but himself could wield. The prince seeing him, was amazed at his gigantic stature, directed his prayers to Heaven to assist him, then drew his own cimeter, and firmly awaited his approach. The monster, despising so inconsiderable an enemy, called to him to submit without fighting. Codadad by his conduct shewed that he was resolved to defend his life; for rushing upon the black, he wounded him on the knee. The monster, feeling himself wounded, uttered such a dreadful yell as made all the plain resound. He grew furious and foamed with rage, and raising himself on his stirrups, made at Codadad with his dreadful cimeter. The blow was so violent, that it would have put an end to the young prince, had not he avoided it by a sudden spring. The cimeter made a horrible hissing in the air: but, before the black could have time to make a second blow, Codadad struck him on his right arm with such force that he cut it off. The dreadful cimeter fell with the hand that held it, and the black, yielding under the violence of the stroke, lost his stirrups, and made the earth shake with the weight of his fall. The prince alighted at the same time, and cut off his enemy's head. Just then the lady, who had been a spectator of the combat, and was still offering up her earnest prayers to Heaven for the young hero, uttered a shriek of joy, and said to Codadad: "Prince and Deliverer, finish the work you have begun; the black has the keys of this castle, take them and deliver me out of prison."

The prince searched the wretch as he lay stretched on the ground, and found several keys. He opened the first door, and entered a court, where he saw the lady coming to meet him; she would have cast herself at his feet, the better to express her gratitude, but he would not permit her. She commended his valour, and extolled him above all the heroes in the world. He returned her compliments; and she appeared still more lovely to him near, than she had done at a distance. I know not whether she felt more joy at being delivered from the desperate danger she had been in, than he for having done so considerable a service to so beautiful a person.

Their conversation was interrupted by dismal cries and groans. "What do I hear?" said Codadad; "whence come these miserable lamentations, which pierce my ears?" "My lord," said the lady, pointing to a little door in the court, "they come from thence. There are I know not how many wretched persons whom fate has thrown into the hands of the black. They are all chained, and the monster drew out one every day to devour."

"It is an addition to my joy," answered the young prince, "to understand that my victory will save the lives of those unfortunate beings. Come with me, madam, to partake in the satisfaction of giving them their liberty." Having so said, they advanced toward the door of the dungeon, where Codadad, pitying them, and impatient to put an end to their sufferings, presently put one of the keys into the lock. The noise made all the unfortunate captives, who concluded it was the black coming, according to custom, to seize one of them to devour, redouble their cries and groans.

In the meantime, the prince had opened the door; he went down a steep staircase into a deep vault, which received some feeble light from a little window, and in which there were above a hundred persons, bound to stakes. "Unfortunate travellers," said he to them, "who only expected the moment of an approaching death, give thanks to Heaven which has this day delivered you by my means. I have slain the black by whom you were to be devoured, and am come to knock off your chains." The prisoners hearing these words, gave a shout of mingled joy and surprise. Codadad and the lady began to unbind them; and as soon as any of them were loose, they helped to take off the fetters from the rest; so that in a short time they were all at liberty.

They then kneeled down, and having returned thanks to Codadad for what he had done for them, went out of the dungeon; but when they were come into the court, how was the prince surprised to see among the prisoners those he was in search of, and almost without hopes to find! "Princes," cried he, "is it you whom I behold? May I flatter myself that it is in my power to restore you to the sultan your father, who is inconsolable for the loss of you? Are you all here alive? Alas! the death of one of you will suffice to damp the joy I feel for having delivered you."

The forty-nine princes all made themselves known to Codadad, who embraced them one after another, and told them how uneasy their father was on account of their absence. They gave their deliverer all the commendations he deserved, as did the other prisoners, who could not find words expressive enough to declare their gratitude. Codadad, with them, searched the whole castle, where was immense wealth: curious silks, gold brocades, Persian carpets, China satins, and an infinite quantity of other goods, which the black had taken from the caravans he had plundered, a considerable part whereof belonged to the prisoners Codadad had then liberated. Every man knew and claimed his property. The prince restored them their own, and divided the rest of the merchandise among them. Then he said to them: "How will you carry away your goods? We are here in a desert place, and there is no likelihood of your getting horses." "My lord," answered one of the prisoners, "the black robbed us of our camels, as well as of our goods, and perhaps they may be in the stables of this castle." "That is not unlikely," replied Codadad; "let us examine." Accordingly they went to the stables, where they not only found the camels, but also the horses belonging to the sultan of Harran's sons. All the merchants, overjoyed that they had recovered their goods and camels, together with their liberty, thought of nothing but prosecuting their journey; but first repeated their thanks to their deliverer.

When they were gone, Codadad, directing his discourse to the lady, said: "What place, madam, do you desire to go to? I intend to bear you company to the spot you shall choose for your retreat, and I question not but that all these princes will do the same." The sultan of Harran's sons protested to the lady, that they would not leave her till she was restored to her friends.

"Princes," said she, "I am of a country too remote from here; and, besides that, it would be abusing your generosity to oblige you to travel so far. I must confess that I have left my native country for ever. I told you that I was a lady of Grand Cairo; but since you have shewn me so much favour, I should be much in the wrong in concealing the truth from you: I am a sultan's daughter. A usurper has possessed himself of my father's throne, after having murdered him, and I have been forced to fly to save my life."

Codadad and his brothers requested the princess to tell them her story, and after thanking them for their repeated protestations of readiness to serve her, she could not refuse to satisfy their curiosity, and began the recital of her adventures in the following manner.

"There was in a certain island," said the princess, "a great city called Deryabar, governed by a magnificent and virtuous sultan, who had no children, which was the only blessing wanting to make him happy. He continually addressed his prayers to Heaven, but Heaven only partially granted his requests, for the queen his wife, after a long expectation, brought forth a daughter.

"I am that unfortunate princess; my father was rather grieved than pleased at my birth; but he submitted to the will of God, and caused me to be educated with all possible care, being resolved, since he had no son, to teach me the art of ruling, that I might supply his place after his death.

"There was, at the court of Deryabar, an orphan youth of good birth whom the sultan, my father, had befriended and educated according to his rank. He was very handsome, and, not wanting ability, found means to please my father, who conceived a great friendship for him. All the courtiers perceived it, and guessed that the young man might in the end be my husband. In this idea, and looking on him already as heir to the crown, they made their court to him, and every one endeavoured to gain his favour. He soon saw into their designs, and forgetting the distance there was between our conditions, flattered himself with the hopes that my father was fond enough of him to prefer him before all the princes in the world. He went farther; for the sultan not offering me to him as soon as he could have wished, he had the boldness to ask me of him. Whatever punishment his insolence deserved, my father was satisfied with telling him he had other thoughts in relation to me. The youth was incensed at this refusal; he resented the contempt, as if he had asked some maid of ordinary extraction, or as if his birth had been equal to mine. Nor did he stop here, but resolved to be revenged on the sultan, and with unparalleled ingratitude conspired against him. In short, he murdered him, and caused himself to be proclaimed sovereign of Deryabar. The grand vizier, however, while the usurper was butchering my father came to carry me away from the palace, and secured me in a friend's house, till a vessel he had provided was ready to sail. I then left the island, attended only by a governess and that generous minister, who chose rather to follow his master's daughter than to submit to a tyrant.

"The grand vizier designed to carry me to the courts of the neighbouring sultans, to implore their assistance, and excite them to revenge my father's death; but Heaven did not concur in a resolution we thought so just. When we had been but a few days at sea, there arose such a furious storm, that our vessel, carried away by the violence of the winds and waves, was dashed in pieces against a rock. My governess, the grand vizier, and all that attended me, were swallowed up by the sea. I lost my senses; and whether I was thrown upon the coast, or whether Heaven wrought a miracle for my deliverance, I found myself on shore when my senses returned.

"In my despair and horror I was on the point of casting myself into the sea again; when I heard behind me a great noise of men and horses. I looked about to see what it might be, and espied several armed horsemen, among whom was one mounted on an Arabian charger. He had on a garment embroidered with silver, a girdle set with precious stones, and a crown of gold on his head. Though his habit had not convinced me that he was chief of the company, I should have judged it by the air of grandeur which appeared in his person. He was a young man extraordinarily well shaped, and perfectly beautiful. Surprised to see a young lady alone in that place, he sent some of his officers to ask who I was. I answered only by weeping. The shore being covered with the wreck of our ship, they concluded that I was certainly some person who had escaped from the vessel. This conjecture excited the curiosity of the officers, who began to ask me a thousand questions, with assurances that their master was a generous prince, and that I should receive protection at his court.

"The sultan, impatient to know who I was, grew weary of waiting the return of his officers, and drew near to me. He gazed on me very earnestly, and observing that I did not cease weeping, without being able to return an answer to their questions, he forbade them troubling me any more; and directing his discourse to me: 'Madam,' said he, 'I conjure you to moderate your excessive affliction. I dare assure you that, if your misfortunes are capable of receiving any relief, you shall find it in my dominions. You shall live with the queen my mother, who will endeavour by her kindness to ease your affliction. I know not yet who you are, but I find I already take an interest in your welfare.'

"I thanked the young sultan for his goodness to me, accepted his obliging offer; and to convince him that I was not unworthy of them, told him my condition. When I had done speaking, the prince assured me that he was deeply concerned at my misfortunes. He then conducted me to his palace, and presented me to the queen his mother, to whom I was obliged again to repeat my misfortunes. The queen seemed very sensible of my trouble, and conceived extreme affection for me. On the other hand, the sultan her son fell desperately in love with me, and soon offered me his hand and his crown. I was so taken up with the thoughts of my calamities, that the prince, though so lovely a person, did not make so great an impression on me as he might have done at another time. However, gratitude prevailing, I did not refuse to make him happy, and our nuptials were concluded with all imaginable splendour.

"While the people were taken up with the celebration of their sovereign's nuptials, a neighbouring prince, his enemy, made a descent by night on the island with a great number of troops and surprised and cut to pieces my husband's subjects. We escaped very narrowly, for he had already entered the palace with some of his followers; but we found means to slip away and to get to the sea-coast, where we threw ourselves into a fishing-boat which we had the good fortune to meet with. Two days we were driven about by the winds, without knowing what would become of us. The third day we espied a vessel making toward us under sail. We rejoiced at first, believing it had been a merchant-ship which might take us aboard; but what was our consternation, when, as it drew near, we saw ten or twelve armed pirates appear on the deck. Having boarded, five or six of them leaped into our boat, seized us, bound the prince, and conveyed us into their ship, where they immediately took off my veil. My youth and features touched them, and they all declared how much they were charmed at the sight of me. Instead of casting lots, each of them claimed the preference, and me as his right. The dispute grew warm, they came to blows, and fought like madmen. The deck was soon covered with dead bodies, and they were all killed but one, who, being left sole possessor of me, said: 'You are mine. I will carry you to Grand Cairo, to deliver you to a friend of mine, to whom I have promised a beautiful slave. But who,' added he, looking upon the sultan, my husband, 'is that man? What relation does he bear to you? Are you allied by blood or love?' 'Sir,' answered I, 'he is my husband.' 'If so,' replied the pirate, 'in pity I must rid myself of him: it would be too great an affliction to him to see you disposed of to another.' Having spoken these words, he took up the unhappy prince, who was bound, and threw him into the sea, notwithstanding all my endeavours to prevent him.

"I shrieked in a dreadful manner at the sight of what he had done, and had certainly cast myself into the sea also, but that the pirate held me. He saw my design, and therefore bound me with cords to the main-mast, then hoisting sail, made toward the land, and got ashore. He unbound me and led me to a little town, where he bought camels, tents, and slaves, and then set out for Grand Cairo, designing, as he still said, to present me to his friend, according to his promise.

"We had been several days upon the road, when, as we were crossing this plain yesterday, we descried the black who inhabited this castle. At a distance we took him for a tower, and when near us, could scarcely believe him to be a man. He drew his huge cimeter, and summoned the pirate to yield himself prisoner, with all his slaves and the lady he was conducting. You know the end of this dreadful adventure and can foresee what would have been my fate had you, generous prince, not come to my deliverance."

As it drew near we saw ten or twelve armed pirates appear on the deck.

As soon as the princess had finished the recital of her adventures, Codadad declared to her that he was deeply concerned at her misfortunes. "But, madam," added he, "it shall be your own fault if you do not live at ease for the future. The sultan of Harran's sons offer you a safe retreat in the court of their father; be pleased to accept of it, and if you do not disdain the affection of your deliverer, permit me to assure you of it, and to espouse you before all these princes; let them be witnesses to our contract." The princess consented, and the marriage was concluded that very day in the castle, where they found all sorts of provisions, with an abundance of delicious wine and other liquors.

They all sat down at table; and after having eaten and drunk plentifully, took with them the rest of the provisions, and set out for the sultan of Harran's court. They travelled several days, encamping in the pleasantest places they could find, and were within one day's journey of Harran, when Codadad, directing his discourse to all his company, said: "Princes, I have too long concealed from you who I am. Behold your brother Codadad! I, as well as you, received my being from the sultan of Harran, the prince of Samaria brought me up, and the Princess Pirouze is my mother. Madam," added he, addressing himself to the princess of Deryabar, "do you also forgive me for having concealed my birth from you? Perhaps, by discovering it sooner, I might have prevented some disagreeable reflections, which may have been occasioned by a match you may have thought unequal." "No, sir," answered the princess "the opinion I at first conceived of you heightened every moment and you did not stand in need of the extraction you now discover to make me happy."

The princes congratulated Codadad on his birth, and expressed much satisfaction at being made acquainted with it. But in reality, instead of rejoicing, their hatred of so amiable a brother was increased. They met together at night, and forgetting that had it not been for the brave son of Pirouze they must have been devoured by the black, agreed among themselves to murder him. "We have no other course to choose," said one of them, "for the moment our father shall come to understand that this stranger, of whom he is already so fond, is our brother, he will declare him his heir, and we shall all be obliged to obey and fall down before him." He added much more, which made such an impression on their unnatural minds, that they immediately repaired to Codadad, then asleep, stabbed him repeatedly, and leaving him for dead in the arms of the princess of Deryabar, proceeded on their journey to the city of Harran, where they arrived the next day.

The sultan their father conceived the greater joy at their return, because he had despaired of ever seeing them again: he asked what had been the occasion of their stay. But they took care not to acquaint him with it, making no mention either of the black or of Codadad; and only said, that being curious to see different countries, they had spent some time in the neighbouring cities.

In the meantime Codadad lay in his tent weltering in his blood and little differing from a dead man, with the princess his wife, who seemed to be in not much better condition than himself. She rent the air with her dismal shrieks, tore her hair, and bathing her husband's body with her tears, "Alas! Codadad, my dear Codadad," cried she, "is it you whom I behold just departing this life? Can I believe these are your brothers who have treated you so unmercifully, those brothers whom thy valour had saved? O Heaven! which has condemned me to lead a life of calamities, if you will not permit me to have a consort, why did you permit me to find one? Behold, you have now robbed me of two, just as I began to be attached to them."

By these and other moving expressions the afflicted princess of Deryabar vented her sorrow, fixing her eyes on the unfortunate Codadad, who could not hear her; but he was not dead, and his consort, observing that he still breathed, ran to a large town she espied in the plain, to inquire for a surgeon. She was directed to one, who went immediately with her; but when they came to the tent, they could not find Codadad, which made them conclude he had been dragged away by some wild beast to be devoured. The princess renewed her complaints and lamentations in a most affecting manner. The surgeon was moved, and being unwilling to leave her in so distressed a condition, proposed to her to return to the town, offering her his house and service.

She suffered herself to be prevailed upon. The surgeon conducted her to his house, and without knowing, as yet, who she was, treated her with all imaginable courtesy and respect. He used all his endeavours to comfort her, but it was vain to think of removing her sorrow. "Madam," said he to her one day, "be pleased to recount to me your misfortunes; tell me your country and your condition. Perhaps I may give you some good advice, when I am acquainted with all the circumstances of your calamity."

The surgeon's words were so efficacious, that they wrought on the princess, who recounted to him all her adventures; and when she had done, the surgeon directed his discourse to her: "Madam," said he, "you ought not thus to give way to your sorrow; you ought rather to arm yourself with resolution, and perform what the duty of a wife requires of you. You are bound to avenge your husband. If you please, I will wait on you as your attendant. Let us go to the sultan of Harran's court; he is a good and a just prince. You need only represent to him in lively colours, how Prince Codadad has been treated by his brothers. I am persuaded he will do you justice." "I submit to your reasoning," answered the princess; "it is my duty to endeavour to avenge Codadad; and since you are so generous as to offer to attend me, I am ready to set out." No sooner had she fixed this resolution, than the surgeon ordered two camels to be made ready, on which the princess and he mounted, and repaired to Harran.

They alighted at the first caravanserai they found, and inquired of the host the news at court. "Deryabar," said he, "is in very great perplexity. The sultan had a son, who lived long with him as a stranger, and none can tell what is become of the young prince. One of the sultan's wives, named Pirouze, is his mother; she has made all possible inquiry, but to no purpose. The sultan has forty-nine other sons, all by different mothers, but not one of them has virtue enough to comfort him for the death of Codadad; I say, his death, because it is impossible he should be still alive, since no intelligence has been heard of him, notwithstanding so much search has been made."

The surgeon, having heard this account from the host, concluded that the best course the princess of Deryabar could take was to wait upon Pirouze; but that step required much precaution: for it was to be feared that if the sultan of Harran's sons should happen to hear of the arrival of their sister-in-law and her design, they might cause her to be conveyed away before she could discover herself. The surgeon weighed all these circumstances, and therefore, that he might manage matters with discretion, desired the princess to remain in the caravanserai, whilst he repaired to the palace, to observe which might be the safest way to conduct her to Pirouze.

He went accordingly into the city, and was walking toward the palace, when he beheld a lady mounted on a mule richly accoutred. She was followed by several ladies mounted also on mules, with a great number of guards and black slaves. All the people formed a lane to see her pass along, and saluted her by prostrating themselves on the ground. The surgeon paid her the same respect, and then asked a calendar, who happened to stand by him, whether that lady was one of the sultan's wives. "Yes, brother," answered the calendar, "she is, and the most honoured and beloved by the people, because she is the mother of Prince Codadad, of whom you must have heard."

The surgeon asked no more questions, but followed Pirouze to a mosque, into which she went to distribute alms, and assist at the public prayers which the sultan had ordered to be offered up for the safe return of Codadad. The surgeon broke through the throng and advanced to Pirouze's guards. He waited the conclusion of the prayers, and when the princess went out, stepped up to one of her slaves, and whispered him in the ear: "Brother, I have a secret of moment to impart to the Princess Pirouze: may not I be introduced into her apartment?" "If that secret," answered the slave, "relates to Prince Codadad I dare promise you shall have audience of her; but if it concern not him, it is needless for you to be introduced; for her thoughts are all engrossed by her son." "It is only about that dear son," replied the surgeon, "that I wish to speak to her." "If so," said the slave, "you need but follow us to the palace, and you shall soon have the opportunity."

Accordingly, as soon as Pirouze was returned to her apartment, the slave acquainted her that a person unknown had some important information to communicate to her, and that it related to Prince Codadad. No sooner had he uttered these words, than Pirouze expressed her impatience to see the stranger. The slave immediately conducted him into the princess's closet who ordered all her women to withdraw, except two, from whom she concealed nothing. As soon as she saw the surgeon, she asked him eagerly what news he had to tell her of Codadad. "Madam," answered the surgeon, after having prostrated himself on the ground, "I have a long account to give you, and such as will surprise you." He then related all the particulars of what had passed between Codadad and his brothers, which she listened to with eager attention; but when he came to speak of the murder, the tender mother fainted away on her sofa, as if she had herself been stabbed like her son. Her two women soon brought her to herself and the surgeon continued his relation; and when he had concluded, Pirouze said to him: "Go back to the princess of Deryabar, and assure her from me that the sultan shall soon own her for his daughter-in-law; and as for yourself, your services shall be rewarded as liberally as they deserve."

When the surgeon was gone, Pirouze remained on the sofa in such a state of affliction as may easily be imagined; and yielding to her tenderness at the recollection of Codadad, "O my son!" said she, "I must never then expect to see you more! Unfortunate Codadad, why did you leave me?" While she uttered these words, she wept bitterly, and her two attendants, moved by her grief, mingled their tears with hers.

Whilst they were all three in this manner vying in affliction, the sultan came into the closet, and seeing them in this condition, asked Pirouze whether she had received any bad news concerning Codadad. "Alas! sir," said she, "all is over, my son has lost his life, and to add to my sorrow, I cannot pay him the funeral rites; for, in all probability, wild beasts have devoured him." She then told him all she had heard from the surgeon, and did not fail to enlarge on the inhuman manner in which Codadad had been murdered by his brothers.

The sultan did not give Pirouze time to finish her relation, but transported with anger, and giving way to his passion, "Madam," said he to the princess, "those perfidious wretches who cause you to shed these tears, and are the occasion of mortal grief to their father, shall soon feel the punishment due to their guilt." The sultan, having spoken these words, with indignation in his countenance, went directly to the presence-chamber, where all his courtiers attended, and such of the people as had petitions to present to him. They were alarmed to see him in passion, and thought his anger had been kindled against them. He ascended the throne, and causing his grand vizier to approach, "Hassan," said he, "go immediately, take a thousand of my guards, and seize all the princes, my sons; shut them up in the tower used as a prison for murderers, and let this be done in a moment." All who were present trembled at this extraordinary command; and the grand vizier, without uttering a word, laid his hand on his head, to express his obedience, and hastened from the hall to execute his orders. In the meantime the sultan dismissed those who attended for audience, and declared he would not hear of any business for a month to come. He was still in the hall when the vizier returned. "Are all my sons," demanded he, "in the tower?" "They are, sir," answered the vizier; "I have obeyed your orders." "This is not all," replied the sultan, "I have farther commands for you:" and so saying he went out of the hall of audience, and returned to Pirouze's apartment, the vizier following him. He asked the princess where Codadad's widow had taken up her lodging. Pirouze's women told him, for the surgeon had not forgotten that in his relation. The sultan then turning to his minister, "Go," said he, "to this caravanserai, and conduct a young princess who lodges there, with all the respect due to her quality, to my palace."

The vizier was not long in performing what he was ordered. He mounted on horseback with all the emirs and courtiers, and repaired to the caravanserai, where the princess of Deryabar was lodged, whom he acquainted with his orders; and presented her, from the sultan, with a fine white mule, whose saddle and bridle were adorned with gold, rubies, and diamonds. She mounted, and proceeded to the palace. The surgeon attended her, mounted on a beautiful Tartar horse which the vizier had provided for him. All the people were at their windows, or in the streets, to see the cavalcade; and it being given out that the princess, whom they conducted in such state to court, was Codadad's wife, the city resounded with acclamations, the air rung with shouts of joy, which would have been turned into lamentations had that prince's fatal adventure been known, so much was he beloved by all.

The princess of Deryabar found the sultan at the palace gate waiting to receive her: he took her by the hand and led her to Pirouze's apartment, where a very moving scene took place. Codadad's wife found her affliction redouble at the sight of her husband's father and mother; as, on the other hand, those parents could not look on their son's wife without being much affected. She cast herself at the sultan's feet, and having bathed them with tears, was so overcome with grief that she was not able to speak. Pirouze was in no better state, and the sultan, moved by these affecting objects, gave way to his own feelings and wept. At length the princess of Deryabar, being somewhat recovered, recounted the adventure of the castle and Codadad's disaster. Then she demanded justice for the treachery of the princes. "Yes, madam," said the sultan, "those ungrateful wretches shall perish; but Codadad's death must be first made public, that the punishment of his brothers may not cause my subjects to rebel; and though we have not my son's body, we will not omit paying him the last duties." This said, he directed his discourse to the vizier, and ordered him to cause to be erected a dome of white marble, in a delightful plain, in the midst of which the city of Harran stands. Then he appointed the princess of Deryabar a suitable apartment in his palace, acknowledging her for his daughter-in-law.

Hassan caused the work to be carried on with such diligence, and employed so many workmen, that the dome was soon finished. Within it was erected a tomb, which was covered with gold brocade. When all was completed, the sultan ordered prayers to be said, and appointed a day for the obsequies of his son.

On that day all the inhabitants of the city went out upon the plain to see the ceremony performed. The gate of the dome was then closed, and all the people returned to the city. Next day there were public prayers in all the mosques, and the same was continued for eight days successively. On the ninth the king resolved to cause the princes his sons to be beheaded. The people, incensed at their cruelty toward Codadad, impatiently expected to see them executed. The scaffolds were erecting, but the execution was respited, because, on a sudden, intelligence was brought that the neighbouring princes who had before made war on the sultan of Harran, were advancing with more numerous forces than on the first invasion, and were then not far from the city. This news gave new cause to lament the loss of Codadad, who had signalised himself in the former war against the same enemies. The sultan, nothing dismayed, formed a considerable army, and being too brave to await the enemies' attack within his walls, marched out to meet them. They, on their side, being informed that the sultan of Harran was marching to engage them, halted in the plain, and formed their army.

As soon as the sultan discovered them, he also drew up his forces, and ranged them in order of battle. The signal was given, and he attacked them with extraordinary vigour; nor was the opposition inferior. Much blood was shed on both sides, and the victory long remained dubious; but at length it seemed to incline to the sultan of Harran's enemies, who, being more numerous, were upon the point of surrounding him, when a great body of cavalry appeared on the plain, and approached the two armies. The sight of this fresh party daunted both sides, neither knowing what to think of them; but their doubts were soon cleared; for they fell upon the flank of the sultan of Harran's enemies with such a furious charge, that they soon broke and routed them. Nor did they stop here; they pursued them, and cut most of them in pieces.

The sultan of Harran, who had attentively observed all that passed, admired the bravery of this strange body of cavalry, whose unexpected arrival had given the victory to his army. But, above all, he was charmed with their chief, whom he had seen fighting with a more than ordinary valour. He longed to know the name of the generous hero. Impatient to see and thank him, he advanced toward him, but perceived he was coming to prevent him. The two princes drew near, and the sultan of Harran, discovering Codadad in the brave warrior who had just defeated his enemies, became motionless with joy and surprise. "Father," said Codadad to him, "you have sufficient cause to be astonished at the sudden appearance of a man whom perhaps you concluded to be dead. I should have been so, had not Heaven preserved me still to serve you against your enemies." "O my son," cried the sultan, "is it possible that you are restored to me? Alas! I despaired of seeing you more." So saying, he stretched out his arms to the young prince, who flew to such a tender embrace.

"I know all, my son," said the sultan again, after having long held him in his arms. "I know what return your brothers have made you for delivering them out of the hands of the black; but you shall be revenged to-morrow. Let us now go to the palace where your mother, who has shed so many tears on your account, expects to rejoice with us on the defeat of our enemies. What a joy will it be to her to be informed that my victory is your work!" "Sir," said Codadad, "give me leave to ask how you could know the adventure of the castle? Have any of my brothers, repenting, owned it to you?" "No," answered the sultan; "the princess of Deryabar has given us an account of everything, for she is in my palace, and came thither to demand justice against your brothers." Codadad was transported with joy, to learn that the princess his wife was at the court. "Let us go, sir," cried he to his father in rapture, "let us go to my mother, who waits for us. I am impatient to dry her tears, as well as those of the princess of Deryabar."

The sultan immediately returned to the city with his army, and re-entered his palace victorious, amidst the acclamations of the people, who followed him in crowds, praying to Heaven to prolong his life, and extolling Codadad to the skies. They found Pirouze and her daughter-in-law waiting to congratulate the sultan; but words cannot express the transports of joy they felt when they saw the young prince with him: their embraces were mingled with tears of a very different kind from those they had before shed for him. When they had sufficiently yielded to all the emotions that the ties of blood and love inspired, they asked Codadad by what miracle he came to be still alive.

He answered that a peasant mounted on a mule happening accidentally to come into the tent where he lay senseless, and perceiving him alone and stabbed in several places, had made him fast on his mule, and carried him to his house, where he applied to his wounds certain herbs, which recovered him. "When I found myself well," added he, "I returned thanks to the peasant, and gave him all the diamonds I had. I then made for the city of Harran; but being informed by the way that some neighbouring princes had gathered forces, and were on their march against the sultan's subjects, I made myself known to the villagers, and stirred them up to undertake his defence. I armed a great number of young men, and heading them, happened to arrive at the time when the two armies were engaged."

When he had done speaking, the sultan said: "Let us return thanks to God for having preserved Codadad; but it is requisite that the traitors who would have destroyed him should perish." "Sir," answered the generous prince, "though they are wicked and ungrateful, consider they are your own flesh and blood: they are my brothers; I forgive their offence, and beg you to pardon them." This generosity drew tears from the sultan, who caused the people to be assembled, and declared Codadad his heir. He then ordered the princes, who were prisoners, to be brought out loaded with irons. Pirouze's son struck off their chains, and embraced them all successively with as much sincerity and affection as he had done in the black's castle. The people were charmed with Codadad's generosity, and loaded him with applause. The surgeon was next nobly rewarded in requital of the services he had done the princess of Deryabar and the court of Harran remained thereafter in perfect joy and felicity.



The Story Of Sinbad The Voyager


In the reign of the Caliph Haroun-al-Raschid, there lived at Bagdad a poor porter called Hindbad. One day, when the weather was excessively hot, he was employed to carry a heavy burden from one end of the town to the other. Having still a great way to go, he came into a street where a refreshing breeze blew on his face, and the pavement was sprinkled with rose water. As he could not desire a better place to rest, he took off his load, and sat upon it, near a large mansion.

He was much pleased that he stopped in this place; for the agreeable smell of wood of aloes, and of pastils, that came from the house, mixing with the scent of the rose-water, completely perfumed the air. Besides, he heard from within a concert of instrumental music, accompanied with the harmonious notes of nightingales. This charming melody, and the smell of savoury dishes, made the porter conclude there was a feast within. His business seldom leading him that way, he knew not to whom the mansion belonged; but to satisfy his curiosity he went to some of the servants, whom he saw standing at the gate in magnificent apparel, and asked the name of the proprietor. "How," replied one of them, "do you live in Bagdad, and know not that this is the house of Sinbad the sailor, that famous voyager, who has sailed round the world?" The porter, who had heard of this Sinbad's riches, lifted up his eyes to Heaven, and said, loud enough to be heard: "Almighty creator of all things, consider the difference between Sinbad and me! I am every day exposed to fatigues and calamities, and can scarcely get barley-bread for myself and my family, whilst happy Sinbad expends immense riches and leads a life of pleasure. What has he done to obtain a lot so agreeable? And what have I done to deserve one so wretched?"

Whilst the porter was thus indulging his melancholy, a servant came out of the house, and taking him by the arm, bade him follow him, for Sinbad, his master, wanted to speak to him.

The servants brought him into a great hall, where a number of people sat round a table, covered with all sorts of savoury dishes. At the upper end sat a venerable gentleman, with a long white beard, and behind him stood a number of officers and domestics, all ready to attend his pleasure. This personage was Sinbad. The porter, whose fear was increased at the sight of so many people, and of a banquet so sumptuous, saluted the company trembling. Sinbad bade him draw near, and seating him at his right hand, served him himself, and gave him a cup of excellent wine.

When the repast was over, Sinbad addressed his conversation to Hindbad, and inquired his name and employment. "My lord," answered he, "my name is Hindbad." "I am very glad to see you," replied Sinbad; "but I wish to hear from your own mouth what it was you lately said in the street." Sinbad had himself heard the porter complain through the window, and this it was that induced him to have him brought in.

At this request, Hindbad hung down his head in confusion, and replied: "My lord, I confess that my fatigue put me out of humour, and occasioned me to utter some indiscreet words, which I beg you to pardon." "Do not think I am so unjust," resumed Sinbad, "as to resent such a complaint, but I must rectify your error concerning myself. You think, no doubt, that I have acquired, without labour and trouble, the ease which I now enjoy. But do not mistake; I did not attain to this happy condition, without enduring for several years more trouble of body and mind than can well be imagined. Yes, gentlemen," he added, speaking to the whole company, "I can assure you my troubles were so extraordinary, that they were calculated to discourage the most covetous from undertaking such voyages as I did, to acquire riches. Perhaps you have never heard a distinct account of my wonderful adventures; and since I have this opportunity, I will give you a faithful account of them, not doubting but it will be acceptable."


The First Voyage

"I inherited from my father considerable property, the greater part of which I squandered in my youth in dissipation; but I perceived my error, and reflected that riches were perishable, and quickly consumed by such ill managers as myself, I further considered, that by my irregular way of living I wretchedly misspent my time; which is, of all things, the most valuable. Struck with these reflections, I collected the remains of my fortune, and sold all my effects by public auction. I then entered into a contract with some merchants, who traded by sea. I took the advice of such as I thought most capable, and resolving to improve what money I had, I embarked with several merchants on board a ship which we had jointly fitted out.

"We set sail, and steered our course toward the Indies through the Persian Gulf, which is formed by the coasts of Arabia Felix on the right, and by those of Persia on the left. At first I was troubled with sea-sickness, but speedily recovered my health, and was not afterward subject to that complaint.

"In our voyage we touched at several islands, where we sold or exchanged our goods. One day, whilst under sail, we were becalmed near a small island, but little elevated above the level of the water, and resembling a green meadow. The captain ordered his sails to be furled, and permitted such persons as were so inclined to land; of which number I was one.

"But while we were enjoying ourselves in eating and drinking, and recovering ourselves from the fatigue of the sea, the island on a sudden trembled, and shook us terribly.

"The motion was perceived on board the ship, and we were called upon to re-embark speedily, or we should all be lost; for what we took for an island proved to be the back of a sea monster. The nimblest got into the sloop, others betook themselves to swimming; but for myself, I was still upon the back of the creature when he dived into the sea, and I had time only to catch hold of a piece of wood that we had brought out of the ship. Meanwhile, the captain, having received those on board who were in the sloop, and taken up some of those that swam, resolved to improve the favourable gale that had just risen, and hoisting his sails, pursued his voyage, so that it was impossible for me to recover the ship.

"Thus was I exposed to the mercy of the waves all the rest of the day and the following night. By this time I found my strength gone, and despaired of saving my life, when happily a wave threw me against an island. The bank was high and rugged; so that I could scarcely have got up, had it not been for some roots of trees, which chance placed within reach. Having gained the land, I lay down upon the ground half dead, until the sun appeared. Then, though I was very feeble, both from hard labour and want of food, I crept along to find some herbs fit to eat, and had the good luck not only to procure some, but likewise to discover a spring of excellent water, which contributed much to recover me. After this I advanced farther into the island, and at last reached a fine plain, where at a great distance I perceived some horses feeding. I went toward them, and as I approached heard the voice of a man, who immediately appeared, and asked me who I was. I related to him my adventure, after which, taking me by the hand, he led me into a cave, where there were several other people, no less amazed to see me than I was to see them.

"I partook of some provisions which they offered me. I then asked them what they did in such a desert place, to which they answered, that they were grooms belonging to the Maha-raja, sovereign of the island, and that every year, at the same season they brought thither the king's horses for pasturage. They added, that they were to return home on the morrow, and had I been one day later, I must have perished, because the inhabited part of the island was at a great distance, and it would have been impossible for me to have got thither without a guide.

"Next morning they returned to the capital of the island, took me with them, and presented me to the Maha-raja. He asked me who I was, and by what adventure I had come into his dominions. After I had satisfied him, he told me he was much concerned for my misfortune, and at the same time ordered that I should want nothing; which commands his officers were so generous as to see exactly fulfilled.

"Being a merchant, I frequented men of my own profession, and particularly inquired for those who were strangers, that perchance I might hear news from Bagdad, or find an opportunity to return. They put a thousand questions respecting my country; and I, being willing to inform myself as to their laws and customs, asked them concerning everything which I thought worth knowing.

"There belongs to this king an island named Cassel. They assured me that every night a noise of drums was heard there, whence the mariners fancied that it was the residence of Degial. I determined to visit this wonderful place, and in my way thither saw fishes of one hundred and two hundred cubits long, that occasion more fear than hurt, for they are so timorous, that they will fly upon the rattling of two sticks or boards. I saw likewise other fish about a cubit in length, that had heads like owls.

"As I was one day at the port after my return, a ship arrived, and as soon as she cast anchor, they began to unload her, and the merchants on board ordered their goods to be carried into the custom-house. As I cast my eye upon some bales, and looked to the name, I found my own, and perceived the bales to be the same that I had embarked at Bussorah. I also knew the captain; but being persuaded that he believed me to be drowned, I went, and asked him whose bales these were. He replied that they belonged to a merchant of Bagdad, called Sinbad, who came to sea with him; but had unfortunately perished on the voyage, and that he had resolved to trade with the bales, until he met with some of his family, to whom he might return the profit. 'I am that Sinbad,' said I, 'whom you thought to be dead, and those bales are mine.'

"When the captain heard me speak thus, 'Heavens!' he exclaimed, 'whom can we trust in these times? There is no faith left among men. I saw Sinbad perish with my own eyes, as did also the passengers on board, and yet you tell me you are that Sinbad. What impudence is this? You tell a horrible falsehood, in order to possess yourself of what does not belong to you.' 'Have patience,' replied I; 'do me the favour to hear what I have to say.' Then I told him how I had escaped, and by what adventure I met with the grooms of the Maha-raja, who had brought me to his court.

"The captain was at length persuaded that I was no cheat; for there came people from his ship who knew me, and expressed much joy at seeing me alive. At last he recollected me himself, and embracing me, 'Heaven be praised,' said he, 'for your happy escape. I cannot express the joy it affords me; there are your goods, take and do with them as you please.' I thanked him, acknowledged his probity, and offered him part of my goods as a present, which he generously refused.

"I took out what was most valuable in my bales, and presented them to the Maha-raja, who, knowing my misfortune, asked me how I came by such rarities. I acquainted him with the circumstance of their recovery. He was pleased at my good luck, accepted my present, and in return gave me one much more considerable. Upon this, I took leave of him, and went aboard the same ship, after I had exchanged my goods for the commodities of that country. I carried with me wood of aloes, sandal, camphire, nutmegs, cloves, pepper, and ginger. We passed by several islands, and at last arrived at Bussorah, from whence I came to this city, with the value of one hundred thousand sequins. My family and I received one another with sincere affection. I bought slaves and a landed estate, and built a magnificent house. Thus I settled myself, resolving to forget the miseries I had suffered, and to enjoy the pleasures of life."

Sinbad stopped here, and ordered the musicians to proceed with their concert, which the story had interrupted. The company continued enjoying themselves till the evening, when Sinbad sent for a purse of a hundred sequins, and giving it to the porter, said: "Take this, Hindbad, return to your home, and come back to-morrow to hear more of my adventures." The porter went away, astonished at the honour done, and the present made him. The account of this adventure proved very agreeable to his wife and children, who did not fail to return thanks to God for what providence had sent them by the hand of Sinbad.

Hindbad put on his best apparel next day, and returned to the bountiful traveller, who welcomed him heartily. When all the guests had arrived, dinner was served. When it was ended, Sinbad, addressing himself to the company, said, "Gentlemen, be pleased to listen to the adventures of my second voyage; they deserve your attention even more than those of the first." Upon this every one held his peace, and Sinbad proceeded.


The Second Voyage

"I designed, after my first voyage, to spend the rest of my days at Bagdad, but it was not long ere I grew weary of an indolent life. My inclination to trade revived. I bought goods proper for the commerce I intended, and put to sea a second time with merchants of known probity. We embarked on board a good ship, and after recommending ourselves to God, set sail. We traded from island to island, and exchanged commodities with great profit. One day we landed on an island covered with several sorts of fruit-trees, but we could see neither man nor animal. We went to take a little fresh air in the meadows, along the streams that watered them. Whilst some diverted themselves with gathering flowers, and others fruits, I took my wine and provisions, and sat down near a stream betwixt two high trees which formed a thick shade. I made a good meal, and afterward fell asleep. I cannot tell how long I slept, but when I awoke the ship was gone.

"I got up and looked around me, but could not see one of the merchants who landed with me. I perceived the ship under sail, but at such a distance, that I lost sight of her in a short time.

"In this sad condition, I was ready to die with grief. I cried out in agony, and threw myself upon the ground, where I lay some time in despair. I upbraided myself a hundred times for not being content with the produce of my first voyage, that might have sufficed me all my life. But all this was in vain, and my repentance came too late.

"At last I resigned myself to the will of God. Not knowing what to do, I climbed up to the top of a lofty tree, from whence I looked about on all sides, to see if I could discover anything that could give me hopes. When I gazed toward the sea I could see nothing but sky and water; but looking over the land I beheld something white; and coming down, I took what provision I had left, and went toward it, the distance being so great that I could not distinguish what it was.

"As I approached, I thought it to be a white dome, of a prodigious height and extent; and when I came up to it, I touched it, and found it to be very smooth. I went round to see if it was open on any side, but saw that it was not, and that there was no climbing up to the top, as it was so smooth. It was at least fifty paces round.

"By this time the sun was about to set, and all of a sudden the sky became as dark as if it had been covered with a thick cloud. I was much astonished at this sudden darkness, but much more when I found it occasioned by a bird of a monstrous size, that came flying toward me. I remembered that I had often heard mariners speak of a miraculous bird called the roc, and conceived that the great dome which I so much admired must be its egg. As I perceived the roc coming, I crept close to the egg, so that I had before me one of the bird's legs, which was as big as the trunk of a tree. I tied myself strongly to it with my turban, in hopes that next morning she would carry me with her out of this desert island. After having passed the night in this condition, the bird flew away as soon as it was daylight, and carried me so high, that I could not discern the earth; she afterward descended with so much rapidity that I lost my senses. But when I found myself on the ground, I speedily untied the knot, and had scarcely done so, when the roc, having taken up a serpent of a monstrous length in her bill, flew away.

"The spot where she left me was encompassed on all sides by mountains, that seemed to reach above the clouds, and so steep that there was no possibility of getting out of the valley. This was a new perplexity: so that when I compared this place with the desert island from which the roc had brought me I found that I had gained nothing by the change.

"As I walked through this valley, I perceived it was strewed with diamonds, some of which were of a surprising bigness. I took pleasure in looking upon them; but shortly saw at a distance such objects as greatly diminished my satisfaction, namely, a great number of serpents, so monstrous, that the least of them was capable of swallowing an elephant. They retired in the daytime to their dens, where they hid themselves from the roc, their enemy, and came out only in the night.

"I spent the day in walking about in the valley, resting myself at times in such places as I thought most convenient. When night came on, I went into a cave, where I thought I might repose in safety. I secured the entrance with a great stone to preserve me from the serpents; but not so far as to exclude the light. I supped on part of my provisions, but the serpents, which began hissing round me, put me into such extreme fear, that I could not sleep. When day appeared, the serpents retired, and I came out of the cave trembling. I can justly say, that I walked upon diamonds, without feeling any inclination to touch them. At last I sat down, and notwithstanding my apprehensions, not having closed my eyes during the night, fell asleep, after having eaten a little more of my provision. But I had scarcely shut my eyes, when something that fell by me with a great noise awaked me. This was a large piece of raw meat; and at the same time I saw several others fall down from the rocks in different places.

"I had always regarded as fabulous what I had heard sailors and others relate of the valley of diamonds, and of the stratagems employed by merchants to obtain jewels from thence; but now I found that they had stated nothing but truth. For the fact is, that the merchants come to the neighbourhood of this valley when the eagles have young ones; and, throwing great joints of meat into the valley, the diamonds upon whose points they fall stick to them; the eagles, which are stronger in this country than anywhere else, pounce with great force upon those pieces of meat, and carry them to their nests on the rocks to feed their young; the merchants at this time run to the nests, drive off the eagles by their shouts, and take away the diamonds that stick to the meat.

"Until I perceived the device I had concluded it to be impossible for me to leave this abyss, which I regarded as my grave; but now I changed my opinion, and began to think upon the means of my deliverance. I began to collect the largest diamonds I could find, and put them into the leather bag in which I used to carry my provisions. I afterward took the largest of the pieces of meat, tied it close round me with the cloth of my turban, and then laid myself upon the ground with my face downward, the bag of diamonds being made fast to my girdle.

"I had scarcely placed myself in this posture when the eagles came. Each of them seized a piece of meat, and one of the strongest having taken me up, with the piece of meat to which I was fastened, carried me to his nest on the top of the mountain. The merchants immediately began their shouting to frighten the eagles; and when they had obliged them to quit their prey, one of them came to the nest where I was. He was much alarmed when he saw me; but recovering himself, instead of inquiring how I came thither, began to quarrel with me, and asked, why I stole his goods. 'You will treat me,' replied I, 'with more civility when you know me better. Do not be uneasy, I have diamonds enough for you and myself, more than all the other merchants together. What ever they have, they owe to chance, but I selected for myself in the bottom of the valley those which you see in this bag.' I had scarcely done speaking, when the other merchants came crowding about us, much astonished to see me; but they were much more surprised when I told them my story.

"They conducted me to their encampment, and there having opened my bag, they were surprised at the largeness of my diamonds, and confessed that in all the courts which they had visited they had never seen any of such size and perfection. I prayed the merchant who owned the nest to which I had been carried (for every merchant had his own), to take as many for his share as he pleased. He contented himself with one, and that the least of them; and when I pressed him to take more, 'No,' said he, 'I am very well satisfied with this, which is valuable enough to save me the trouble of making any more voyages, and will raise as great a fortune as I desire.'

"I spent the night with the merchants, to whom I related my story a second time, for the satisfaction of those who had not heard it. I could not moderate my joy when I found myself delivered from the danger I have mentioned. I thought myself in a dream, and could scarcely believe myself out of danger.

"The merchants had thrown their pieces of meat into the valley for several days, and each of them being satisfied with the diamonds that had fallen to his lot, we left the place the next morning and travelled near high mountains, where there were serpents of a prodigious length, which we had the good fortune to escape. We took shipping at the first port we reached, and touched at the isle of Roha, where the trees grow that yield camphire. This tree is so large, and its branches so thick, that one hundred men may easily sit under its shade. The juice of which the camphire is made exudes from a hole bored in the upper part of the tree, is received in a vessel, where it thickens to a consistency, and becomes what we call camphire; after the juice is thus drawn out, the tree withers and dies.

"In this island is also found the rhinoceros, an animal less than the elephant, but larger than the buffalo. It has a horn upon its nose, about a cubit in length; this horn is solid, and cleft through the middle. The rhinoceros fights with the elephant, runs his horn into his belly, and carries him off upon his head; but the blood and the fat of the elephant running into his eyes, and making him blind, he falls to the ground; and then, strange to relate! the roc comes and carries them both away in her claws, for food for her young ones.

"In this island I exchanged some of my diamonds for merchandise. From hence we went to other ports, and at last, having touched at several trading towns of the continent, we landed at Bussorah, from whence I proceeded to Bagdad. There I immediately gave large presents to the poor, and lived honourably upon the vast riches I had gained with so much fatigue."

The spot where she left me was encompassed on all sides by mountains that seemed to reach above the clouds, and so steep that there was no possibility of getting out of the valley.

Thus Sinbad ended his relation, gave Hindbad another hundred sequins, and invited him to come the next day to hear the account of the third voyage.


The Third Voyage

"I soon lost the remembrance of the perils I had encountered in my two former voyages," said Sinbad, "and being in the flower of my age, I grew weary of living without business, and went from Bagdad to Bussorah with the richest commodities of the country. There I embarked again with some merchants. We made a long voyage and touched at several ports, where we carried on a considerable trade. One day, being out in the main ocean, we were overtaken by a dreadful tempest, which drove us from our course. The tempest continued several days, and brought us before the port of an island, which the captain was very unwilling to enter, but we were obliged to cast anchor. When we had furled our sails, the captain told us that this, and some other neighbouring islands, were inhabited by hairy savages, who would speedily attack us; and, though they were but dwarfs, yet we must make no resistance, for they were more in number than the locusts; and if we happened to kill one of them they would all fall upon us and destroy us.

"We soon found that what he had told us was but too true; an innumerable multitude of frightful savages, about two feet high, covered all over with red hair, came swimming towards us, and encompassed our ship. They spoke to us as they came near, but we understood not their language and they climbed up the sides of the ship with such agility as surprised us. They took down our sails, cut the cables, and hauling to the shore, made us all get out, and afterward carried the ship into another island, from whence they had come.

"We went forward into the island, where we gathered some fruits and herbs to prolong our lives as long as we could; but we expected nothing but death. As we advanced, we perceived at a distance a vast pile of buildings, and made toward it. We found it to be a palace, elegantly built, and very lofty, with a gate of ebony, which we forced open. We entered the court, where we saw before us a large apartment, with a porch, having on one side a heap of human bones, and on the other a vast number of roasting spits. We trembled at this spectacle, and being fatigued with travelling, fell to the ground, seized with deadly apprehension, and lay a long time motionless.

"The sun set, the gate of the apartment opened with a loud crash, and there came out the horrible figure of a black man, as tall as a lofty palm-tree. He had but one eye, and that in the middle of his forehead, where it looked as red as a burning coal. His fore-teeth were very long and sharp, and stood out of his mouth, which was as deep as that of a horse. His upper lip hung down upon his breast. His ears resembled those of an elephant, and covered his shoulders; and his nails were as long and crooked as the talons of the greatest birds. At the sight of so frightful a giant we became insensible, and lay like dead men.

"At last we came to ourselves, and saw him sitting in the porch looking at us. When he had considered us well, he advanced toward us, and laying his hand upon me, took me up by the nape of my neck, and turned me round as a butcher would do a sheep's head. After having examined me, and perceiving me to be so lean that I had nothing but skin and bone, he let me go. He took up all the rest one by one, and viewed them in the same manner. The captain being the fattest, he held him with one hand, as I would do a sparrow, and thrust a spit through him; he then kindled a great fire, roasted, and ate him in his apartment for his supper. Having finished his repast, he returned to his porch, where he lay and fell asleep, snoring louder than thunder. He slept thus till morning. As to ourselves, it was not possible for us to enjoy any rest, so that we passed the night in the most painful apprehension that can be imagined. When day appeared the giant awoke, got up, went out, and left us in the palace.

"When we thought him at a distance, we broke the melancholy silence we had preserved the whole of the night, and filled the palace with our lamentations and groans.

"We spent the day in traversing the island, supporting ourselves with fruits and herbs as we had done the day before. In the evening we sought for some place of shelter, but found none; so that we were forced, whether we would or not, to go back to the palace.

"The giant failed not to return, and supped once more upon one of our companions, after which he slept and snored till day, and then went out and left us as before. Our situation appeared to us so dreadful that several of my comrades designed to throw themselves into the sea, rather than die so painful a death, upon which one of the company answered that it would be much more reasonable to devise some method to rid ourselves of the monster.

"Having thought of a project for this purpose, I communicated it to my comrades, who approved it. 'Brethren,' said I, 'you know there is much timber floating upon the coast; if you will be advised by me, let us make several rafts capable of bearing us. In the meantime, we will carry out the design I proposed to you for our deliverance from the giant, and if it succeed, we may remain here patiently awaiting the arrival of some ship; but if it happen to miscarry, we will take to our rafts and put to sea.' My advice was approved, and we made rafts capable of carrying three persons on each.

"We returned to the palace toward the evening, and the giant arrived shortly after. We were forced to submit to seeing another of our comrades roasted, but at last we revenged ourselves on the brutish giant in the following manner. After he had finished his supper he lay down on his back and fell asleep. As soon as we heard him snore, according to his custom, nine of the boldest among us, and myself, took each of us a spit, and putting the points of them into the fire till they were burning hot, we thrust them into his eye all at once and blinded him. The pain made him break out into a frightful yell: he started up, and stretched out his hands, in order to sacrifice some of us to his rage: but we ran to such places as he could not reach; and after having sought for us in vain, he groped for the gate and went out, howling in agony.

"We quitted the palace after the giant and came to the shore, where we had left our rafts, and put them immediately to sea. We waited till day, in order to get upon them in case the giant should come toward us with any guide of his own species; but we hoped if he did not appear by sunrise, and gave over his howling, which we still heard, that he would prove to be dead; and if that happened, we resolved to stay in that island, and not to risk our lives upon the rafts. But day had scarcely appeared when we perceived our cruel enemy, accompanied with two others almost of the same size, leading him; and a great number more coming before him at a quick pace.

"We did not hesitate to take to our rafts, and put to sea with all the speed we could. The giants, who perceived this, took up great stones, and running to the shore, entered the water up to the middle, and threw so exactly that they sunk all the rafts but that I was upon; and all my companions, except the two with me, were drowned. We rowed with all our might, and escaped the giants, but when we got out to sea we were exposed to the mercy of the waves and winds, and spent that night and the following day under the most painful uncertainty as to our fate; but next morning we had the good fortune to be thrown upon an island, where we landed with much joy. We found excellent fruit, which afforded us great relief and recruited our strength.

"At night we went to sleep on the sea shore; but were awakened by the noise of a serpent of surprising length and thickness, whose scales made a rustling noise as he wound himself along. It swallowed up one of my comrades, notwithstanding his loud cries, and the efforts he made to extricate himself from it; dashing him several times against the ground, it crushed him, and we could hear it gnaw and tear the poor wretch's bones, though we had fled to a considerable distance.

"As we walked about, when day returned, we saw a tall tree, upon which we designed to pass the following night, for our security; and having satisfied our hunger with fruit, we mounted it before the dusk had fallen. Shortly after, the serpent came hissing to the foot of the tree; raised itself up against the trunk of it, and meeting with my comrade, who sat lower than I, swallowed him at once, and went off.

"I remained upon the tree till it was day, and then came down, more like a dead man than one alive, expecting the same fate as my two companions. This filled me with horror, and I advanced some steps to throw myself into the sea; but I withstood this dictate of despair, and submitted myself to the will of God.

"In the meantime I collected a great quantity of small wood, brambles, and dry thorns, and making them up into faggots, made a wide circle with them round the tree, and also tied some of them to the branches over my head. Having done this, when the evening came I shut myself up within this circle, feeling that I had neglected nothing which could preserve me from the cruel destiny with which I was threatened. The serpent failed not to come at the usual hour, and went round the tree, seeking for an opportunity to devour me, but was prevented by the rampart I had made; so that he lay till day, like a cat watching in vain for a mouse that has fortunately reached a place of safety. When day appeared he retired, but I dared not to leave my fort until the sun arose.

"I felt so much fatigued by the labour to which it had put me, and suffered so much from the serpent's poisonous breath, that death seemed more eligible to me than the horrors of such a state. I came down from the tree, and was going to throw myself into the sea, when God took compassion on me and I perceived a ship at a considerable distance. I called as loud as I could, and taking the linen from my turban, displayed it, that they might observe me. This had the desired effect; the crew perceived me, and the captain sent his boat for me. As soon as I came on board, the merchants and seamen flocked about me, to know how I came into that desert island; and after I had related to them all that had befallen me, the oldest among them said that they had often heard of the giants that dwelt in that island, that they were cannibals; and as to the serpents, they added, that there were abundance of them that hid themselves by day, and came abroad by night. After having testified their joy at my escaping so many dangers, they brought me the best of their provisions; and the captain, seeing that I was in rags, was so generous as to give me one of his own suits. We continued at sea for some time, touched at several islands, and at last landed at that of Salabat, where sandal wood is obtained, which is of great use in medicine. We entered the port, and came to anchor. The merchants began to unload their goods, in order to sell or exchange them. In the meantime, the captain came to me and said: 'Brother, I have here some goods that belonged to a merchant, who sailed some time on board this ship, and he being dead, I design to dispose of them for the benefit of his heirs.' The bales he spoke of lay on the deck, and showing them to me, he said: 'There are the goods; I hope you will take care to sell them, and you shall have factorage.' I thanked him for thus affording me an opportunity of employing myself, because I hated to be idle.

"The clerk of the ship took an account of all the bales, with the names of the merchants to whom they belonged, and when he asked the captain in whose name he should enter those he had given me the charge of, 'Enter them,' said the captain, 'in the name of Sinbad.' I could not hear myself named without some emotion; and looking steadfastly on the captain, I knew him to be the person who, in my second voyage, had left me in the island where I fell asleep.

"I was not surprised that he, believing me to be dead, did not recognise me. 'Captain,' said I, 'was the merchant's name, to whom those bales belonged, Sinbad?' 'Yes,' replied he, 'that was his name; he came from Bagdad, and embarked on board my ship at Bussorah.' 'You believe him, then, to be dead?' said I. 'Certainly,' answered he. 'No, captain,' resumed I; 'look at me, and you may know that I am Sinbad.'

"The captain, having considered me attentively, recognised me. 'God be praised,' said he, embracing me, 'I rejoice that fortune has rectified my fault. There are your goods, which I always took care to preserve.' I took them from him, and made him the acknowledgments to which he was entitled.

"From the isle of Salabat, we went to another, where I furnished myself with cloves, cinnamon, and other spices. As we sailed from this island, we saw a tortoise twenty cubits in length and breadth. We observed also an amphibious animal like a cow, which gave milk; its skin is so hard, that they usually make bucklers of it.

"In short, after a long voyage I arrived at Bussorah, and from thence returned to Bagdad, with so much wealth that I knew not its extent. I gave a great deal to the poor, and bought another considerable estate in addition to what I had already."

Having finished his repast, he returned to his porch, where he lay and fell asleep, snoring louder than thunder.

Thus Sinbad finished the history of his third voyage; gave another hundred sequins to Hindbad, and invited him to dinner again the next day to hear the story of his fourth series of adventures.


The Fourth Voyage

"The pleasures which I enjoyed after my third voyage had not charms sufficient to divert me from another. My passion for trade, and my love of novelty, again prevailed. I therefore settled my affairs, and having provided a stock of goods fit for the traffic I designed to engage in, I set out on my journey. I took the route of Persia, travelled over several provinces, and then arrived at a port, where I embarked. We hoisted our sails, and touched at several ports of the continent, and then put out to sea; when we were overtaken by such a sudden gust of wind, as obliged the captain to lower his yards, and take all other necessary precautions to prevent the danger that threatened us. But all was in vain; our endeavours had no effect, the sails were split in a thousand pieces, and the ship was stranded; several of the merchants and seamen were drowned, and the cargo was lost.

"I had the good fortune, with several of the merchants and mariners, to get upon some planks, and we were carried by the current to an island which lay before us. There we found fruit and spring water, which preserved our lives. We stayed all night near the place where we had been cast ashore and next morning, as soon as the sun was up, advancing into the island, saw some houses, which we approached. As soon as we drew near, we were encompassed by a great number of negroes, who seized us and carried us to their respective habitations.

"I, and five of my comrades, were carried to one place; here they made us sit down, and gave us a certain herb, which they made signs to us to eat. My comrades, not taking notice that the blacks ate none of it themselves, thought only of satisfying their hunger, and ate with greediness. But I, suspecting some trick, would not so much as taste it, which happened well for me; for in a little time after, I perceived my companions had lost their senses, and that when they spoke to me, they knew not what they said.

"The negroes fed us afterward with rice, prepared with oil of cocoa-nuts; and my comrades, who had lost their reason, ate of it greedily. I also partook of it, but very sparingly. They gave us that herb at first on purpose to deprive us of our senses, that we might not be aware of the sad destiny prepared for us; and they supplied us with rice to fatten us; for, being cannibals, their design was to eat us as soon as we grew fat. This accordingly happened, for they devoured my comrades, who were not sensible of their condition; but my senses being entire, you may easily guess that instead of growing fat I grew leaner every day. The fear of death under which I laboured caused me to fall into a languishing distemper, which proved my safety; for the negroes, having eaten my companions, seeing me to be withered, and sick, deferred my death.

"Meanwhile I had much liberty, so that scarcely any notice was taken of what I did, and this gave me an opportunity one day to get at a distance from the houses and to make my escape. An old man, who saw me and suspected my design, called to me as loud as he could to return; but I redoubled my speed, and quickly got out of sight. At that time there was none but the old man about the houses, the rest being abroad, and not to return till night, which was usual with them. Therefore, being sure that they could not arrive in time enough to pursue me, I went on till night, when I stopped to rest a little, and to eat some of the provisions I had secured; but I speedily set forward again, and travelled seven days, avoiding those places which seemed to be inhabited, and lived for the most part upon cocoa-nuts, which served me both for meat and drink. On the eighth day I came near the sea, and saw some white people like myself, gathering pepper, of which there was great plenty in that place. This I took to be a good omen, and went to them without any scruple. They came to meet me as soon as they saw me, and asked me in Arabic who I was, and whence I came. I was overjoyed to hear them speak in my own language, and satisfied their curiosity by giving them an account of my shipwreck, and how I fell into the hands of the negroes. 'Those negroes,' replied they, 'eat men, and by what miracle did you escape their cruelty?' I related to them the circumstances I have just mentioned, at which they were wonderfully surprised.

"I stayed with them till they had gathered their quantity of pepper, and then sailed with them to the island from whence they had come. They presented me to their king, who was a good prince. He had the patience to hear the relation of my adventures; and he afterward gave me clothes, and commanded care to be taken of me.

"The island was very well peopled, plentiful in everything, and the capital a place of great trade. This agreeable retreat was very comfortable to me, after my misfortunes, and the kindness of this generous prince completed my satisfaction. In a word, there was not a person more in favour with him than myself; and consequently every man in court and city sought to oblige me; so that in a very little time I was looked upon rather as a native than a stranger.

"I observed one thing which to me appeared very extraordinary. All the people, the king himself not excepted, rode their horses without bridle or stirrups. This made me one day take the liberty to ask the king how it came to pass. His Majesty answered, that I talked to him of things which nobody knew the use of in his dominions.

"I went immediately to a workman, and gave him a model for making the stock of a saddle. When that was done, I covered it myself with velvet and leather, and embroidered it with gold. I afterward went to a smith, who made me a bit, according to the pattern I showed him, and also some stirrups. When I had all things completed, I presented them to the king, and put them upon one of his horses. His Majesty mounted immediately, and was so pleased with them, that he testified his satisfaction by large presents.

"As I paid my court very constantly to the king, he said to me one day: 'Sinbad, I love thee and I have one thing to demand of thee, which thou must grant.' 'Sir,' answered I, 'there is nothing but I will do, as a mark of my obedience to your Majesty.' 'I have a mind thou shouldst marry,' replied he, 'that so thou mayest stay in my dominions, and think no more of thy own country.' I durst not resist the prince's will, and he gave me one of the ladies of his court, noble, beautiful, and rich. The ceremonies of marriage being over, I went and dwelt with my wife, and for some time we lived together in perfect harmony. I was not, however, satisfied with my banishment, therefore designed to make my escape the first opportunity, and to return to Bagdad.

"At this time the wife of one of my neighbours fell sick, and died. I went to see and comfort him in his affliction, and finding him absorbed in sorrow, I said to him as soon as I saw him: 'God preserve you and grant you a long life.' 'Alas!' replied he, 'how do you think I should obtain the favour you wish me? I have not above an hour to live.' 'Pray,' said I, 'do not entertain such a melancholy thought; I hope I shall enjoy your company many years.' 'I wish you,' he replied, 'a long life; but my days are at an end, for I must be buried this day with my wife. This is a law which our ancestors established in this island, and it is always observed. The living husband is interred with the dead wife, and the living wife with the dead husband. Nothing can save me; every one must submit to this law.'

"While he was giving me an account of this barbarous custom, the very relation of which chilled my blood, his kindred, friends, and neighbours came in a body to assist at the funeral. They dressed the corpse of the woman in her richest apparel, and all her jewels, as if it had been her wedding day; then they placed her in an open coffin, and began their march to the place of burial, the husband walking at the head of the company. They proceeded to a high mountain, and when they had reached the place of their destination, they took up a large stone, which covered the mouth of a deep pit, and let down the corpse with all its apparel and jewels. Then the husband embracing his kindred and friends, suffered himself, without resistance, to be put into another open coffin with a pot of water, and seven small loaves, and was let down in the same manner. The ceremony being over, the aperture was again covered with the stone, and the company returned.

"It is needless for me to tell you that I was a melancholy spectator of this funeral, while the rest were scarcely moved, the custom was to them so familiar. I could not forbear communicating to the king my sentiment respecting the practice: 'Sir,' I said, 'I cannot but feel astonished at the strange usage observed in this country, of burying the living with the dead. I have been a great traveller, and seen many countries, but never heard of so cruel a law.' 'What do you mean, Sinbad?' replied the king: 'it is a common law. I shall be interred with the queen, my wife, if she die first.' 'But, sir,' said I, 'may I presume to ask your Majesty, if strangers be obliged to observe this law?' 'Without doubt,' returned the king; 'they are not exempted, if they be married in this island.'

"I returned home much depressed by this answer; for the fear of my wife's dying first and that I should be interred alive with her, occasioned me very uneasy reflections. But there was no remedy; I must have patience, and submit to the will of God. I trembled, however, at every little indisposition of my wife, and, alas! in a little time my fears were realised, for she fell sick and died.

"The king and all his court expressed their wish to honour the funeral with their presence, and the most considerable people of the city did the same. When all was ready for the ceremony, the corpse was put into a coffin with all her jewels and her most magnificent apparel. The procession began, and as second actor in this doleful tragedy, I went next the corpse, with my eyes full of tears, bewailing my deplorable fate. Before we reached the mountain, I made an attempt to affect the minds of the spectators: I addressed myself to the king first, and then to all those that were round me; bowing before them to the earth, and kissing the border of their garments, I prayed them to have compassion upon me. 'Consider,' said I, 'that I am a stranger, and ought not to be subject to this rigorous law, and that I have another wife and children in my own country.' Although I spoke in the most pathetic manner, no one was moved by my address; on the contrary, they ridiculed my dread of death as cowardly, made haste to let my wife's corpse into the pit, and lowered me down the next moment in an open coffin with a vessel full of water and seven loaves.

"As I approached the bottom, I discovered by the aid of the little light that came from above the nature of this subterranean place; it seemed an endless cavern, and might be about fifty fathoms deep.

"Instead of losing my courage and calling death to my assistance in that miserable condition, however, I felt still an inclination to live, and to do all I could to prolong my days. I went groping about, for the bread and water that was in my coffin, and took some of it. Though the darkness of the cave was so great that I could not distinguish day and night, yet I always found my coffin again, and the cave seemed to be more spacious than it had appeared to be at first. I lived for some days upon my bread and water, which being all spent, I at last prepared for death.

"I was offering up my last devotions when I heard something tread, and breathing or panting as it walked. I advanced toward that side from whence I heard the noise, and on my approach the creature puffed and blew harder, as if running away from me. I followed the noise, and the thing seemed to stop sometimes, but always fled and blew as I approached. I pursued it for a considerable time, till at last I perceived a light, resembling a star; I went on, sometimes lost sight of it, but always found it again, and at last discovered that it came through a hole in the rock, large enough to admit a man.

"Upon this, I stopped some time to rest, being much fatigued with the rapidity of my progress: afterward coming up to the hole, I got through, and found myself upon the seashore. I leave you to guess the excess of my joy: it was such that I could scarcely persuade myself that the whole was not a dream.

"But when I was recovered from my surprise, and convinced of the reality of my escape, I perceived what I had followed to be a creature which came out of the sea, and was accustomed to enter the cavern when the tides were high.

"I examined the mountain, and found it to be situated betwixt the sea and the town, but without any passage to or communication with the latter; the rocks on the sea side being high and perpendicularly steep. I prostrated myself on the shore to thank God for this mercy, and afterward entered the cave again to fetch bread and water, which I ate by daylight with a better appetite than I had done since my interment in the dark cavern.

"I returned thither a second time, and groped among the coffins for all the diamonds, rubies, pearls, gold bracelets, and rich stuffs I could find; these I brought to the shore, and tying them up neatly into bales, I laid them together upon the beach, waiting till some ship might appear.

"After two or three days, I perceived a ship just come out of the harbour, making for the place where I was. I made a sign with the linen of my turban, and called to the crew as loud as I could. They heard me, and sent a boat to bring me on board, when they asked by what misfortune I came thither; I told them that I had suffered shipwreck two days before, and made shift to get ashore with the goods they saw. It was fortunate for me that these people did not consider the place where I was, nor inquire into the probability of what I told them; but without hesitation took me on board. When I came to the ship, the captain was so well pleased to have saved me, and so much taken up with his own affairs, that he also took the story of my pretended shipwreck upon trust, and generously refused some jewels which I offered him.

"We passed by several islands, and among others that called the isle of Bells, about ten days' sail from Serendib, and six from that of Kela, where we landed. This island produces lead mines, Indian canes, and excellent camphire.

"The King of the isle of Kela is very rich and powerful, and the isle of Bells, which is about two days' journey in extent, is also subject to him. The inhabitants are so barbarous that they still eat human flesh. After we had finished our traffic in that island, we put to sea again, and touched at several other ports; at last I arrived happily at Bagdad with infinite riches. Out of gratitude to God for His mercies, I contributed liberally toward the support of several mosques, and the subsistence of the poor, and gave myself up to the society of my kindred and friends, enjoying myself with them in festivities and amusements."

Here Sinbad finished the relation of his fourth voyage. He made a new present of one hundred sequins to Hindbad, whom he requested to return with the rest next day at the same hour to dine with him, and hear the story of his fifth voyage. Hindbad and the other guests took their leave and retired. Next morning when they all met, they sat down at table, and when dinner was over, Sinbad began the relation of his fifth voyage as follows:


The Fifth Voyage

"All the troubles and calamities I had undergone," said he, "could not cure me of my inclination to make new voyages. I therefore bought goods, departed with them for the best seaport; and that I might not be obliged to depend upon a captain, but have a ship at my own command, I remained there till one was built on purpose. When the ship was ready, I went on board with my goods: but not having enough to load her, I agreed to take with me several merchants of different nations with their merchandise.

"We sailed with the first fair wind, and after a long navigation, the first place we touched at was a desert island, where we found an egg of a roc, equal in size to that I formerly mentioned. There was a young roc in it just ready to be hatched, and its bill had begun to appear. The merchants whom I had taken on board, and who landed with me, broke the egg with hatchets, pulled out the young roc, piecemeal, and roasted it. I had earnestly entreated them not to meddle with the egg, but they would not listen to me.

"Scarcely had they finished their repast, when there appeared in the air at a considerable distance from us two great clouds. The captain whom I had hired to navigate my ship, said they were the male and female roc that belonged to the young one and pressed us to re-embark with all speed, to prevent the misfortune which he saw would otherwise befall us. We hastened on board, and set sail with all possible expedition.

"In the meantime, the two rocs approached with a frightful noise, which they redoubled when they saw the egg broken, and their young one gone. They flew back in the direction they had come, and disappeared for some time, while we made all the sail we could to endeavour to prevent that which unhappily befell us.

"They soon returned, and we observed that each of them carried between its talons rocks of a monstrous size. When they came directly over my ship, they hovered, and one of them let fall a stone, but by the dexterity of the steersman it missed us. The other roc, to our misfortune, threw his burden so exactly upon the middle of the ship, as to split it into a thousand pieces. The mariners and passengers were all crushed to death, or sank. I myself was of the number of the latter; but as I came up again, I fortunately caught hold of a piece of the wreck, and swimming sometimes with one hand, and sometimes with the other, I came to an island, and got safely ashore.

"I sat down upon the grass, to recover myself from my fatigue, after which I went into the island to explore it. I found trees everywhere, some of them bearing green, and others ripe fruits, and streams of fresh pure water. I ate of the fruits, which I found excellent; and drank of the water, which was very good.

"When I was a little advanced into the island, I saw an old man, who appeared very weak and infirm. He was sitting on the bank of a stream, and at first I took him to be one who had been shipwrecked like myself. I went toward him and saluted him, but he only slightly bowed his head. I asked him why he sat so still, but instead of answering me, he made a sign for me to take him upon my back, and carry him over the brook, signifying that it was to gather fruit.

"I believed him really to stand in need of my assistance, took him upon my back, and having carried him over, bade him get down, and for that end stooped, that he might get off with ease; but instead of doing so (which I laugh at every time I think of it) the old man, who to me appeared quite decrepit, clasped his legs nimbly about my neck. He sat astride upon my shoulders, and held my throat so tight, that I thought he would have strangled me, the apprehension of which made me swoon and fall down.

"Notwithstanding my fainting, the ill-natured old fellow kept fast about my neck, but opened his legs a little to give me time to recover my breath. When I had done so, he thrust one of his feet against my stomach, and struck me so rudely on the side with the other that he forced me to rise up against my will. Having arisen, he made me walk under the trees, and forced me now and then to stop, to gather and eat fruit. He never left me all day, and when I lay down to rest at night, laid himself down with me, holding always fast about my neck. Every morning he pushed me to make me awake, and afterward obliged me to get up and walk, and pressed me with his feet.

"One day I found in my way several dry calabashes that had fallen from a tree. I took a large one, and after cleaning it, pressed into it some juice of grapes, which abounded in the island; having filled the calabash, I put it by in a convenient place, and going thither again some days after, I tasted it, and found the wine so good, that it soon made me forget my sorrow, gave me new vigour, and so exhilarated my spirits, that I began to sing and dance as I walked along.

"The old man, perceiving the effect which this liquor had upon me, and that I carried him with more ease than before, made me a sign to give him some of it. I handed him the calabash, and the liquor pleasing his palate, he drank it all off. There being a considerable quantity of it, he became intoxicated, and the fumes getting up into his head, he began to sing after his manner, and to dance, thus loosening his legs from about me by degrees. Finding that he did not press me as before, I threw him upon the ground, where he lay without motion; I then took up a great stone, and crushed him.

"I was extremely glad to be thus freed forever from this troublesome fellow. I now walked toward the beach, where I met the crew of a ship that had cast anchor, to take in water. They were surprised to see me, but more so at hearing the particulars of my adventures. 'You fell,' said they, 'into the hands of the Old Man of the Sea, and are the first who ever escaped strangling by his malicious tricks. He never quits those he has once made himself master of till he has destroyed them, and he has made this island notorious by the number of men he has slain.'

"After having informed me of these things, they carried me with them to the ship, and the captain received me with great kindness, when they told him what had befallen me. He put out again to sea, and after some days' sail, we arrived at the harbour of a great city.

"One of the merchants who had taken me into his friendship invited me to go along with him, and carried me to a place appointed for the accommodation of foreign merchants. He gave me a large bag, and having recommended me to some people of the town, who used to gather cocoa-nuts, desired them to take me with them. 'Go,' said he, 'follow them, and act as you see them do, but do not separate from them, otherwise you may endanger your life.' Having thus spoken, he gave me provisions for the journey, and I went with them.

"We came to a thick forest of cocoa-trees, very lofty, with trunks so smooth that it was not possible to climb to the branches that bore the fruit. When we entered the forest we saw a great number of apes of several sizes, who fled as soon as they perceived us, and climbed up to the top of the trees with surprising swiftness.

"The merchants with whom I was, gathered stones and threw them at the apes on the trees. I did the same, and the apes out of revenge threw cocoa-nuts at us so fast, and with such gestures, as sufficiently testified their anger and resentment. We gathered up the cocoa-nuts, and from time to time threw stones to provoke the apes; so that by this stratagem we filled our bags with cocoa-nuts, which it had been impossible otherwise to have done.

"When we had gathered our number, we returned to the city, where the merchant who had sent me to the forest gave me the value of the cocoas I brought: 'Go on,' said he, 'and do the like every day, until you have got money enough to carry you home.' I thanked him for his advice, and gradually collected as many cocoa-nuts as produced me a considerable sum.

"The vessel in which I had come sailed with some merchants who loaded her with cocoa-nuts. I embarked in her all the nuts I had, and when she was ready to sail took leave of the merchant who had been so kind to me.

"We sailed toward the islands, where pepper grows in great plenty. From thence we went to the isle of Comari, where the best species of wood of aloes grows. I exchanged my cocoa in those two islands for pepper and wood of aloes, and went with other merchants a pearl-fishing. I hired divers, who brought me up some that were very large and pure. I embarked in a vessel that happily arrived at Bussorah; from thence I returned to Bagdad, where I made vast sums from my pepper, wood of aloes, and pearls. I gave the tenth of my gains in alms, as I had done upon my return from my other voyages, and endeavoured to dissipate my fatigues by amusements of different kinds."

When Sinbad had finished his story, he ordered one hundred sequins to be given to Hindbad, who retired with the other guests; but next morning the same company returned to dine; when Sinbad requested their attention, and gave the following account of his sixth voyage:


The Sixth Voyage

"You long without doubt to know," said he, "how, after having been shipwrecked five times, and escaped so many dangers, I could resolve again to tempt fortune, and expose myself to new hardships. I am, myself, astonished at my conduct when I reflect upon it, and must certainly have been actuated by my destiny. But be that as it may, after a year's rest I prepared for a sixth voyage, notwithstanding the entreaties of my kindred, who did all in their power to dissuade me.

"Instead of taking my way by the Persian Gulf, I travelled once more through several provinces of Persia and the Indies, and arrived at a seaport, where I embarked in a ship, the captain of which was bound on a long voyage. It was long indeed, for the captain and pilot lost their course. They, however, at last discovered where they were, but we had no reason to rejoice at the circumstance. Suddenly we saw the captain quit his post, uttering loud lamentations. He threw off his turban, pulled his beard, and beat his head like a madman. We asked him the reason, and he answered, that he was in the most dangerous place in all the ocean. 'A rapid current carries the ship along with it,' said he, 'and we shall all perish in less than a quarter of an hour. Pray to God to deliver us from this peril; we cannot escape, if He do not take pity on us.' At these words he ordered the sails to be lowered; but all the ropes broke, and the ship was carried by the current to the foot of an inaccessible mountain, where she struck and went to pieces, yet in such a manner that we saved our lives, our provisions, and the best of our goods.

"This being over, the captain said to us: 'God has done what pleased Him. Each of us may dig his grave, and bid the world adieu; for we are all in so fatal a place, that none shipwrecked here ever returned to their homes.' His discourse afflicted us sensibly, and we embraced each other, bewailing our deplorable lot.

"The mountain at the foot of which we were wrecked formed part of the coast of a very large island. It was covered with wrecks, with human bones, and with a vast quantity of goods and riches. In all other places, rivers run from their channels into the sea, but here a river of fresh water runs out of the sea into a dark cavern, whose entrance is very high and spacious. What is most remarkable in this place is, that the stones of the mountain are of crystal, rubies, or other precious stones. Here is also a sort of fountain of pitch or bitumen, that runs into the sea, which the fish swallow, and turn into ambergris: and this the waves throw up on the beach in great quantities. Trees also grow here, most of which are wood of aloes, equal in goodness to those of Comari.

"To finish the description of this place, which may well be called a gulf, since nothing ever returns from it, it is not possible for ships to get off when once they approach within a certain distance. If they be driven thither by a wind from the sea, the wind and the current impel them; and if they come into it when a land-wind blows, the height of the mountain stops the wind, and occasions a calm, so that the force of the current carries them ashore: and what completes the misfortune is, that there is no possibility of ascending the mountain, or of escaping by sea.

"We continued upon the shore in a state of despair, and expected death every day. At first we divided our provisions as equally as we could, and thus every one lived a longer or shorter time, according to his temperance, and the use he made of his provisions.

"I survived all my companions, yet when I buried the last, I had so little provision remaining that I thought I could not long endure and I dug a grave, resolving to lie down in it because there was no one left to inter me.

"But it pleased God once more to take compassion on me, and put it in my mind to go to the bank of the river which ran into the great cavern. Considering its probable course with great attention, I said to myself: 'This river, which runs thus under ground, must somewhere have an issue. If I make a raft, and leave myself to the current, it will convey me to some inhabited country, or I shall perish. If I be drowned, I lose nothing, but only change one kind of death for another.'

"I immediately went to work upon large pieces of timber and cables, for I had choice of them, and tied them together so strongly that I soon made a very solid raft. When I had finished, I loaded it with rubies, emeralds, ambergris, rock-crystal, and bales of rich stuffs. Having balanced my cargo exactly, and fastened it well to the raft, I went on board with two oars that I had made, and leaving it to the course of the river, resigned myself to the will of God.

"As soon as I entered the cavern I lost all light, and the stream carried me I knew not whither. Thus I floated some days in perfect darkness, and once found the arch so low, that it very nearly touched my head, which made me cautious afterward to avoid the like danger. All this while I ate nothing but what was just necessary to support nature; yet, notwithstanding my frugality, all my provisions were spent. Then a pleasing stupor seized upon me. I cannot tell how long it continued; but when I revived, I was surprised to find myself in an extensive plain on the brink of a river, where my raft was tied, amidst a great number of negroes. I got up as soon as I saw them, and saluted them. They spoke to me, but I did not understand their language. I was so transported with joy, that I knew not whether I was asleep or awake; but being persuaded that I was not asleep, I recited aloud the following words in Arabic: 'Call upon the Almighty, He will help thee; thou needest not perplex thyself about anything else: shut thy eyes, and while thou art asleep, God will change thy bad fortune into good.'

"One of the blacks, who understood Arabic, hearing me speak thus, came toward me and said: 'Brother, be not surprised to see us; we are inhabitants of this country, and came hither to-day to water our fields. We observed something floating upon the water, and, perceiving your raft, one of us swam into the river and brought it hither, where we fastened it, as you see, until you should awake. Pray tell us your history, for it must be extraordinary; how did you venture yourself into this river, and whence did you come?' I begged of them first to give me something to eat, and then I would satisfy their curiosity. They gave me several sorts of food, and when I had satisfied my hunger, I related all that had befallen me, which they listened to with attentive surprise. As soon as I had finished, they told me, by the person who spoke Arabic and interpreted to them what I said, that it was one of the most wonderful stories they had ever heard, and that I must go along with them, and tell it to their king myself; it being too extraordinary to be related by any other than the person to whom the events had happened.

"They immediately sent for a horse, which was brought in a little time; and having helped me to mount, some of them walked before to shew the way, while the rest took my raft and cargo and followed.

"We marched till we came to the capital of Serendib, for it was in that island I had landed. The blacks presented me to their king; I approached his throne, and saluted him as I used to do the Kings of the Indies; that is to say, I prostrated myself at his feet. The prince ordered me to rise, received me with an obliging air, and made me sit down near him.

"I related to the king all that I have told you, and his majesty was so surprised and pleased, that he commanded my adventures to be written in letters of gold, and laid up in the archives of his kingdom. At last my raft was brought in, and the bales opened in his presence: he admired the quantity of wood of aloes and ambergris; but, above all, the rubies and emeralds, for he had none in his treasury that equalled them.

"Observing that he looked on my jewels with pleasure, I fell prostrate at his feet, and took the liberty to say to him: 'Sir, not only my person is at your majesty's service, but the cargo of the raft, and I would beg of you to dispose of it as your own.' He answered me with a smile: 'Sinbad, I will take care not to covet anything of yours, or to take anything from you that God has given you; far from lessening your wealth, I design to augment it, and will not let you quit my dominions without marks of my liberality.' He then charged one of his officers to take care of me, and ordered people to serve me at his own expense. The officer was very faithful in the execution of his commission, and caused all the goods to be carried to the lodgings provided for me.

"I went every day at a set hour to make my court to the king, and spent the rest of my time in viewing the city, and what was most worthy of notice.

"The capital of Serendib stands at the end of a fine valley, in the middle of the island, encompassed by mountains the highest in the world. Rubies and several sorts of minerals abound, and the rocks are for the most part composed of a metalline stone made use of to cut and polish other precious stones. All kinds of rare plants and trees grow there, especially cedars and cocoa-nut. There is also a pearl-fishing in the mouth of its principal river; and in some of its valleys are found diamonds. I made, by way of devotion, a pilgrimage to the place where Adam was confined after his banishment from Paradise, and had the curiosity to go to the top of the mountain.

"When I returned to the city, I prayed the king to allow me to return to my own country, and he granted me permission in the most honourable manner. He would needs force a rich present upon me; and when I went to take my leave of him, he gave me one much more considerable, and at the same time charged me with a letter for the Commander of the Faithful, our sovereign, saying to me: 'I pray you give this present from me, and this letter, to the Caliph, and assure him of my friendship.' I took the present and letter and promised his majesty punctually to execute the commission with which he was pleased to honour me.

"The letter from the King of Serendib was written on the skin of a certain animal of great value, because of its being so scarce, and of a yellowish colour. The characters of this letter were of azure, and the contents as follows:

"'The King of the Indies, before whom march one hundred elephants, who lives in a palace that shines with one hundred thousand rubies, and who has in his treasury twenty thousand crowns enriched with diamonds, to Caliph Haroun-al-Raschid: -- 

"'Though the present we send you be inconsiderable, receive it, however, as a brother, in consideration of the hearty friendship which we bear for you, and of which we are willing to give you proof. We desire the same part in your friendship, considering that we believe it to be our merit, being of the same dignity with yourself. We conjure you this in quality of a brother. Adieu.'

"The present consisted, first, of one single ruby made into a cup, about half a foot high, an inch thick, and filled with round pearls of half a drachm each. 2. The skin of a serpent, whose scales were as large as an ordinary piece of gold, and had the virtue to preserve from sickness those who lay upon it. 3. Fifty thousand drachms of the best wood of aloes, with thirty grains of camphire as big as pistachios. And, 4. A female slave of ravishing beauty, whose apparel was all covered over with jewels.

"The ship set sail, and after a very successful navigation we landed at Bussorah, and from thence I went to Bagdad, where the first thing I did was to acquit myself of my commission.

"I took the king of Serendib's letter and went to present myself at the gate of the Commander of the Faithful, followed by the beautiful slave, and such of my own family as carried the gifts. I stated the reason of my coming, and was immediately conducted to the throne of the caliph. I made my reverence, and, after a short speech, gave him the letter and present. When he had read what the king of Serendib wrote to him, he asked me if the prince were really so rich and potent as he represented himself in his letter. I prostrated myself a second time, and rising again, said: 'Commander of the Faithful, I can assure your majesty he doth not exceed the truth. Nothing is more worthy of admiration than the magnificence of his palace. When the prince appears in public he has a throne fixed on the back of an elephant, and marches betwixt two ranks of his ministers, favourites, and other people of his court; before him, upon the same elephant, an officer carries a golden lance in his hand; and behind the throne there is another, who stands upright, with a column of gold, on the top of which is an emerald half a foot long and an inch thick; before him march a guard of one thousand men, clad in cloth of gold and silk, and mounted on elephants richly caparisoned.

"While the king is on his march, the officer who is before him on the same elephant cries from time to time, with a loud voice: 'Behold the great monarch, the potent and redoubtable Sultan of the Indies, whose palace is covered with one hundred thousand rubies, and who possesses twenty thousand crowns of diamonds. Behold the monarch greater than Solomon, and the powerful Maha-raja.' After he has pronounced those words, the officer behind the throne cries in his turn: 'This monarch, so great and so powerful, must die, must die, must die.' And the officer before replies: 'Praise be to him who liveth for ever.'

"Furthermore, the King of Serendib is so just that there are no judges in his dominions. His people have no need of them. They understand and observe justice rigidly of themselves.'

"The caliph was much pleased with my account. 'The wisdom of that king,' said he, 'appears in his letter, and after what you tell me, I must confess, that his wisdom is worthy of his people, and his people deserve so wise a prince.' Having spoken thus, he dismissed me, and sent me home with a rich present."

Sinbad left off, and his company retired, Hindbad having first received one hundred sequins; and next day they returned to hear the relation of his seventh and last voyage.


The Seventh And Last Voyage

"Being returned from my sixth voyage," said Sinbad, "I absolutely laid aside all thoughts of travelling; for, besides that my age now required rest, I was resolved no more to expose myself to such risks as I had encountered; so that I thought of nothing but to pass the rest of my days in tranquillity. One day, however, as I was treating my friends, one of my servants came and told me that an officer of the caliph's inquired for me. I rose from table, and went to him. 'The caliph,' said he, 'has sent me to tell you that he must speak with you.' I followed the officer to the palace, where, being presented to the caliph, I saluted him by prostrating myself at his feet. 'Sinbad,' said he to me, 'I stand in need of your service; you must carry my answer and present to the King of Serendib. It is but just I should return his civility.'

"This command of the caliph was to me like a clap of thunder. 'Commander of the Faithful,' I replied, 'I am ready to do whatever your majesty shall think fit to command; but I beseech you most humbly to consider what I have undergone. I have also made a vow never to go out of Bagdad.' Hence I took occasion to give him a full and particular account of all my adventures, which he had the patience to hear out.

"As soon as I had finished, 'I confess,' said he, 'that the things you tell me are very extraordinary, yet you must for my sake undertake this voyage which I propose to you. You will only have to go to the isle of Serendib, and deliver the commission which I give you, for you know it would not comport with my dignity to be indebted to the king of that island.' Perceiving that the caliph insisted upon my compliance, I submitted, and told him that I was willing to obey. He was very well pleased, and ordered me one thousand sequins for the expenses of my journey.

"I prepared for my departure in a few days, and as soon as the caliph's letter and present were delivered to me, I went to Bussorah, where I embarked, and had a very happy voyage. Having arrived at the isle of Serendib, I acquainted the king's ministers with my commission, and prayed them to get me speedy audience. They did so, and I was conducted to the palace, where I saluted the king by prostration, according to custom. That prince knew me immediately, and testified very great joy at seeing me, 'Sinbad,' said he, 'you are welcome; I have many times thought of you since you departed; I bless the day on which we see one another once more.' I made my compliments to him, and after having thanked him for his kindness, delivered the caliph's letter and present, which he received with all imaginable satisfaction.

"The caliph's present was a complete suit of cloth of gold, valued at one thousand sequins; fifty robes of rich stuff, a hundred of white cloth, the finest of Cairo, Suez, and Alexandria; a vessel of agate broader than deep, an inch thick, and half a foot wide, the bottom of which represented in bas-relief a man with one knee on the ground, who held a bow and an arrow, ready to discharge at a lion. He sent him also a rich tablet, which, according to tradition, belonged to the great Solomon. The caliph's letter was as follows:

"'Greeting, in the name of the sovereign guide of the right way, from the dependant on God, Haroun-al-Raschid, whom God hath set in the place of vicegerent to his prophet, after his ancestors of happy memory, to the potent and esteemed Raja of Serendib: -- 

'We received your letter with joy, and send you this from our imperial residence, the garden of superior wits. We hope when you look upon it, you will perceive our good intention and be pleased with it. Adieu.'

"The King of Serendib was highly gratified that the caliph answered his friendship. A little time after this audience, I solicited leave to depart, and had much difficulty to obtain it. I procured it, however, at last, and the king, when he dismissed me, made me a very considerable present. I embarked immediately to return to Bagdad, but had not the good fortune to arrive there so speedily as I had hoped. God ordered it otherwise.

"Three or four days after my departure, we were attacked by corsairs, who easily seized upon our ship, because it was no vessel of force. Some of the crew offered resistance, which cost them their lives. But for myself and the rest, who were not so imprudent, the corsairs saved us on purpose to make slaves of us.

"We were all stripped, and instead of our own clothes, they gave us sorry rags, and carried us into a remote island, where they sold us.

"I fell into the hands of a rich merchant, who, as soon as he bought me, carried me to his house, treated me well, and clad me handsomely for a slave. Some days after, not knowing who I was, he asked me if I understood any trade. I answered, that I was no mechanic, but a merchant, and that the corsairs who sold me, had robbed me of all I possessed. 'But tell me,' replied he, 'can you shoot with a bow?' I answered, that the bow was one of my exercises in my youth. He gave me a bow and arrows, and, taking me behind him upon an elephant, carried me to a thick forest some leagues from the town. We penetrated a great way into the wood, and he bade me alight; then, shewing me a great tree, 'Climb up that,' said he, 'and shoot at the elephants as you see them pass by, for there is a prodigious number of them in this forest, and if any of them fall, come and give me notice.' Having spoken this, he left me victuals, and returned to the town, and I continued upon the tree all night.

"I saw no elephant during the night, but next morning, as soon as the sun was up, I perceived a great number. I shot several arrows among them, and at last one of the elephants fell, when the rest retired immediately, and left me at liberty to go and acquaint my patron with my booty. When I had informed him, he gave me a good meal, commended my dexterity, and caressed me highly. We went afterwards together to the forest, where we dug a hole for the elephant; my patron designing to return when it had fallen to pieces and take its teeth to trade with.

"I continued this employment for two months, and killed an elephant every day, getting sometimes upon one tree, and sometimes upon another. One morning, as I looked for the elephants, I perceived with extreme amazement that, instead of passing by me across the forest as usual, they stopped, and came to me with a horrible noise, in such number that the plain was covered, and shook under them. They encompassed the tree in which I was concealed, with their trunks extended, and all fixed their eyes upon me. At this alarming spectacle I continued immovable, and was so much terrified, that my bow and arrows fell out of my hand.

"My fears were not without cause; for after the elephants had stared upon me some time, one of the largest of them put his trunk round the foot of the tree, plucked it up, and threw it on the ground. I fell with the tree; and the elephant, taking me up with his trunk, laid me on his back, where I sat more like one dead than alive, with my quiver on my shoulder. He put himself afterward at the head of the rest, who followed him in troops, carried me a considerable way, then laid me down on the ground, and retired with all his companions. After having lain some time, and seeing the elephants gone, I got up, and found I was upon a long and broad hill, almost covered with the bones and teeth of elephants. I confess to you, that this object furnished me with abundance of reflections. I admired the instinct of those animals; I doubted not but that was their burying-place, and that they carried me thither on purpose to tell me that I should forbear to persecute them, since I did it only for their teeth. I did not stay on the hill, but turned toward the city, and, after having travelled a day and a night, I came to my patron.

"As soon as he saw me, 'Ah, poor Sinbad,' exclaimed he, 'I was in great trouble to know what was become of you. I have been at the forest, where I found a tree newly pulled up, and a bow and arrows on the ground, and I despaired of ever seeing you more. Pray tell me what befell you, and by what good chance you are still alive.' I satisfied his curiosity, and going both of us next morning to the hill, he found to his great joy that what I had told him was true. We loaded the elephant which had carried us with as many teeth as he could bear; and when we were returned, 'Brother,' said my patron, 'for I will treat you no more as my slave, after having made such a discovery as will enrich me, God bless you with all happiness and prosperity. I declare before Him, that I give you your liberty. I concealed from you what I am now going to tell you.

"'The elephants of our forest have every year killed a great many slaves, whom we sent to seek ivory. God has delivered you from their fury, and has bestowed that favour upon you only. It is a sign that He loves you, and has some use for your service in the world. You have procured me incredible wealth. Formerly we could not procure ivory but by exposing the lives of our slaves, and now our whole city is enriched by your means. I could engage all our inhabitants to contribute toward making your fortune, but I will have the glory of doing it myself.'

"To this obliging declaration I replied: 'Patron, God preserve you. Your giving me my liberty is enough to discharge what you owe me, and I desire no other reward for the service I had the good fortune to do to you, and your city, but leave to return to my own country.' 'Very well,' said he, 'the monsoon will in a little time bring ships for ivory. I will then send you home, and give you wherewith to bear your charges.' I thanked him again for my liberty and his good intentions toward me. I stayed with him expecting the monsoon; and during that time, we made so many journeys to the hill that we filled all our warehouses with ivory. The other merchants, who traded in it, did the same, for it could not be long concealed from them.

"The ships arrived at last, and my patron, himself having made choice of the ship wherein I was to embark, loaded half of it with ivory on my account, laid in provisions in abundance for my passage, and besides obliged me to accept a present of some curiosities of the country of great value. After I had returned him a thousand thanks for all his favours, I went aboard. We set sail, and as the adventure which procured me this liberty was very extraordinary, I had it continually in my thoughts.

"We stopped at some islands to take in fresh provisions. Our vessel being come to a port on the main land in the Indies, we touched there, and not being willing to venture by sea to Bussorah, I landed my proportion of the ivory, resolving to proceed on my journey by land. I made vast sums by my ivory, bought several rarities for presents, and when my equipage was ready, set out in company with a large caravan of merchants. I was a long time on the way, and suffered much, but endured all with patience, when I considered that I had nothing to fear from the seas, from pirates, from serpents, or from the other perils to which I had been exposed.

"All these fatigues ended at last, and I arrived safe at Bagdad. I went immediately to wait upon the caliph, and gave him an account of my embassy. That prince said he had been uneasy as I was so long in returning, but that he always hoped God would preserve me. When I told him the adventure of the elephants, he seemed much surprised, and would never have given any credit to it had he not known my veracity. He deemed this story, and the other relations I had given him, to be so curious, that he ordered one of his secretaries to write them in characters of gold, and lay them up in his treasury. I retired well satisfied with the honours I received, and the presents which he gave me; and ever since I have devoted myself wholly to my family, kindred and friends."

Sinbad here finished the relation of his seventh and last voyage, and then, addressing himself to Hindbad, "Well, friend," said he, "did you ever hear of any person that suffered so much as I have done, or of any mortal that has gone through so many vicissitudes? Is it not reasonable that, after all this, I should enjoy a quiet and pleasant life?" As he said this, Hindbad drew near to him, and kissing his hand, said, "I must acknowledge sir, that you have gone through many imminent dangers; my troubles are not comparable to yours; if they afflict me for a time, I comfort myself with the thoughts of the profit I get by them. You not only deserve a quiet life, but are worthy of all the riches you enjoy, because you make of them such a good and generous use. May you therefore continue to live in happiness till the day of your death!" Sinbad then gave him one hundred sequins more, received him into the number of his friends and desired him to quit his porter's employment, and come and dine every day with him, that he might have ample reason to remember Sinbad the voyager and his adventures.

<eob>

The Outdoor Girls At The Hostess House

Or

Doing Their Best For The Soldiers

By

Laura Lee Hope



Chapter I

Hero Worship


"Oh, Mollie, please be careful!"

The big car skidded perilously around a sharp curve and chug-chugged merrily down the road.

"Goodness, I've been careful so long I'm afraid it will grow on me," Mollie Billette, sometimes known as "Billy," retorted, a determined set to her pretty chin. "Someway, I've got to get it out of my system."

The automobile, a big seven-passenger car, belonged to Mollie, and the four Outdoor Girls, having secured a half-holiday from their work at the Hostess House, were out for recreation.

As may have been gathered, Mollie was driving. Amy Blackwell, fearful of an accident, was in the seat beside her, while Grace Ford and Betty Nelson, their beloved Little Captain, occupied the tonneau and amused themselves by laughing at Amy's fears.

"Well, but you needn't take it out on us," Amy said in reply to Mollie's assertion. "If you're going to take many more of those two-wheel turns, I'm going to get out and walk. Oh, Mol-lie!" The speech ended in a wail, as Mollie wickedly rounded another curve, jolting Amy half out of her seat.

"I don't know but what I agree with Amy," drawled Grace, from the tonneau, helping herself to a chocolate, upon which Betty's eye had just rested longingly. "I've been bumped around so much I can't tell whether I'm a girl or a scrambled egg. Now, look what you did!" A sudden lurch of the big car had sent the box of chocolates to the floor, where its contents rolled about aggravatingly at their feet. "Come back here, Mollie Billette, and pick them up. That's the least -- "

The rest of the sentence was never uttered, for Mollie brought the car to so sudden a stop that Grace and Betty both lurched forward and narrowly escaped bumping their noses on the back of the seat in front of them.

"Sure," said the reckless driver, turning her bright black eyes expectantly upon them. "Will you promise to give me all I pick up?"

"All you -- " Grace was beginning, striving desperately to recover her breath and her dignity at the same time, the accomplishment of which feat was decidedly retarded by growing indignation. "Goodness, I never heard such a -- "

"Very well," returned Mollie, and, without deigning to parley further, turned determinedly to the wheel. "That's all I wanted to know -- "

"Just a minute, Mollie, dearest," Betty's laughing voice broke in. "You know I'm not worrying about the chocolates at all, but I'm not particularly anxious to spoil my perfectly good shoes with crushed chocolate or, on the other hand, frump my perfectly good nose in a vain attempt to pick them -- "

"Which, candy or shoes?" Mollie broke in impishly.

"Candy," answered Betty soberly. "As I was saying, neither of these alternatives appeal to me, so, with your kind permission, I would beg you to hold your horses -- "

"As the vulgar herd would say," again murmured Mollie.

"Exactly -- as the vulgar herd would say," agreed Betty, dimpling adorably, " -- until we have a chance to collect the scattered sweets."

"You win," Mollie capitulated, speaking in a tone reserved for the "Little Captain." "Only please make Grace hurry or the afternoon will be over before she begins."

"Goodness, listen to it -- " Grace was beginning, straightening indignantly from her stooping posture and preparing once more to enter the fray. "When it's all her fault, anyway -- " But Betty upset both speech and dignity by unceremoniously pulling her down again.

"Come on! Hurry, Gracie!" she commanded. "And don't overlook any, because there's nothing so messy as a chocolate -- "

"As if there were any chance of Grace's overlooking a chocolate!" scoffed Mollie. "Why, all she has to do is whistle to 'em and they come rolling up obediently."

"Goodness, who'd want them anyway, after they've rolled around and picked up all the dust and millions of germs from the bottom of the car?" grumbled Grace, cross at having to exert herself to even so small an extent. Grace, as my old readers doubtless remember, had been born with an ease-loving disposition that not even close association with the other Outdoor Girls had served to change. Perhaps, as Mollie had once remarked, that was why the girls were so fond of her -- because she was "so different."

"Well, if you don't want 'em," Mollie replied practically, "why didn't you agree to my proposition? I promised to eat them for you, germs and all, and all I got for my sacrifice was one withering glance -- "

"At that you're lucky," Grace retorted, straightening up from a spirited chase of the last elusive chocolate, red of face and fierce of eye. "Some time I'll come to the end of my patience, and then, Mollie Billette, you'd better look out."

"My!" chuckled Betty, "isn't she fierce? Never mind, honey, Roy will give you another box, if you ask him very prettily."

"Goodness, if he can't do it without being asked," retorted Grace crossly, "he can keep his old candies."

"If I thought you meant that, I'd say you ought to be ashamed of yourself," put in Amy, with unaccustomed spirit, as Mollie threw in the clutch and the big car started off again. "Anybody that had been as good to you as Roy has been -- "

"Well, I don't know that you've been particularly neglected," retorted Grace, meaningly, while Amy reddened. "I never thought that Will could be such a perfect Romeo."

"Oh, dear," murmured Betty protestingly. "Can't we have just one good time, without bringing the boys into it?"

"Now, see who's talking," chuckled Mollie delightedly, changing into high and driving with wild, care-free recklessness along the smooth road. "Oh, Betty darling, much as I love you, there do come times when you make me laugh."

"Well, it's good to know I'm bringing happiness into some dark life," retorted Betty good-naturedly. "At least I have not lived in vain."

"And they were just mad," Mollie continued, as though talking to herself, "when they found we were going off this afternoon without them."

"Yes, and isn't it funny?" agreed Grace lazily. "They think they're so important."

"Well, they are," announced Amy suddenly, and even Mollie turned an amazed eye upon her.

"I think they're the most important people in the world," Amy continued stoutly. "I guess if we were going to give up our lives for somebody else we might think we were important, too."

"Oh, I didn't mean that way," Mollie returned, her eyes once more turning to the ribbon of road ahead while the girls' bright faces sobered thoughtfully. "Because when it comes to a thing like giving up their lives -- well, I think they're the bravest -- " Her voice broke, and in an effort to hide her emotion she nearly sent the car over the side of the road and into a six-foot ditch.

"Brave," repeated Betty, turning her eyes to the far horizon to hide the mist that suddenly gathered in them. "I don't think that's any word for our boys at all -- "

"They don't seem to realize what they're going into," Amy broke in eagerly. "Or, if they do, they won't talk about it, or let any one else -- "

"Oh, I guess it isn't that they don't realize it," Grace interrupted thoughtfully. "You know my father always used to say that a man who never knew what it was to be afraid wasn't really brave at all. He said it was the man who was scared to death in his heart, that gritted his teeth and went ahead and faced things anyway, that deserves all the credit."

"I presume that's right," said the Little Captain, leaning forward earnestly. "I don't suppose there is any one in the world who really enjoys the thought of losing an arm or a leg, or being broken in health for the rest of his life. I think what our boys are doing is just to take the fear of that with a smile and go ahead gayly to face whatever may come. Brave -- " Her voice trailed off, and for a long time there was silence while the big car hummed rhythmically along the road and the miles swept by uncounted.

"Of course, there are lots of people," Betty resumed after a while, "who say the boys just enlisted for the love of adventure, the love of a good fight, and I suppose that had something to do with it."

"Of course it had," Mollie agreed. "And that's one thing that makes it harder for us who have to stay at home and can't have any of the thrill and excitement that helps to carry the boys through. But it's only one of a dozen reasons, after all."

"I wish we knew when they were going," said Grace, irrelevantly. "The suspense is worse than anything else. It's like cutting a dog's tail off an inch at a time."

"Goodness, isn't she complimentary?" flung back Mollie, laughing. "You can compare yourself to a four-footed dog, Grace, but please leave me out of it."

"Did you ever hear of a two-footed dog?" Grace retorted.

"To change the subject," Betty interposed hastily, seeking to avoid a storm. "Don't you think it's almost time to be turning back? We've gone farther than -- Oh, Mollie! Girls! Look!"

They had rounded a curve in the road at their usual breakneck speed, and Mollie stopped the car with a jolt that very nearly sent its occupants flying into the roadway.

Before them, not twenty yards away, a little figure in black lay huddled in the road while the motorcyclist who had caused the accident, sped by the girls, exhaust open and head lowered.

Dazedly they gazed after machine and rider for a minute till they disappeared round a turn in the road. Then, with a cry of dismay, Betty tumbled out of the car, followed by the other girls.

The prostrate figure in the road lay very, very still.



Chapter II

The Accident


"Betty, is she dead?"

"Oh, I hope not," said Betty, white-faced and pitying, as she bent over the little old woman. "That man ought to be hung! I'll loosen her collar. And, Grace, see if you can find some water. Hurry, dear."

And while the girls are ministering to the poor little victim of the accident, the opportunity will be taken to tell new readers something about the Outdoor Girls and their activities and adventures in other volumes of this series.

Betty Nelson, gay and fun-loving, possessed the natural gift of leadership which had earned for her the title of "Little Captain." The girls adored her and followed her unquestioningly wherever she led.

Grace Ford was a graceful, tall, pretty girl with a decided and insatiable fondness for chocolate candy. At the outbreak of the war, or rather, at the time of America's entry into the war, her brother Will had caused her great unhappiness by his failure to enlist with the other boys of her acquaintance. The mystery had been satisfactorily explained later, however, and when this story opens, Will was on his way to make a splendid soldier in America's army of democracy.

There was a bit of French blood in Mollie Billette, or "Billy," as the girls sometimes called her. Bright black eyes which could, upon occasion, snap fire and a rather unruly temper attested to this French ancestry.

The last one of the quartette was Amy Blackford, quiet and retiring, but given to occasional outbursts which never failed to surprise and delight the girls. The mystery which at one time had surrounded her origin had been cleared up some years before by the finding of Henry Blackford, her long-lost brother.

How the girls formed a camping and tramp club and the fun they had on their interesting and adventurous tour, has been told in the first volume of the series, entitled "The Outdoor Girls of Deepdale."

After this the girls had many adventures, first at Rainbow Lake, to which they went on another tour, this time in an automobile. From there they went to a winter camp where they had many varied and exciting experiences on skates and iceboats. Then followed a glorious trip to Florida, where the girls braved many dangers and took thrilling trips into the wilds of the interior.

Their next adventure took them to Ocean View and centered about a mysterious box they found in the sand.

Then followed that glorious trip to Pine Island. An aunt of Mollie Billette had turned her bungalow over to the Outdoor Girls for the summer. During their strenuous adventures the girls had made many friends among the boys and young men of Deepdale, and four of these had asked and been granted permission by the girls to accompany them to Pine Island and pitch their camp in the woods near by.

One of the young men was Allen Washburn, a rising young lawyer and a great admirer of Betty. Another was Will Ford, Grace's brother, and a third was his high school chum, Frank Haley. The fourth, Roy Anderson, had been drawn into the circle chiefly through his admiration for Grace.

During that eventful summer on Pine Island the young people had accidentally discovered a gypsy cave, concealed by underbrush, and had succeeded not only in rounding up the band of gypsies but in recovering several valuable articles that had been stolen from the girls.

Their last adventure, related in the volume directly preceding this one, and entitled "Outdoor Girls in Army Service," found the girls and boys again at Pine Island, but under very much altered conditions. America had entered the great World War and all the boys but Will Ford had volunteered. Later, the boys were called to Camp Liberty, some distance from Deepdale, and the girls conceived the plan of opening a Hostess House for the benefit of the relatives and friends of the boys. The plan worked out very satisfactorily.

While still at Pine Island the girls and boys had come upon a suspicious looking man in the woods. Upon finding himself discovered the man had made his escape, but in his hurry had dropped a letter which the girls found to their disgust was written in code. They decided that the man must have been a German spy.

At Camp Liberty the girls succeeded in rounding up the spy, and found, to their surprise, that Will Ford, who was in the Secret Service, had been engaged all that time in tracking him to earth. Will, having accomplished his mission, immediately enlisted.

Now, at the time this story opens, the girls were still at the Hostess House and looking forward apprehensively to the time, now imminent, when the boys would be ordered across the sea to fight for the country they loved.

"I'll go with Grace," volunteered Amy, in answer to Betty's request for water. "I don't suppose we can find any, but we'll try."

The two girls hurried off, leaving Mollie and Betty to loosen the woman's collar and rub her cold hands.

"Betty, Betty, is she dead?" Mollie was crying for perhaps the hundredth time, when the woman herself answered the question by opening her eyes and looking vacantly about her.

"Who -- are -- you?" she queried faintly, struggling to rise.

"Oh, please don't try to get up just yet," Betty pleaded, looking very sweet and charming in her solicitude. "I don't think you're strong enough -- "

But the woman seemed of a different mind, and made such a desperate effort to raise herself that Betty had no alternative but to help her to her feet.

The girls supported the unsteady little figure while the dim old eyes roved questioningly about.

"I -- got -- hurt!" she gasped, and then quite suddenly fainted again.

"Oh, Betty!" moaned Mollie, her face white with pity. "She's hurt worse, much worse, than we thought she was! Oh, what shall we do?"

"There's only one thing to do," replied Betty, trying to hide the tremor in her voice. "We'll have to get her to the hospital, and in a hurry."

"But Grace and Amy!" gasped Mollie. "We can't go without them."

"We can at least get her into the car," Betty said, indicating the limp little figure in the roadway. "You take her feet, Mollie, and I'll take her head. We haven't spent all our lives outdoors for nothing."

Between them they succeeded in carrying their burden to the car and settled her gently in the tonneau.

"Oh, if Grace and Amy would only come!" Mollie was crying distractedly when the girls themselves burst through the underbrush, crying despairingly that they had not been able to find water, that there was not a house anywhere for miles around.

But Betty cut their lamentations short and hurried them into the car.

"But where do I come in?" gasped Grace, as Betty dropped into the back seat beside the little old woman and took the poor unconscious head in her arms.

"Oh, anywhere," answered Betty indifferently, her mind on one object only. "On the floor or on the roof or anywhere, only hurry. Now, Mollie dear, drive as you never drove before."

Mollie obediently threw in the clutch, and the heavy car shot forward, throwing Grace to a seat on the floor where she fell with more haste than dignity.

Nobody noticed her, however, and even a growing bump on her forehead received scant attention. All were too intent upon the matter at hand.

At this spot the road was very narrow and on each side sloped down sharply about ten or twelve feet to the level of the fields. It seemed almost an impossibility to turn the car in that narrow space without precipitating it down either one or the other of the steep banks.

After many fruitless attempts and barely escaped tragedies, however, Mollie finally succeeded, and the car was sent flying down the white stretch of road that led to Camp Liberty and the hospital.

"Oh, I hope we'll get there in time," Amy murmured over and over again, and kept looking at the pathetic little victim. "Is she still breathing, Betty? Are you sure?"

To this Betty always nodded in the affirmative, her little mouth grimly set, her eyes fixed steadily ahead, as though she would draw their destination nearer to them by the very force of her desire.

"I wonder," Mollie flung back at them from between clenched teeth, "what that motorcyclist looked like. I'd like to meet him again -- with a firing squad."

"Why I saw him," came Grace's muffled voice from the floor of the car.

"So did I," added Amy.

"So you would recognize him again?" Mollie demanded eagerly, swerving the car perilously near the edge of the road.

"Are you sure?" added Betty, taking her eyes from the far horizon and regarding Grace intently.

Both girls nodded vigorously.

"His head was down, of course," Amy continued, "but I'd know his face in a minute if I saw it again. Eyes close together, long nose -- "

"And a little mustache," Grace finished eagerly. "The kind Percy Falconer used to wear and we girls called an eyebrow on his lip."

"He must have been a thing of beauty," commented Mollie.

"He had the meanest kind of face," said Amy, with a little shudder. "The kind you wouldn't like to meet on a dark night."

"I should have judged as much from your description," said Betty dryly. "There's one good thing about him -- we ought to be able to recognize him easily."

"You talk as though you expected to meet him again," said Amy, looking at her curiously.

"I do," answered Betty determinedly. "Some time we're going to find that fellow and make him pay for what he's done. Think of it!" she added, turning upon them suddenly while her eyes flashed fire. "To run down a helpless old woman in the road and then not even stop to find out whether you've killed her or not! We'll find him if we have to search the country for fifty miles around!"



Chapter III

The Shadow Of Mystery


The girls never forgot that mad ride to Camp Liberty. Mile after mile sped by on wings, and it was not till they were on the outskirts of the town itself that the victim of the accident showed signs of returning consciousness.

Then she sighed, moved her head a little restlessly on Betty's shoulder, and opened her eyes.

"Oh, dear," she said, faintly but so abruptly that Betty and Grace started. "I knew I'd have -- to do it -- some day!"

When the girls came to know her better they no longer wondered at her quaint and unexpected sayings. But at the moment this queer statement, coming as it did from one who they thought must be hovering at death's door, rather startled them.

"Wh -- what?" stammered Betty, bewildered, while the others stared with wide eyes. "What did you say?"

"I said," replied the surprising old woman, in a stronger voice, trying unsteadily to straighten herself in the seat and raising trembling hands to her rather dilapidated old hat, "that I was sure to come to it some day. There's a fate in such things."

The girls looked at each other uncertainly, and into the minds of each flashed the startled suspicion that perhaps the poor old soul was mentally defective. Or, maybe, the accident -- 

The woman seemed to sense something of their bewilderment, and into her eyes, still bright in spite of her age and what she had just gone through, there came a twinkle -- yes, a real twinkle.

"No, I'm not crazy," she assured them, regaining her strength with amazing quickness. "You see, it seemed kind o' funny to me after all these years o' swearin' that I'd never ride in one o' these gasoline cars to find myself in one after all, -- and at my time o' life."

The girls gasped with relief, but still had the strange feeling of one who has been speeding over the water with all sails set and suddenly finds herself in the midst of a dead calm.

"B-but," stammered Amy, voicing the general sentiment, "we thought -- were afraid -- you were hurt badly -- "

"Guess maybe I'd have thought so, too, if I'd had the chance," responded the surprising old lady ruefully. "Pretty well mussed up, I guess, and stunned. Shouldn't wonder if I found a heap o' bruises around me somewhere -- but no bones broke. You see," she added, as though imparting a great secret, "the Sandersons' bones jest never was made to break. Now, there was our cousins -- the Petersons -- they was different. One o' that family wouldn't dare waggle his finger too hard for fear it would bust on him. You see, they was just naturally made that way. My son, Willie," here the brave voice lowered a trifle and tears rose to the bright old eyes, "he used to call them in fun -- always jokin', that boy was -- the Break-bone Petersons."

"But are you sure you aren't hurt?" Betty insisted, still with that curious feeling of having the wind taken out of her sails. "You see," she added hastily, as the twinkle returned to the old woman's eyes, "we were going to take you to the hospital, but if you are really sure there are no bones broken, I think you would like the Hostess House better."

"Hostess House?" repeated the old woman, her eyes widening with interest. "Yes, I've heard a lot about those places. That's where the sweethearts and mothers and wives of the soldier boys go, isn't it -- to meet them -- ?"

"Yes," Betty responded eagerly. "You see, that's what we are doing, helping to make them feel at home. That's why we want you to come with us now and stay there until you feel better."

"But I'm not a mother, or a wife, or a sweetheart of any of those boys," objected the little old woman, while the same cloud swept over her face, leaving it wrinkled and old. "I -- I might have been -- if -- if -- Willie -- "

"But that doesn't make any difference," Grace assured her, speaking for the first time and laying a white, soft hand over the knotted, wrinkled one. "We want you to stay with us and rest while we try to find the man who ran you down."

"Oh, him!" cried the old woman scornfully, all the time patting Grace's hand with gentle fingers. "There's no use wastin' time lookin' for him. He'll make pretty sure that he won't be seen round these parts again -- not for some time, anyway. But you're dear, sweet little ladies," she added, looking from Betty, whose arm still rested about her shoulders to Grace's hand in hers and from them to the two girls in front. "You're awfully sweet little ladies," she repeated, while the quick tears rose to her eyes. "I don't see why you're bein' so kind to me -- "

"But we just love to do anything we can," broke in Betty quickly, for the Outdoor Girls never liked to be thanked. "And we'd like so much to have you see our Hostess House. That is, if you'd care to," she added, suddenly remembering that the old woman might not be so helpless and alone as she had seemed -- might have made some other plans. But the latter quickly reassured her.

"Oh, I would like to, more than anything else in the world," she replied eagerly, then, realizing that her fervor might astonish the girls, added with a little forced laugh. "You see, it's a weakness o' mine. Maybe it's because I'm getting old -- but, the soldier boys -- I can't seem to see enough o' them -- "

"I don't think it's got anything to do with getting old," Mollie broke in irrepressibly, "because I feel just that way about it myself. The more I see, the more I want to see."

The woman's eyes twinkled again. She was about to make some sort of comment, but at that moment Mollie swung the car into the street leading to the Hostess House, and the girls gave a little surprised exclamation at finding themselves so nearly there.

A few minutes later they were ushering their shabby little guest into the comfortable alcove off the main reception room and settling her solicitously in one of the cushion-filled window seats.

It was astonishing to see how quickly their patient had recovered from the accident. She seemed a little weak and unsteady as they helped her from the car, but going up the steps to the Hostess House she resolutely refused all assistance and mounted the porch alone.

"Isn't she a darling?" Mollie had whispered to Grace as they brought up the rear. "Did you ever see anybody of her age so full of life and independence?"

And it was that same sturdy independence and humor that endeared her to the girls in the days that followed and made them willing to do anything in their power to help her.

There was some discussion at first as to where they could put their unexpected guest, for all the rooms were full and a couple of unused emergency cots seemed to be all the extra accommodations they could find.

"I have it," cried Betty at last, with one of her inspirations. "Grace and I will give up our room and bunk in with Amy and Mollie. That's where the two extra cots will come in good."

The idea was applauded enthusiastically, and it took only a short time of scurrying about to put it into action.

"But one thing we must remember," Betty cautioned the others, as they surveyed their work with satisfaction. "We mustn't let our old lady guess a word of what we've been doing."

"Oh, no, we mustn't," agreed Amy in alarm. "She'd be just as apt as anything to put on her hat and leave us without a word."

"You know, it is going to be rather close quarters," sighed Grace, as they turned to leave the room. "We won't be able to move without falling over somebody's feet."

"You needn't look at mine," Mollie retorted with spirit. "Why is it that whenever you make a disparaging remark you never fail to look at me?"

"That's easy," Grace returned with a twinkle. "All you have to do is to look in your mirror -- "

"Oh dear, and I suggested it," mourned Betty, as they descended the stairs arm in arm. "We'll have to give them the cots, Amy; it would be murderous to let those two sleep together."

"Ah, 'tis a deep, dark plot," cried Mollie, staggering dramatically and almost falling downstairs. "I see it all -- they get the bed while we, poor wretches that we are, toss our uneasy bones upon the cot -- "

Amy screamed and Grace covered her ears.

"Goodness, what do you think this is -- a ghost's retreat?" demanded the latter, while Betty chuckled joyfully. "'Toss our uneasy bones,' indeed!"

"Does sound kind of grizzly, doesn't it?" Mollie admitted. "Just the same, I wager that's what Betty intended."

"Mollie, you wrong me!" cried Betty in dismay. "I was simply trying to avoid a tragedy. But, if you're going to toss bones, anyway, you might as well do it in comfort; so -- "

"Oh, you goose," cried Mollie affectionately, and in this manner they entered the den where Mrs. Watson was entertaining, or being entertained by, the little old woman.

The girls immediately took possession of the latter and joyfully escorted her to the upper floor to look over her new quarters.

"My, isn't this fine!" exclaimed the guest, her face lighting up happily. "A beautiful big bed and three fine windows to see the soldier boys from. Are you sure," she added, glancing from one to the other of the four eager faces suspiciously, "that I'm not putting you out? Because, if I am -- "

"Why of course you're not," Betty fibbed stoutly, adding, with a swift change of subject: "But I'm sure now that you would like to rest. Look," she added, with quick solicitude, as she saw how white the old lady had become, "your hands are trembling -- "

"No, no, no," disclaimed the little old woman impatiently, as she gazed with set face out of the window that faced upon the parade. "I'm a little cold. And -- that boy -- " She pointed with quivering finger at a sturdy, khaki-clad figure, swinging happily over the parade in the direction of the mess-hall, "He -- he reminded me -- "

"Yes," they cried, crowding about her solicitously, while Betty pushed a chair toward the window and gently forced her into it.

"He -- he was -- just like -- " The slight form was shaking and the words forced themselves from between her chattering teeth, "what my Willie boy would have been now -- if he hadn't -- run away. My little son! My baby!"



Chapter IV

Mrs. Sanderson's Story


Tears were not only in her eyes now, but running down her wrinkled old face, and the girls, with the tears of real pity in their own eyes, crowded closer about her.

"Would it help," Betty suggested gently, "if you told us about it?"

The old lady drew her gaze from the window and let it rest on the sweet, sympathetic young face, and she nodded slowly.

"I guess maybe it would," she agreed, taking a handkerchief from the pocket in her dress and wiping her eyes. "You see, I never have told anybody for years and years, and if it hadn't been for this war I suppose I should have gone right on not telling anybody for the rest of my life. Of course the Yates and Baldwins and all the folks that lived around us knew it, so there was no use telling them -- " Her voice trailed off and her eyes sought the window with its vista of parade ground and low, roughly built barracks buildings.

The girls looked at her. Never in their lives, they thought, had they been so thoroughly interested in anything as they were in the secret sorrow of this gentle old lady, the sorrow that brought that strange cloud of unhappiness every time she mentioned this son of hers who had run away.

"He must have been a pretty ungrateful sort," thought Mollie resentfully, "to have run away from a mother who loved him like that."

Once more the old lady drew her eyes from the window and fixed them on the circle of eager young faces.

"I suppose young things like you couldn't be expected to understand," she went on, "and yet perhaps you'll be interested more than other folks, 'count of your having met so many young boys."

"Oh, we are interested," they cried in chorus, at which the old woman's face lighted up and she went on with more cheerfulness.

"Well, to begin with," she said, "we lived way at t'other end o' the world. Danestown, it was called, and my husband -- better man never breathed -- died when my little boy was only four years old. I wasn't so young any more, for Willie was the youngest -- the others had all died when they was babies -- and Willie's pa and me was getting along in years when he come to us -- the dearest, sweetest, prettiest baby you ever set your eyes on.

"Well, we had managed to save some little money, though 'twasn't over much at best, and with me workin' on the farm week days and Sundays, we managed to get along pretty well. An' I was savin' pennies -- " Here the old voice trembled and nearly broke, so that it was some minutes before the speaker could go on.

The girls tried hard to think of something to say, but as everything that came to them sounded flat and inappropriate, they kept a sympathetic silence -- which was perhaps the best they could have done, after all.

"As I was sayin'," the old voice continued after a while, "I was squeezin' every little penny I could from the bare necessities to lay aside for the boy. You see, it had been his father's wish that Willie should be given the chance neither of us had ever had to get some schoolin' and have his chance in the world. I was hopin' that by the time the boy grew up I might maybe have enough to send him to college.

"Of course," she added, with an air of apologizing for a weakness that went straight to the girls' hearts, "they was only dreams. But I don't see as there was any harm in them, seein's I always kept them to myself an' never told anybody 'bout them -- leastways, no one but Willie.

"Sometimes, on a winter night when the snow was fallin' outside an' the wind was howlin' round the house, I used to draw Willie up to the big, open fireplace we had in the kitchen and tell him 'bout his pa an' how he had always wished for Willie to be a fine, big man.

"An' Willie, he'd listen with those big, earnest eyes o' his -- such beautiful eyes my Willie had -- " Again the voice broke and trailed off into silence while the girls sat and waited as before, only with a stronger pity in their hearts for this faithful little old woman who had loved so well -- and lost.

"An' then," the voice continued, more softly and dreamily than before, my little boy would reach up and pat my cheek, just like his father used to do, and seems like I can hear his voice now, just as plain as I did all those long, long years ago.

"'Maw,' he'd say, drawlin' a little in his cunnin' way, 'just don't you worry. I'll do all those things, jest like pa said, an' then we'll go an' live in a big house an' you won't have to work so hard any more -- jest be happy.'

"An' then he'd take my hand that was coarse an' rough from workin' in the field and rub his soft little cheek against it an' look up at me, an' just smile -- "

There was a little sob from the spot where Amy was sitting cross-legged on the floor, while the other girls were frankly and openly crying and not even noticing it.

"He -- he must have been a darling!" cried Betty, unsteadily.

"He was," answered the old lady simply. "It wasn't very long after that he ran away, and I suppose" -- again her eyes sought the parade ground -- "if I was to meet him now I maybe wouldn't know him. You see, I'd still be lookin' for my little brown-eyed, yellow-haired Willie boy."

"But what made him run away?" asked Mollie, rubbing her eyes furiously with her handkerchief. "I shouldn't have thought -- "

"Neither would I," the strange little woman interrupted abruptly. "If he hadn't had such a high spirit he never would. But -- well, seem like I'm gettin' ahead of my story.

"You see, some o' the neighbors' children was a pretty wild lot an' they always had a grudge against my boy 'cause he wouldn't join them in all their escapades.

"You see, Willie took a lot after his father. He used to just like to sit and dream and read books you'd thought a little fellow like him couldn't understand at all -- he was just twelve when he ran away.

"An' o' course these other boys, they didn't like him 'cause he was different, an' they was always layin' the blame for all their pranks on him.

"But my Willie, it didn't bother him much. He used to tell me that as long as he knew he didn't do it and I knew it, what other folks thought wasn't worth worryin' 'bout -- just his pa all over.

"Only, I remember one time," the bent old form straightened up proudly and the bright old eyes gleamed, "when the other boys started pushin' things too far an' begun callin' my boy names -- no names that a boy with any pride in him would stand for -- I heard them -- they was jest around the back o' the house, an' I came to the door with my mad up to the boilin' point, but what I saw made me stop right short an' wait for what I knew was goin' to happen.

"Willie, he was sittin' on a log by the barn, jest wrapped up in a new book he'd found, an' it was some time before just what those ragamuffins was sayin' seeped in. When it did was when I came to the door, boilin' with rage.

"Very quiet, but with a sort o' bulldog set to that chin o' his, just like his pa, he closed his book an' laid it down beside him.

"'I'll be askin' you,' he said, drawlin' very marked and facin' the bully o' the crowd that was at least two or three years older than he was -- 'I'll be askin' you to say what you been sayin' all over again.'

"The bully did, with trimmin's, an' Willie listened without turnin' a hair till he got all through.

"'Now,' he says, more quiet than ever -- I can see him now, with his big eyes blazin' black out o' his white face and his little hands that seemed to me scarce more'n a baby's clenched tight at his side -- 'Now, I guess, I got to lick you!'

"An' he did!"

"He beat him?" cried Mollie excitedly. "Oh, weren't you proud?"

"I guess I was!" answered the little old woman, her eyes snapping with the memory. "That was the day my boy showed what was in him, an' after that the other boys never called him any more names.

"But, o' course," she added, while the old cloud erased the glow from her face, "that didn't keep the boys from wantin' to get even.

"Well, then came the awful day when Abner Conway's barn burned an' Abner himself came over to accuse my Willie of havin' started the fire, bringin' with him two or three o' the boys who had tried to call Willie names to swear they'd seen him do it.

"O' course Willie denied it an' I backed him up by sayin' -- an' there never was truer word spoken -- that Willie was with me before an' at the time the barn took fire.

"But it didn't do any good. Abner was ragin' because it meant considerable loss to him, an' so much blame had been laid at Willie's door by the other boys that he declared this time he was goin' to have him punished.

"'I'll have the law on him!' he shouted, rampagin' round my kitchen like a wild animal. I'll show that boy o' yours if he can go round settin' folks' barns on fire an' not get come up with! I'll give him a taste o' what it feels like to be behind bars. It's time somethin' was done, an', by Jerry, I'm the one to do it!'

"An' without another word he slammed out with those grinnin' imps that was makin' all the trouble followin' at his heels. Well, there isn't very much more to tell."

Here she paused, the animation left her face and she looked pityfully old and weary. Betty reached over and patted her hand, and finally she resumed her story.

"Abner kept his word and brought the sheriff around that same afternoon, but they couldn't find Willie -- he was gone. He'd left a note for me -- full o' love -- but sayin' that he couldn't bear to bring disgrace on me an' so he'd gone away. When he'd done what his pa wanted him to, he said, he'd come back an' then we could live in the big house an' be happy.

"An' from that day to this, I've never heard a word from my little boy."

"Oh," cried Betty, pityingly, "what a terrible thing! I should think he could have written. But maybe he did, and his letters never reached you."

"That old Abner must have been a beast," cried Mollie, clenching her hands belligerently. "And those boys! Wouldn't I like to put them behind the bars?"

"You see," the old lady went on tonelessly, "it was only a little while after Willie ran away that they found out that tramps started the fire. Of course Abner was sorry then, but it was too late. My boy was gone."

"But you'll find him yet," cried Betty hopefully, springing to her feet. "I'm quite sure you will."

But the old lady shook her head sadly.

"I don't think so, my dear," she said slowly. "If my Willie boy had been alive I'm sure he would have come to me. He's -- he's -- almost certain -- to be -- dead."

The girls tried to comfort the little old woman for a few minutes more, then had to hurry away to various duties about the Hostess House -- Mollie to help a young Polish boy who had been drafted into the army and who was struggling valiantly and conscientiously to learn English, Grace to write a letter for a Southern mountain boy who had never learned to read and write, and Amy and Betty to help a timid and somewhat helpless mother through the long hours of waiting before she could have a brief visit with her son during his time of relief from duty.



Chapter V

Fun And Soldiers


"I wish we could do something for Mrs. Sanderson," Betty remarked with a sigh. "I haven't slept a wink for two nights just trying to think out some way of finding that boy of hers."

"He must have been a darling," Grace added thoughtfully. "I can't understand how a boy like that could run away from home and stay away for years without even trying to get in touch with his mother."

"Maybe that charge changed his character," Mollie suggested dramatically. "I've heard of such things."

"I've read of 'em," sniffed Grace. "But I must say I never believed it. Give a boy the right sort of character to start with -- "

"I don't see where you get that," Mollie interrupted hotly. "Why, half the criminals in the world are made up of boys who were good enough to start with, but because of some temptation, or their environment, went wrong -- "

"But Mrs. Sanderson's Willie wasn't a criminal," suggested Amy mildly.

"But he was accused of being one and threatened with jail," retorted Mollie. "And how do you know that wasn't just what he needed to start him on the downward path -- "

"Heavens, how melodramatic," drawled Grace. "Here, Mollie dear, have a candy and try to cheer up."

"Then I'd have indigestion and never cheer up," retorted Mollie crossly. "Sometimes you make me feel as if I were on a little island completely surrounded by chocolates, Grace, and whenever anything bothered me I'd only have to eat one -- a chocolate, I mean, not the island -- to forget all my troubles."

"Oh, bliss," sighed Grace ecstatically. "If you have discovered any such wonderful island, Mollie darling, lead me to it, and I will spend all the rest of my life worshipping you."

"When you're not too busy gobbling the chocolates," Mollie returned with a twinkle in her eyes.

"Which reminds me," broke in Betty, shaking off the thoughtful mood that had taken possession of her, "that this is the day of our picnic, and if we don't get back to the Hostess House pretty soon the boys will be there before we have even made a sandwich."

"Goodness," cried Mollie in consternation, "all this talk about criminals put the boys entirely out of my head."

"I should hope so," twinkled Betty. "Our boys are as little apt to remind us of criminals as anybody I know. But seriously," she added, a little of the thoughtfulness returning, "I think we're making a mistake in thinking that Willie Sanderson has become a criminal. I think there is probably some satisfactory explanation of why he stayed away from home; and perhaps with the help of the people we know we may be able to solve the mystery. Anyway, I don't believe that a boy like that and with a mother like this dear old soul could turn out very badly."

"But suppose he's dead!" Mollie put in.

"Well, then our days of detectivities will be over as far as he's concerned," put in Grace before Betty could reply. "Here, Mollie, take another chocolate and don't ask foolish questions."

"Goodness, I think you're going to die, Gracie," said Mollie, looking her friend over anxiously. "This is the first time since the fateful day of our meeting that I can remember your offering, actually offering, me two chocolates in succession."

"It isn't the first time you've taken them, though," suggested Grace dryly. "It just occurred to me that since you will take them anyway, I might as well get the credit of offering them."

"Ah, I guessed it, villainness," cried Mollie darkly. "I have long suspected that that lovely face hid a soul of venom -- I should say, a venomous soul -- "

The girls chuckled and Grace answered lightly:

"Well, as long as you admit my beauty I don't care what you say about the rest."

"Ah, heartless one -- " Mollie was beginning, when with a laugh Betty hooked an arm through hers and hustled the dramatic one in very undramatic fashion, up the steps into the Hostess House.

"Oh, Betty, you are so impulsive," sighed Mollie, as she was finally permitted a chair in the kitchen. "If you don't stop rushing around so you'll have me worn to skin and bones -- "

"Goodness, have you got those things, too?" asked Betty, as she hurried busily from table to pantry and back again. "Please don't be so lazy, Mollie dear. The boys will be here before we're half ready, and we don't want to lose a minute of this perfect day."

Harder heart than Mollie's must have softened at this appeal, and she set to work with a will preparing delicacies for this picnic with the boys -- perhaps the thought was accompanied by a strange, panicky sinking of the heart -- the very last picnic they would have together, at least until after the war.

"Did Allen have any more news for you, yesterday?" Mollie asked suddenly, following up this train of thought.

"No, nothing definite," the Little Captain responded, deftly slipping currant jelly into layers of buttered biscuit. "Of course, he said there were all sorts of rumors, but since they all came from equally good sources and no two of them pointed the same way, he wasn't listening to any of them. All they really know is that the regiment is all ready and equipped and will surely be on its way very soon."

"I'm not even thinking of it," said Mollie, slamming down the cover of the bread box by way of emphasis, as Amy and Grace came upon the scene. "I don't dare to let myself think," she repeated.

"That's right, dear, I wouldn't either," approved Grace, patting her encouragingly on the back as she passed on her way to the pantry. "You want to get your mind used to it by degrees, otherwise the shock might be too great. What's that, Betty -- the sugar? Surely. Anything to be agreeable!" The last hamper had just been done up, filled to the brim with good things, when the boys arrived.

"Heavens, I'm a fright," cried Grace, viewing herself in the kitchen mirror -- a mirror, by the way, which brought out all a person's bad points with Puritan honesty.

"Go in and keep the boys quiet, Amy, that's a dear," she begged, then, seeing refusal in Amy's eyes, added cajolingly: "You always look as if you came out of a bandbox yourself, you know. Please, dear -- "

But Amy was already half way up the backstairs and paused to make a face at her.

"Taffy!" she cried succinctly.

Five minutes later the three girls, in various attitudes of impatience, were waiting for Grace while she still primped before the mirror.

"Just one minute more I give you," stated Mollie, regarding her wrist watch frowningly.

"Oh, Mollie, if you only wouldn't talk so much," sighed Grace, turning with an air of resignation from the mirror. "As soon as you begin to talk everything goes wrong. My gloves walk under the bed, and my hair stands on end -- "

"Goodness," cried Mollie, looking injured, "anybody'd think I was a ghost. I'll stand for being called lots of things, but a phantom -- Ouch! Now what's the idea?" For Grace's thumb and forefinger had come together in the fleshy part of her arm.

"I was just trying to reassure you," explained Grace innocently, as Mollie stared indignantly. "There's nothing the least bit ethereal -- "

But Mollie waited to hear no more, and sped down the stairs after Betty to bounce unceremoniously in upon the boys.

"Beware!" she cried. "A lunatic is about to descend upon us!"

"I should say one had already," grinned Allen, at which Mollie surrendered.

"Everybody's against me," she sighed. "When one whom I have always called my friend, turns agin me -- Never mind," she added diplomatically, "I made the layer cake, Allen Washburn -- "

"Oh, Mollie, let me carry your pocketbook," begged Allen in alarm.

"How do I know you're honest?" she retorted with a twinkle, and peace was once more restored.

The young folks paired off as usual, and Allen drew Betty a little behind the others. The two formed so handsome a couple that many a passer-by stopped and looked back after them with an admiring smile.

The camp training had improved Allen wonderfully. Always splendidly athletic, he carried himself with a poise and moved with a swing that spoke of perfectly trained muscles, while his handsome face had been tanned to the color of an Indian's.

No wonder that when Allen bent toward her and spoke in a certain tone reserved for her alone, Betty found it hard to look at this tall, bronzed soldier who had been her faithful cavalier for -- oh, she could not remember how long.

"I haven't seen you for ages," he murmured, and she glanced sideways at him, dimpling.

"Not for twenty-four whole hours," she agreed soberly. "Wasn't it this time yesterday -- "

"What has yesterday to do with it?" he interrupted ardently. "I tell you when a fellow's to be parted from the thing he wants most in the world every twenty-four hours count -- "

"Allen!" she cried, turning upon him in swift alarm, "is it settled then? Have you learned anything definite?"

He shook his head, while his laughing eyes said things that made her turn her own away.

"Then why," she asked, with a little pout, "do you have to scare me so?"

"Because," he answered happily, "there's nothing I like better than to see you scared -- about that," he added quickly, as she turned an indignant glance upon him.

For a moment it seemed as if anger were there to stay, but it was impossible to be very angry with Allen -- when he looked at one like that. At least Betty thought so.

"You'd better be careful," she said with a soft little laugh. "If you try that too much, I may not believe you when the real time comes."

"Betty," he cried fervently, "I won't ever do it again -- I promise you. At least," he added, straightening up, while in his eyes grew a great resolve, "not until -- that real time comes!

"But what have you girls been doing this morning?" he went on, after a pause.

The girl gave an amused but sympathetic laugh before she answered. Then she said:

"Mollie and I have been trying to keep the hearts of three of those recruits that came in yesterday from breaking outright. Poor boys, they're awfully young -- I believe they fibbed about their ages -- and look like cherubs. None of them has ever been away from home before, and they are pathetically homesick. But they have told us about their homes and their mothers and fathers and the little brothers and sisters, and Mollie has joked with them and -- Well, anyway, Allen, I believe we have made them feel that they are not wholly friendless."

"I'm sure you have, Betty dear."

"Poor boys," went on Betty. "I presume it will get easier as they get used to it."

"Grace has been writing letters for some of the boys who find it hard to do that. Grace is awfully good at that. And Amy, I believe, has been showing some girls who came down to see their brother, about the place and trying to keep them interested during the long waits between the times they can see the boy, who, like his sisters, is almost too timid to look out for himself."

Admiration shone in Allen Washburn's eyes as he looked at the Little Captain and remarked:

"What lucky people those Y.W.C.A. officials were to get you girls down here for this Hostess House! But come, Betty, the others are beckoning to us."



Chapter VI

Planning Capture


The spot they had chosen for the picnic was quite a distance away from Camp Liberty, and by the time the party finally reached it, both boys and girls were wondering if the generous contents of the hampers would serve even to take the edge off their appetites.

"I don't see why we didn't take your car, Mollie," Grace complained, as they covered the last stretch of dusty road. "We would have been on the picnic grounds and had our lunch eaten by this time."

"But just think what's in store for us," Betty reminded her cheerily. "We need a good appetite to eat up all this lunch."

"Well, I don't know," Grace grumbled back. "It seems to me I had a good enough appetite for two lunches, each twice as big as this, when we started."

"Heavens!" cried Frank Haley, who was walking in front with Mollie, "I see my chances of a square meal dwindling."

"I'm beginning to agree with Grace," grinned Roy Anderson, "that we made a big mistake in not taking the car."

"Oh, you're all just lazy," was Mollie's accusation. "We haven't been walking more than an hour and there's the spot, just around that turn in the road."

"Say," and Will, who had not yet spoken, turned suddenly to Betty, "isn't this the road where the accident happened that introduced that nice little old woman -- what's her name -- "

"Mrs. Sanderson," Betty supplied.

"Yes, that's it. Isn't this about the place where you found her?"

"Goodness, no," put in Amy. "It was on this road, but we were miles out of town."

"Will, I'd love you all the rest of my life if you'd only find that motorcyclist and have him punished," said Betty fervently. "It makes me wild when I think how easily he got away from us -- "

"Never mind that," interrupted Will, his eyes twinkling. "All I want is to have you repeat the first part of your speech. What was that about loving me all the rest of my life?"

"Say, what's the idea?" demanded Allen suddenly, having been engrossed in a little dream all his own. "What kind of rash promises are you asking Betty to make?"

"Well, I would," contended Betty stoutly, adding with a twinkle: "Like a sister."

"Oh," said Will, turning disappointedly away. "If that's all you have to offer me -- "

"But I've got lots more than that," Betty assured him quickly. "Why, Will, if you're real good, I may even give you an extra piece of cake."

"Well, now, that's different again," cried Will, his interest rekindling.

"Will," remonstrated Grace plaintively, "I'm surprised at you. You are really getting shockingly material."

"Getting!" interjected Frank, with a grin.

"Go on, Betty, never mind this vulgar rabble -- with apologies to you, sweet sister," as Grace shot an indignant glance at him. "You were saying that if I found this motorcyclist you'd give me an extra piece of cake, or words to that effect. Am I right?"

"Perfectly," laughed Betty, then added, seriously: "But, really, I think something ought to be done."

"So do I," Amy backed her up stoutly. "We ought to let those old motorcyclists know they can't run over poor old ladies whenever they feel like it -- "

"Favorite outdoor sports," murmured Roy.

"It was the most heartless thing I ever saw," said Mollie, entering into the discussion with a will. "He never even stopped to find out what damage had been done. He might have killed her -- "

"But what wouldst thee, sweet damsel?" asked Will patiently. "We can hardly go out on the broad highway and hold up every motorcyclist that comes along -- "

"Well, I know what you could do," said Grace, with unusual animation. "You could take one of us along to point out the suspicious characters."

"Yes, we got a fine view of him," added Amy eagerly. "He had small eyes close together -- "

"Regular villain type," murmured Frank, but Amy refused to be side-tracked.

"And goggles -- "

"They all have those," interrupted Roy.

"And a tiny little mustache that looked as if it had got there by mistake."

"Probably false," suggested Will. "One of the kind you stick on with molasses -- like feathers -- "

"Oh, do be sensible," cried Mollie impatiently. "Of course you can't go holding him up at the point of a gun, but there ought to be something -- "

"Give us time, give us time," Allen interrupted. "Wasn't it Antony who had time and conquered, or something like that -- "

"Goodness, anybody'd know you'd been out of school a long time," drawled Grace scathingly. "Mark Antony, indeed!"

"Well, it was one of those guys, anyway," maintained Allen, with admirable impartiality. "And you have to admit the sentiment was fine. All we ask is time -- "

"And a little grub," supplemented Will hungrily. "It seems to me I remember somebody saying a couple of hours ago that we were even then approaching our destination, and we seem to be getting no nearer rapidly -- "

"Oh, do try to be sensible," cried Mollie, for the second time. "If you would only have some patience -- "

"Never heard the word," declared Will with a grin, and Mollie made a face at him -- a very disrespectful face.

"Well, but when -- " Will was insisting plaintively when Betty interrupted him with a cry of delight.

"Look, people," she said, breaking away from them and running up the rather steep bank lightly.

"This isn't the spot we picked out, but it's twice as pretty. Big rocks for tables -- and everything."

"Especially everything," commented Allen, his eyes twinkling.

"Oh, boy!" cried Roy ecstatically, setting down the hamper that had been his share and beginning to examine its contents without further delay. "Chicken! Ham sandwiches! Biscuits! Jelly -- "

"Say, get out of that!" cried Frank, snatching the hamper away with a vigor born of fear. "What kind of manners do you call that?"

"They're as good as yours," retorted the outraged Roy hotly. "Besides, there's another hamper, isn't there?"

"Goodness, they seem to think they can have a whole basket apiece," cried Amy Blackford in dismay.

"Well, I guess they've got another think coming," said Allen, inelegantly, placing himself with outstretched arms before the two precious hampers as though he were guarding a gold mine. "Now let him come who dares. Only over my dead body -- "

"Oh, what's the use of spoiling our perfectly good party," complained Grace. "Can't we ever begin to enjoy ourselves but what somebody starts taking all the joy out of life by talking about killing somebody, or something -- "

"Never mind, Gracie," Frank soothed her, nibbling a chicken bone with great relish. "You'll get over it. It may take time -- "

"Silence," commanded Mollie, raising a pickle fork threateningly. "Else in a twinkling I will split thee to the heart -- "

"Goodness, she's got it, too," sighed Grace drawlingly.

"What?" asked Mollie briskly, "I'm always interested in my symptoms -- "

"It isn't a disease, you goose," drawled Grace. "Unless," she added, as a second thought, "you can call insanity a disease -- "

"Well, you ought to know," retorted Mollie, as she proceeded to use the pickle fork to advantage. "What does your doctor say?"

"Now who's bringing war into the party, I'd like to know?" asked Will, helping himself to his ninth biscuit.

"Goodness, that's just the usual thing," Betty explained, looking prettier, so Allen thought, than ever before with the background of lacy green to set off her bright coloring. "If they don't behave like that we know they're sick or something. Do have another biscuit, Roy. Goodness," and she stared round-eyed down into the empty space where the biscuits had been, "they're every one gone! Who did eat them all?"

"Well, you needn't look at me," said Frank in an aggrieved tone. "Will's the fellow you've got to watch."

Will was about to utter some scathing retort when Grace, who had gotten up to shake the crumbs from her dress and had walked down toward the road, suddenly called to them. It was such an excited, urgent call that they left everything and came running.

"What -- " began Betty.

"It was the motorcyclist!" cried Grace, her face flaming. "I couldn't have been mistaken, because I caught a good view of his face."

"But what was he doing back here?" demanded Amy, while the rest stared at Grace excitedly. "That's only a rutty old wagon road, and -- "

"Well, he was bumping and bouncing like everything, and when he caught sight of me he sent his machine ahead so fast I thought surely he'd have a smash-up."

"Wish he had," said gentle Amy, and at the unusually vindictive expression on her face the others had to laugh.

"Well, there's nothing more we can do now," said Frank practically. "Let's go back and finish our lunch. Probably," he added, as they thoughtfully retraced their steps, "he took the wagon road for fear of running into one of you girls."

"Big coward!" cried Betty, with clenched hands. "I wish I had been with you, Grace, we might have stopped him."

The boys shouted.

"Such a chance!" crowed Roy, but Betty turned on them with flashing eyes.

"Well, we might at least have tried," she cried hotly. "That is more than you boys would have done. You don't seem to be even interested," she continued indignantly. "If I were a man in uniform I'd show that coward that he can't knock old helpless women down and then run away. I'd show him that in insulting an old woman he was insulting the whole United States army -- "

"Hurrah!" cried Will irrepressibly, jumping to his feet. "Now you're talking, Betty. How about it, fellows? Shall we do as she says?"

"You bet we will!" they cried, and at the ring in their voices, even Betty's ardent little heart was satisfied.



Chapter VII

A Lark In The Open


"Well, where do we go from here, boys?" asked Allen, lazily stretching out on the grass with a convenient, raised bank of moss for a pillow, while the girls repacked the depleted hampers. "It's such a wonderful day, and camp was never like this."

"Tell us something we don't know," Frank retorted. "Gee, it's been a fine experience and all, but, believe me, I'll be glad when the call comes for action."

"They're off again," said Grace plaintively.

"I must say you're not awfully complimentary," added Mollie, busily folding napkins.

"In what way, sweet maid, do we offend?" Will inquired.

"Oh, always talking about how glad you'll be to get away from us," she explained. "Here we thought we'd been entertaining you so beautifully -- "

"Gee, you have!" cried Roy, propping himself on his elbow and speaking with unaccustomed solemnity. "It's been just great, having you girls here."

"It certainly has," added Frank. "I guess we'd have gone clean crazy because of homesickness if you hadn't come along just when you did."

"Now you're saying something," added Allen warmly, while the girls stopped packing and looked on happily. "Do you remember what we were talking about that day when we almost -- "

"Ran into what we were talking about?" finished Frank with a grin. "You bet I do."

"Well, what was it?" drawled Grace, after they had waited patiently for the boys to continue and the latter had smiled aggravatingly to themselves over their thoughts.

"If it's bad," added Mollie briskly, "we don't want to hear it, for, as the old lady said that used to come to see Mother regularly once a year, 'I don't care what terrible things people say or think about me, if they don't tell me about it,' But if it's good -- we might stand it."

"Oh, it was good all right," Frank assured her, still smiling over his thoughts. "We were saying that if we didn't get a furlough so we could go back to Deepdale -- "

"For a certain purpose," suggested Will.

"For a certain purpose," Frank repeated solemnly -- "we were afraid we might have to desert."

"Yes, that would have been sensible," scoffed Mollie. "Get half a dozen years in prison for yourselves and I'd like to know where your furloughs would be then."

"And you haven't really told us a single nice thing about ourselves," added Betty plaintively. "All the time we've just been holding our breath to listen -- "

"We've been doing our best to tell you those nice things, every minute of every day since then," said Allen in a low voice. "If you haven't heard, it's because you wouldn't listen."

Betty colored adorably -- to quote Allen again -- and resumed her packing with great fervor.

"All of which," Frank finished his self-justification, "shows that we're far from anxious to leave you girls when we say we're eager for action. I guess," he added, thoughtfully, "it's just because we're so crazy to be with you that we're eager to go across."

"That sounds rather -- " began Grace, but Frank would not let her finish.

"I know it does," he admitted. "Sounds like a contradiction. But I think you know what I'm trying to get at, just the same."

"Why, sure," Will backed him up eagerly.

"Frank means that we've got a confounded, disagreeable job to do before we can settle down and be happy on good old United States soil again -- "

"And the sooner we get it done, the better," finished Roy.

Allen nodded.

"I guess that's about the size of it," he said. "The sooner we get there, the sooner we'll be coming home again. And, say, fellows, what a home coming!"

At the wistfulness in his voice the girls felt the tears rise to their eyes, and to save them from a breakdown Betty crisply changed the subject.

"I hope you boys can get over to the Hostess House Thursday night to see the entertainment we are helping get up among those new fellows who came week before last," she cried.

"Working yourselves to death over it, are you?" inquired Allen.

"Never!" returned Grace, with sudden emphasis.

"But it's lots of fun," chuckled Mollie. "We have found out by judicious inquiry -- Amy, here, soon worms out the heart secrets of these boys by her quiet, sympathetic way -- that a number of those boys have parlor tricks of one sort or another, and -- "

"That orchestra fellow really is good," interrupted Amy. "Boys, you should hear him play! He has a guitar hung over his shoulder, a harmonica strapped to his head, a piano near by to which he makes sudden dashes, and all the while he dances the most marvelous dance!"

For once Amy was aroused to enthusiasm. The boys, however, were less interested, and Roy wanted to know what the girls themselves had to do in the coming entertainment.

"Oh," laughed Betty, "we are stage managers, scenic artists, stage hands, costumers, modern mutation of the Greek chorus, stays and props for the weak and timid, brakes for the overbold -- in fact, we are around to do any work that nobody else wants to do.

"But we haven't decided," she reminded them suddenly, "just how we're going to spend the rest of the afternoon. Of course we can always take a walk -- "

"Not after that lunch," declared Allen, striving to sit up, and sinking down again with a moan, "I'm ten pounds heavier than when I came."

"Well, you ought to be ashamed to admit it," retorted Mollie. "I thought in the army you had to be able to hike fifteen miles without winking."

"Sure. But this is our day off," objected Roy. "What do you suppose we get leave for -- just to do what we can do every day of our lives?"

"Well, then, for goodness sake, suggest something," cried Mollie impatiently.

"I have an idea," cried Allen, so suddenly that they all started.

"Well, you needn't be so proud of it."

"Do you remember that pond we came across the day we went prospecting alone, Frank?" he continued, not noticing the interruption.

"Yes," Frank answered, catching the idea and looking interested. "Seems to me it ought to be somewhere in this neighborhood. Going to catch some fish?"

"Why, of course," put in Roy scornfully. "We're so attractive all we have to do is to whistle to the little animals to have them squabbling for the best place on the hook."

"My, isn't he the sarcastic boy," grinned Allen. "That little trick might work with you, Roy, but we're more modest."

"Well, have you got any fishing tackle?" queried Roy patiently.

"Sure," it was Frank's turn to be sarcastic. "Don't you know that's a part of every dough boy's outfit -- so he can go fishing for the Huns?"

"Peace, peace, my children," entreated Betty plaintively. "Can't we ever talk about anything without getting into an argument?"

"But this isn't an argument; it's a suggestion," said Allen. "Though I expect the scorn and ridicule of an unthinking populace. Perhaps you have heard of the old-fashioned, but sometimes effective, string and bent pin?"

The boys shouted, and Allen bent upon them a pitying glance.

"It is even as I expected," he said sorrowfully. "Well, I have done my best -- "

"I say old man," Roy interrupted suddenly, proving an unexpected ally, "I'm for you. Of course we won't get anything, but it will be an adventure. And gee, some fresh fish would taste good!"

So they went to work, eager as children on a lark. The girls managed to furnish enough pins for the hooks, and when the available string gave out, the boys made use of stout, withy vines as substitutes.

And, strange as it may seem, they actually were successful. The little stream proved to be full to overflowing with fish, small to be sure, but still eatable.

"Gee, I never saw anything like it!" cried Roy as he excitedly pulled out one fish after another. "They seem to be eager to be caught. And to think that we actually scoffed at the idea."

"That's what genius always has to bear," put in Allen, resignedly, while Betty gave him a side-wise glance from under her long lashes.

"Oh, don't we hate ourself," she chided softly, as she handed him more bait. "You really shouldn't, Allen -- "

"What! Hate myself?" he demanded, letting a fish slip back into the water in his preoccupation. "I'd just as soon -- as long as you don't!"

Betty laughed happily. It was so good to be there, unbelievably catching fish, with Allen beside her saying delightful -- and foolish -- things.

Then she thought of the parting that must inevitably come and her bright face clouded. Allen saw the shadow and leaned toward her anxiously.

"What is it, dear?" he whispered softly. "Have I done anything?"

"No," she answered with a little smile, half-whimsical, half-wistful. "You haven't done anything. It's what you're going to do that hurts."



Chapter VIII

Enter Sergeant Mullins


"Mollie, you've been crying."

"I have not!" snapped Mollie, turning so the light would not fall on her face.

"Well, what are your eyes and nose all red for then?" asked Amy reasonably.

"Ask them," retorted Mollie. "Probably just did it to make me mad."

Several days had gone by, and the entertainment into which the girls had thrown themselves with so much enthusiasm had been given and pronounced a great success by the soldiers stationed at Camp Liberty. Since then the days had been given largely to the routine work of the Hostess House -- afternoon teas, evening coffee served to those who wished it, writing letters for the boys, entertaining others, looking after wives and mothers and sisters who were visiting near the camp, suggesting books for some who seemed to be of uncertain taste. Now, on this day, something unusual had plainly happened.

"Oh, girls, I've got a wonderful plan -- something new for the soldier boys!" cried Betty, breaking in upon her two friends merrily. Then, seeing that she had interrupted something, paused and looked uncertainly from Amy to Mollie and back again.

"Why, Mollie," she cried anxiously, "what is the matter?"

"Oh, can't you find something original to say?" snapped Mollie irascibly. "Seems to me that's all I hear from morning to night. 'Oh, Mollie, what's the matter -- what's the matter, Mollie?' till I could scream."

"Oh, please excuse me," said Betty, with a little freezing quality in her voice. "I thought I might help; but if that's the way you feel about it -- "

Quick as a flash Mollie had run to her and, repentant, thrown her arms about the Little Captain's neck.

"Please forgive me, Betty," she cried. "I'm perfectly horrid, and I know I don't deserve a friend like you. But -- well, I'm just a beast, that's all," she finished lamely.

Betty laughed and patted her shoulder comfortingly.

"I guess we all are once in a while," she said, adding with a return of her old cheeriness, "Now, prove your repentance by 'fessing up. It's sure to make you feel better."

"Well, it wasn't anything much," Mollie replied, her face clouding again. "Only -- I had a quarrel with -- with -- somebody -- "

"How very explicit," drawled Grace, who had entered the room in time to hear the last part of the sentence.

Mollie stiffened, and Betty sent Grace a warning glance.

"Go on, Mollie dear, I'm awfully interested," Betty hurriedly interposed. "Because, you see," she added ruefully, "I just had a quarrel myself."

"You did," cried the three at once, and crowded around her eagerly.

"Oh, Betty, who with?" asked Amy, too excited to bother about grammar. Betty quarreled so seldom with anybody that when she did the girls considered it an event.

"I'll tell you about it after Mollie has 'fessed up," evaded Betty, seeming a trifle sorry for her confidence.

"Oh, did Mollie have one, too?" cried Grace delightedly, while Mollie sent her a hostile glance.

"Well, you needn't be so glad about it," she retorted glumly. "Maybe it wouldn't seem quite so interesting if it were you and Roy."

"Well, how do you know it wasn't?"

The three girls stared.

"What was that you said?" demanded Betty weakly. "I don't think I quite -- "

"I said," returned Grace calmly, and pronouncing each word with exaggerated distinctness, "that Roy and I have had a quarrel, which probably would make yours look like nothing at all."

"Grace!" they cried in chorus, "do you mean it?"

For answer Grace turned to the mirror and began to arrange her hair.

"Ask Roy," she flung at them over her shoulder.

Behind her the girls looked at each other dumbly, struggling with a wild desire to laugh and cry at the same instant.

"But how?" Amy was beginning dazedly when once more Betty came to the rescue.

"All this would be funny if it weren't so impossible," she said. "Suppose we begin at the beginning and tell our experiences, since we're all in the same boat. It ought to be interesting -- if not instructive."

Grace turned from the mirror and seated herself expectantly on the arm of a chair.

"Well, who's first?" she demanded.

"I am," volunteered Mollie unexpectedly, her eyes glittering. "It was all so utterly absurd, and it made me so m-mad that I had to c-cry -- "

"So we see," murmured Grace impatiently, but once more Betty sent her a warning glance.

"And then -- " she suggested.

"Well, Frank and I were taking a little walk when all of a sudden I happened to think of the bayonet drill Sergeant Mullins had invited us to."

Betty and Grace started and leaned forward eagerly in their chairs.

"Yes?" they breathed.

"Well," continued Mollie, her color rising, "I don't know whatever got into Frank -- he never used to be like that. He just sort of froze up and wouldn't answer my questions or anything until I got so angry I told him that if he didn't tell me what the matter was I'd say good-by to him right there and wouldn't ever speak to him again."

"Yes?" breathed the girls again.

"Then what did he say?" asked Grace.

"Why, he just got red in the face," replied Mollie, "and said all right then, he'd tell me what the matter was. And then he said" -- she laughed a little hysterically -- "that he just couldn't stand the thought of my seeing so much of Sergeant Mullins -- think of it -- me, who have never said two words alone to the man in my life!"

"Well, I never!" Betty exploded, while the usually placid Grace seemed hardly able to keep her seat. "That's almost exactly what Allen said!"

"And Roy, too!" cried Grace dazedly. "Girls, what does it mean?"

"It seems to mean," put in Amy dryly, "that one or all of us are ready for the insane asylum."

"Allen said," Betty contributed, wide-eyed, "that it made him mad to see the way that Sergeant Mullins hung around the Hostess House all the time. He made it quite plain that there was no doubt but what I was the main attraction."

"And Roy thinks it's me," said Grace, her own grammar suffering from excitement. "Goodness! does he think the poor boy is after all of us?"

"Thinks he's going to start a harem, maybe," cried Mollie hysterically. "Oh, dear, isn't it too ridiculous?"

"I suppose," said Amy thoughtfully, "it's because Sergeant Mullins is so awfully good-looking."

"And, of course, he does come around a good deal," added Mollie.

"I know. But that's because he's so lonesome," put in Betty. "And, of course, we have all tried to be nice to him. I think it's horrid," she added, flaring up, "for the boys to act so ridiculously just because he happens to be good-looking and awfully attractive!"

"Oh, Betty, Betty," chided Mollie, wiping a tear -- this time of merriment -- from her eyes. "If Allen could only hear you now!"

"Nonsense!" retorted Betty, almost snappishly. "There are dozens of boys who come here to tell us their troubles, and I don't see why they have to -- "

"Pick on him," finished Grace. "Only you must remember," she added with a twinkle, "that he is much more attractive than most -- "

"And he never tells us any troubles either," added Mollie, with a chuckle. "Maybe the boys think that's suspicious."

"Well," said Amy, with a sigh, "I seem to be the only one left out. Nobody thinks it's worth while to quarrel romantically about me."

The girls laughed, and Grace added with a grimace:

"Goodness, you needn't feel bad about it. It was just your luck that you didn't meet Will this morning and tell him the awful news, that's all. I suppose he'd have acted as silly as the rest of them."

"Maybe it's a plant anyway," suggested Mollie dolefully.

"A plant?" queried Betty. "What kind -- a flower or a T.N.T. factory?"

"A plot was what I meant," explained Mollie patiently, while the others chuckled.

"A plot!" repeated Grace, with a return of her drawl. "Heavens, Mollie, if there is anything in signs you ought to be a great author some day from the way you're always seeing a plot in everything."

"Thank you, I hope so," said Mollie.

"Well, for goodness' sake get to the point," urged Grace impatiently, glancing at the clock. "We'll have to dress pretty soon, to go down to serve the regular afternoon tea to the soldier boys and their friends."

"Oh, it just occurred to me," Mollie explained, "that perhaps the boys had met some girls in town they liked better than they like us and had gotten up a conspiracy -- to -- to -- quarrel with us -- "

"What a brilliant idea!" scoffed Grace. "Especially as the boys have been following us around like Mary's little lamb, and have scared all the other boys away."

"And without being conceited at all," added Amy, with a chuckle, "the girls I've seen around the town really aren't calculated to steal their hearts away."

"In that case, haven't we still got Sergeant Mullins?" chuckled Betty.

They laughed, and Mollie added, as they started to dress for the afternoon:

"I wonder if the boys really expected that we wouldn't go to this special bayonet drill to-morrow -- especially when we've been longing to see one for ages -- just because Sergeant Mullins invited us?"

"I'm sure I don't know," said Betty carelessly. "But it really doesn't matter since we're going anyway!"



Chapter IX

The Bayonet Drill


It was a beautiful sunshiny day, and the girls felt their spirits soaring happily as they ran down the steps of the Hostess House and started across the parade.

Also the, what appeared to them, foolish objections of the boys to their attending the bayonet drill lent spice to the adventure, and they hurried on gaily over the parade.

Sergeant Mullins, who had unwittingly caused all the excitement, was, as the girls had said, a tall, splendidly built fellow, good looking to an unusual degree, but very silent and reserved.

He had seemed immensely attracted from the first by the girls from the Hostess House, and had made overtures in a half-shy, half-humorous manner that the girls themselves had found very attractive.

But to them he had been only one of many interesting soldier boys who had come and gone and whose meetings and partings with dear ones they had watched with swelling throats and tears in their own eyes.

But Sergeant Mullins was an expert with the bayonet and had been attached to Camp Liberty for the purpose of giving the boys special drills in that work.

He had proved so wonderfully successful that, much to his secret chagrin -- for Sergeant Mullins, like all the rest of our brave boys, had dreamed of the great things he would do "over there" -- the Government had decided to keep him at Camp Liberty indefinitely.

Then, one day, he had invited the girls, in return for the many little kindnesses they had done him, to attend one of his special, exhibition drills.

They had accepted eagerly, little dreaming of the storm their acceptance would evoke. And it is very doubtful whether, even if they had known, it would have made any difference, for they had long desired just this thing and knew that in years to come they would look back upon it as one of the biggest experiences in their lives.

"What time is it, Amy?" Betty inquired a little anxiously. "I'm afraid we stopped to talk too long to those women who came out to see their nephew, and I don't want to be late."

"We have just a minute to spare," returned Amy, and they quickened their pace.

"Wouldn't it be fun," said Mollie, her eyes sparkling, "if we could only meet the boys? I'd just like to pay them back for being so silly!"

"Maybe they'll be in the drill," drawled Grace hopefully.

"That would be adding insult to injury," Betty chuckled. "Then they never would forgive us."

"I just hate jealous people, anyway," added Grace, diving into her pocket and bringing forth a luscious bonbon which Mollie eyed covetously. "I think it's so ridiculous and narrow, don't you?"

"I think it's a good deal more ridiculous and narrow," grumbled Mollie, still hungrily eyeing the rapidly disappearing chocolate, "to keep all the candies to yourself."

"Oh, goodness! Take one," returned Grace, offering a capacious pocket. "I didn't know you were such a shy and shrinking little violet, Mollie. You usually are perfectly capable of helping yourself."

"Well, not out of your fuzzy old pocket," Mollie retorted ungraciously. "Why didn't you bring the box along?"

Grace eyed her pityingly.

"Wouldn't I look nice," she demanded, "lugging a candy box along to a bayonet drill?"

"I think you'd probably be exceedingly popular," Betty broke in, with a chuckle. "You'd have all the boys around you in earnest."

"And then what would Roy say?" teased Amy. "He'd never speak to poor Grace again."

"Poor Grace, indeed!" sniffed the owner of the name scornfully. "I'd just like to have anybody try to 'poor Grace' me! He'd never do it a second time."

"Goodness, don't look so ferocious, Gracie," Mollie soothed her. "Some one give her another candy -- do."

"I'm not a cripple," Grace retorted, evidently in a belligerent mood. "I've always been quite able to help myself."

"So we've noticed," murmured Mollie irrepressibly.

"Will you two please listen to reason?" queried Betty, in her primmest tones.

"Yes, grandma," replied Mollie soberly -- which was so ridiculous that even Betty dimpled. "What have we done now?"

"Nothing. It's what you may do," Betty answered, adding, in an explanatory tone: "You see, we are just about to enter the sacred precincts of the drill ground, and it is fitting that we do so with an air of propriety and sobriety."

"Goodness, is she insulting us?" cried Mollie, in mock indignation. "I'll have you know, Miss Nelson, that I, for one, am not intoxicated and, what is more, never expect to be."

"Goodness! that is a relief," sighed Grace, who had been hanging breathlessly on her words. "I thought you were going to say 'I am not drunk, but soon shall be,' or words to that effect -- "

"But will you listen?" cried Betty despairingly. "I've got about as much chance of saying anything sensible -- "

"As the man in the moon," finished Grace innocently, then, meeting Betty's outraged eye, added hastily: "Oh, wasn't that what you were going to say?"

"No, it wasn't," Betty was beginning, when Mollie, for the first time in her life played the part of peacemaker.

"Go ahead, honey," she interrupted soothingly. "We're all ears."

"Speak for yourself," Grace murmured.

But this time Betty would not yield, and insisted upon being heard.

"Please listen a minute, girls," she begged. "You know we've got a reputation, deserved or not, of being respectable -- "

"Oh, what a mistake," interpolated Mollie.

"I said it might be a mistake," Betty continued patiently, although her eyes twinkled. "Anyway, we've got to live up to it -- Goodness! just look at the boys. I guess the whole camp must be in the drill."

"Yes, I guess Sergeant Mullins was right when he said it was to be an exhibition drill," agreed Mollie, all fun temporarily swallowed up in a very real admiration of the spectacle before them.

"It's no wonder that Sergeant Mullins is considered a very important personage around here," added Amy.

"Oh, look!" cried Grace, as they sat down upon a convenient bench. "They've started. Oh, girls, I'm glad I came!"

Mutely the girls echoed the sentiment, and for the next hour they sat motionless, eyes and attention glued upon the magnificent spectacle of a thousand men, running, advancing, retreating, attacking, all in obedience to one great plan.

They forgot it was only a sham attack, an imitation battle, an exhibition drill. For the moment a curtain had been lifted and they were permitted to see something of the glory, the passion, the horror of democracy's struggle against the armed autocracy of the world.

When it was over they sighed and came back to the present almost with a shock; so greatly had they been engrossed in the scene.

"Well, Sergeant Mullins may not be much of a talker," were Mollie's first words as they rose to go back, "but he certainly knows how to act!"

"It was wonderful!" breathed Betty, her eyes gleaming. "Just think what it must be to be a man in these times! To be able to fight for one's country!"

"Well, I don't know," said Amy, with a little shudder. "That part of it's all right. But when it comes to being maimed and crippled for life it isn't so much fun."

"Oh, Amy, don't!" cried Grace, clapping her hands to her ears, while Betty continued spiritedly:

"I didn't say it was fun," she cried. "Naturally the boys have to take into consideration the possibility of all that you said, Amy. But there's no glory in the world like giving yourself for a great cause -- "

"Hear, hear!" came a masculine voice in applause, and they turned to find Allen and Frank close behind them.

"Well, what will you have?" asked Mollie, eyeing them hostilely. "We thought you were lost and gone forever like Clementine -- "

"And were quite reconciled," finished Betty primly, her eyes twinkling.

"Oh, you did, did you?" cried Frank, regarding Mollie's haughtily tip-tilt little nose with mingled fear and admiration. "Well, I'll have you know, young lady, that you can't get rid of us as easily as all that. May I be permitted to walk beside you, mam'selle?"

Mollie sighed and permitted the liberty with an air of great resignation.

In the meanwhile, Allen was whispering into Betty's almost reluctant little ear.

"Did you really mean what you said about its being glorious to give yourself for a great cause?" he asked softly.

"Why, I -- g-guess so," she stammered, taken off her guard. "Why?"

"Oh, just because," he answered vaguely, watching the elusive little dimple at the corner of her mouth, "I might want to remind you of it -- some day."



Chapter X

Alarming Symptoms


The girls awoke one morning several days later -- days of routine duty at the Hostess House -- with the delightful sensation of something good impending. Crowded as they were in the one big room for Mrs. Sanderson's accommodation, they had formed the habit of talking over their prospective fun before the actual work and hurry and bustle of the day began.

So it was this morning, just after the sun had streamed in through the two big east windows and settled on the tip of Betty's upturned little nose in a most provocative manner.

Sleepily she rubbed a hand across her face, then sneezed.

"Goodness, she's got the 'flu'!" cried Grace in alarm, as she sat up in bed, jerking the covers from her now fully aroused bedfellow. "Amy! Mollie! Get me a gas mask, somebody!"

"I think it's poor Betty that needs the gas mask," retorted Mollie dryly. "I never heard you talk so much this early in the morning since the first day of our acquaintance, Grace. What happened to wake you up?"

Whereupon Betty sneezed again, and Grace jumped about a foot in the bed.

"Please take her away, somebody," she wailed plaintively, while Betty regarded her out of wide and sleep-brilliant eyes. "I heard a doctor say the other day that at the second sneeze it was time to go to the hospital."

"Well, run along," twinkled Betty, adding, with a speculative look: "If you'll wait just about two minutes, I think I can give you another one."

But Grace waited to hear no more. With a bound she was out of the bed and half-way across the room.

"Goodness!" remarked quiet Amy, with a laugh, "I should think it would be almost worth while having the 'flu,' Betty, just to see Gracie move like that."

"Well, I don't know about that," said Betty, rubbing the offending little nose ruefully. "It's easy to talk when it's some one else who's got it. Nobody seems to have any sympathy for me at all."

"We would, dear," cried Mollie, slipping out of her own bed and taking Grace's place beside Betty on the sun-flooded cot, "only you don't really look as though you were dying of anything, you know -- especially influenza. Betty dear," she added, with an impulsive little hug, "you do look so pretty!"

"Now she does want a quarter," remarked Grace skeptically, as she took the place Mollie had vacated. "Don't you believe her, Betty Nelson. It's too early in the morning to see straight anyway."

Betty laughed delightedly.

"How very complimentary," she said, with a droll twist to the corner of her mouth. "Never mind, Mollie, it's worth a quarter just for seeing crooked!"

Mollie hugged her, and even Grace had to laugh.

"Which reminds me," continued Betty, apropos of nothing at all, "that we have a whole holiday which we can spend just exactly as we please."

"Yes, where shall we go?" cried Amy eagerly. "I thought maybe we could take Mollie's car and -- and -- "

Three pairs of curious eyes were focused upon her as she hesitated.

"And what?" they queried in chorus.

"Well, I thought," continued Amy, a little shy, as she always was when about to suggest something for another's comfort, "I thought we might invite Mrs. Sanderson to go along."

"Good for you, Amy dear," cried Betty eagerly. "That's just exactly what I was thinking. The dear old lady seemed so much better yesterday I thought we might persuade her to share our picnic with us. How about it, Mollie?"

"Why, of course," answered the latter heartily, "I'd love to have her -- if she'd come."

"If she'd come?" repeated Amy, puzzled. "Why shouldn't she come -- that is, if she's feeling strong enough?"

"Well," explained Mollie, with a little smile as she recalled one of the many unusual conversations she had had with the little old woman, "she told me the other day that she 'hated them gasoline wagons worse than poison,' -- that the only reason she rode in ours was because she was unconscious when we put her in and she couldn't help herself. And she added somebody'd have to run over her again to make her do it a second time."

Betty laughed gayly as she flung back the covers and slipped out of bed.

"Goodness, I don't wonder you were doubtful," she said. "Maybe she's changed her mind by this time. Anyway, we can ask her and see."

"I think she's the most wonderful old person I ever saw," remarked Amy thoughtfully, as they dressed hastily. "She must be pretty old, and yet she says the funniest, wittiest things, and her eyes sparkle and twinkle like a girl's."

"Well, I really think she looks older than she really is," said Grace slowly and very judicially. "You know working on a farm in the hot sun the way she did for years, isn't calculated to make a person look younger than she is."

"Oh, and if we could only do something to find him for her!" sighed Amy for -- the girls did not know whether it was the fiftieth or the hundredth time, they had given up counting.

"Well, wishing won't accomplish anything," said Mollie practically, as she vigorously pulled on a shoe as if it were in some mysterious way responsible for the unsatisfactory state of affairs. "I think some one ought to nickname us the 'four Dianas.'"

"Well, of course Diana was very beautiful," said Grace, complacently regarding her own pretty reflection in the mirror. "But if you meant that, Mollie, of course the description applies to only one of us."

"Goose," remarked Mollie. "Of course I wasn't thinking of Diana's beauty. I was merely thinking of her in the role of a fair huntress."

"Goodness, now she is insulting us!" cried Betty, turning upon her friend with a melodramatic frown. "Do you mean to imply that one or all of us are huntresses?"

"Not of men," said Mollie scathingly. "That shows a guilty conscience, Betty. I'm surprised at you."

"O-oh! Squelched!" said Betty meekly. "May I ask," she added very humbly, "just what you did mean?"

"I simply meant," explained Mollie patiently, "that we were after two men -- "

"Oh!" cried Amy, turning upon her in horror. "And you just told Betty you didn't mean that!"

"I didn't," cried the badgered Mollie in desperation, then turned away in disgust. "There's no use trying to tell you anything," she said.

"Go ahead, Mollie dear," urged Betty.

"I meant," Mollie continued slightly, but only slightly, mollified, "that we were hunting two men -- Mrs. Sanderson's Willie and the motorcyclist who ran her down. And we haven't any more real chance of finding them than -- "

"A celluloid dog has chasing an asbestos cat in -- " began Grace.

"That will do," cried Betty primly, though her eyes danced. "After this, you will kindly answer when you are spoken to, Miss Ford, and at no other time."

"Oh, is that so?" mocked Grace. "Well, I'll just tell you, Miss Nelson, that although I am extremely fond of you -- mistaken as that may be -- I will take no dictation from you or any one else."

"I'll give you more than dictation, if you don't stop maundering," threatened Mollie. "A girl has about as much chance of saying anything sensible -- "

"Did you ever try?" queried Grace innocently, and Betty and Amy had to form a human barrier between the two enemies.

"Goodness, please don't kill her, Mollie," begged the Little Captain, her eyes twinkling. "Not till after breakfast, anyway. I want to give you a chance to think it over."

"Yes, they're punishing murderers terribly," added Amy. "I heard Major Adams say -- "

"All right," Mollie agreed, "I'll let her off until after breakfast, but for one reason and one only -- "

"And that?" they queried breathlessly.

"I'll be stronger then!" she said.



Chapter XI

Polite Kidnappers


But it seems that breakfast "hath charms to sooth the savage breast," for after Mollie had attacked and conquered the appetizing fruit and cereal, ham and eggs, she seemed to forget all about her dire threat and smiled amiably at her intended victim across the table.

"How long will it take you to get ready, Grace?" she inquired. "Can you do it while Betty and I go around to the garage and back out the car?"

"Let Amy help you with the car this time," Betty objected before Grace could reply. "I want to ask Mrs. Sanderson to go with us."

Mollie clapped her hand over her mouth in a gesture of dismay.

"Goodness," she reproached herself, "I almost forgot about her. Yes, go ahead Betty and do your best to get her. I know it would do her good. But you had better take Amy with you to help persuade Mrs. Sanderson. Amy and you together are a pair that will be hard to refuse. There goes Mr. Bretton now! He's so grateful for what we girls have done for him here -- as though it were anything at all -- that he'd do far more than help get the car ready. I'll get his help, while you and Amy go for Mrs. Sanderson and Grace gets ready. Now, rush! hurry! fly! off with you!"

Mollie ran out of the house and after the young soldier whose help she sought. Grace went to her room for some last-minute dressing, and Amy and Betty went upstairs to importune Mrs. Sanderson.

"Well, good morning, my dears," said the old woman, delighted at sight of their bright faces. "I declare, if you don't bring all the sunshine in with you! It is lovely of you to call on an old woman so early in the morning."

"Well, you see," said Betty, eagerly diving right into the middle of her subject. "We've come to kidnap you. Please, won't you let us?"

"Kidnap me," repeated the old lady, patting the soft cheek with a puzzled air. "Why, it seems to me sort of unusual to ask a body if you can kidnap 'em."

Betty laughed.

"Well, I guess maybe it is," she admitted gayly. "But, you see, we can't very well do it without asking you. Mollie said," she added, taking the little lady's hand in hers and squeezing it affectionately, "that you told her the only way we could get you to do it was to make you unconscious again. And," she finished, with an adorable little coaxing smile, "we couldn't do that, you know. We're altogether too fond of you."

Mrs. Sanderson laughed and pinched her cheek.

"Very well, honey," she chuckled. "Now if you'll tell me what it's all about -- "

"We want you to go on a picnic with us," broke in Amy.

"A picnic!" repeated the old lady, more puzzled than before. "What sort of picnic?"

"An automobile picnic," explained Betty, adding quickly as she saw refusal in the bright old eyes. "Oh, please don't say 'no' yet. We've got the whole day off, and we're going to take Mollie's car and go off all by ourselves and eat our lunch and admire the view and -- "

"Taste gasoline for a week after," finished the old lady with a little grimace. Then she added quickly, as she saw the hurt look in Betty's bright face: "No, I didn't exactly mean that, dear, and I wouldn't say anything to make you feel bad for worlds, that I wouldn't, only -- I jest can't bring myself to ride in those automobiles. You see," there was an almost pathetic appeal for understanding in the bright old eyes, "I guess I'm maybe too old to change my ways, an' I get tired easy -- "

"I'll tell you what we'll do," Amy intervened with rare tact. "Some day when we're going for just a little ride around the block we'll ask you again. Maybe you'll feel more like it then, and you can get used to it by degrees."

"That's awfully nice of you, dearie," said the old woman, looking gratefully from one bright face to the other. "I suppose you don't know how much I appreciate all you've done for me," she added, her voice breaking a little, "'cause I never could tell you if I lived for a hundred years. But you just sort o' revived my faith in human nature. Since my boy went away -- " The old voice broke down entirely then, and Betty continued patting her hand soothingly,

"But there," she added, in a different tone, wiping her eyes determinedly and smiling at them, "this ain't no kind of a mornin' for tears, an' I know my son Willie would be the first one to tell me so.

"Thank you jest as much for askin' me, dearies, and maybe some other time I'll get my courage up to it. But now you jest run along an' enjoy yourselves.

"An' when you come back," she added, taking both of the soft young hands in her wrinkled one and patting them gently, "you can come up an' tell me all about it."

"Oh, will you let us?" asked Betty eagerly, jumping up and dropping a kiss, light as thistle-down, upon the old face. "And we'll bring you flowers, whole bunches of them. Will you promise to be happy while we're gone?"

"Yes, dearie, just happy thinking of your coming back and the flowers," she agreed, and the smile remained on her lips even after the door closed behind them until the sound of their light footsteps and laughter faded away.

Then the brave lips drooped and the gray head went down upon her arms.

"They're such lovely little ladies," she murmured to herself. "An' I will try to be happy. Only -- I want my boy, my little son -- my baby -- "

Meanwhile -- 

"Isn't she the dearest thing?" asked Amy of Betty as they went into the kitchen to gather up the picnic baskets. "I'm getting so fond of her it will just hurt like everything to have her go away."

"Go away? Oh, Amy!" cried the Little Captain in surprise, facing her as though that possibility had not yet entered her mind.

"Why, yes," repeated Amy, astonished at Betty's amazement. "She's almost well now, and, of course, she's too independent to want to stay here when she's all right again. Why, Betty, what's the matter?"

For Betty had sunk down in one of the kitchen chairs and was regarding her tragically.

"But, Amy, she mustn't go away," she argued weakly, knowing that she really had no argument at all. "Why, I really can't imagine it! I -- I never thought -- "

"Well, of course, none of us wants her to," Amy admitted, adding reasonably: "But I really don't see how we're going to stop her if she makes up her mind to go. Do you?"

Betty picked up one of the hampers and they walked slowly back through the hall to the front porch.

"Why no, not exactly," she said thoughtfully, then added, with a sudden gleam in her eyes: "Unless -- unless -- "

"Unless what?" queried Amy breathlessly.

"Oh, I don't know whether you'd call it an idea or just plain foolishness," answered Betty, striving to speak carelessly. "I was just thinking that we might persuade her to stay longer on the plea that we wanted to bring the motorcyclist to justice and needed her identification."

Amy looked a little disappointed.

"Well, I don't know," she said doubtfully. "She said the other day that she didn't care much about bringing the fellow to justice. She said one motorcyclist was as bad as another, and the only thing that would give her satisfaction would be 'to arrest the whole tribe o' them.'"

Betty laughed a little at the characteristic remark, but her eyes were troubled.

"Well," she said with a sigh, "I suppose you're right. She is rather hard to reason with at times. If only I could think of something."

The sharp toot of a horn as Mollie grazed the curb with the huge touring car put an end to the conversation for the time being. Grace was already on the porch, and as they raced down the steps the girls' spirits rose happily.

After all, it was a perfect summer day, the sun shone brilliantly down upon them, the wind caressed their faces, and, above all, they were young.

It was not till they were several miles out upon the shining road that Betty once more thought of Mrs. Sanderson.

"We might," she said thoughtfully, as though speaking to herself, "tell her that we were trying to find her son. That might have some effect upon her."

"Upon whom?" asked Mollie, nearly running the car into a tree by the roadside in an effort to get a glimpse of Betty.

"Oh, Mollie, do be careful," cried Amy plaintively. "I never come out with you but what I expect to be killed."

"I should think you'd be tired expecting by this time," returned Mollie practically. "Now will you please repeat that somewhat meaningless jumble of words, Betty dear? What was it -- something about somebody's son having a good effect upon somebody -- "

"Well, I hope you feel better, now that you've gotten it out of your system," drawled Grace. "Now, Betty, go on. I'll keep her quiet with chocolates till you've had your say."

"Go on talking all night, will you, Betty dear?" entreated Mollie, speaking thickly because of a mouthful of chocolate. "Home was never -- " But here Grace inserted another bonbon so deftly that Mollie choked and almost precipitated another appalling accident.

"For goodness sakes, hurry, Betty!" cried Amy, in dismay. "If you don't, there won't be anything of us left to listen to you."

"Well," said Betty obediently, for she had been so busy with her own thoughts that half the persiflage and gay bantering had passed above her head, "I was speaking of Mrs. Sanderson and her son. I thought that if we told her we were trying to find her Willie, she might consent to stay on with us a little longer."

"But wouldn't that be rather raising false hopes?" objected Grace. "We haven't very much chance of really making such a promise good, you know."

"Well, but if we tried hard enough we might think of something," Betty insisted. "We might," she added vaguely, "We might -- advertise -- "

"In what?" queried Amy.

"The papers, of course," Betty answered impatiently.

"Well," said Mollie, chewing down the last bit of chocolate and speaking thoughtfully, "there may be something in your idea, at that, Betty. I don't know about the others, but I'm with you, anyway."



Chapter XII

Where Love Is Deaf


"Doesn't it seem funny," Amy was saying as she daintily but thoroughly gnawed a chicken bone, "not to have the boys with us?"

"Well I think," returned Mollie, her nose at an independent angle, "that it's mighty nice -- for a change."

"Yes," Grace agreed, employing her paper napkin to remedy the damage done by a vivid spot of jelly on her skirt. "They seem to think they can dictate to us. Imagine it! To us! Outdoor girls who have never known what it was to take dictation from any one!"

"Except our Daddies," Betty broke in, her eyes twinkling. "I've seen even you stand at attention, Gracie dear, when Mr. Ford spoke."

"Oh well, of course," said Grace, dismissing the interruption with a wave of her hand. "We've got to obey our parents, till we're twenty-one anyway."

"Then I guess we've got to go on obeying all the rest of our lives," said Mollie, with a sigh.

They looked at her curiously.

"For who," she went on to explain reasonably, "in her right senses is going to admit to being twenty-one?"

"To finish what I was saying," Grace continued, while Betty and Amy chuckled and Mollie looked wide-eyed and innocent: "I, for one, will never take dictation from any one outside the home folks -- especially mere boys our own age,"

"Well, no one asked you to," said Mollie calmly. "I really don't see what all the speech-making's about," she added.

"It was about the boys," said Amy, mumbling over her third piece of chicken.

"And by the way they take it for granted we've got to do what they say," finished Grace.

"Well," said Betty, plucking a piece of grass and rolling it thoughtfully between her fingers, "don't you think perhaps they act that way because they're going 'across' so soon?"

"I don't see what that's got to do with it," returned Mollie, puzzled. "I should think that would make them want to be especially nice to us -- leave a good impression, you know."

"Just the same I can't help thinking," Betty persisted, "that that was why they acted so queerly about Sergeant Mullins. Maybe they think that when they're several thousand miles away the other boys will have their chance."

"But that's silly," objected Mollie. "As if we wouldn't think a good deal more of them when they get over there."

"Distance lends enchantment?" queried Grace, with lifted eyebrows.

"Goose," commented Mollie.

"Goodness," cried Grace plaintively, "that's the second time I've been called a goose in the last five minutes. Pretty soon I'll be a whole flock of them!"

The girls laughed, and Mollie said with aggravating condescension:

"It's hard sometimes to tell the truth, Grace dear, but we only do it for your own good. That's what friendship is for, you know."

"Then give me enemies!" cried Grace. "I don't care how many faults I have if people just won't tell me about them."

"Which reminds me of something," said Mollie with a chuckle.

"Well, don't tell us about it," said Grace hastily. "I'm trying hard to love you, Mollie, but I can't stand everything -- "

"Oh, but it's a joke on me this time," Mollie reassured her, and Grace sat back with a sigh of relief.

"It happened while we were at Pine Island," Mollie continued with a chuckle. "I was sitting in the living room playing the piano -- "

"Or trying to?" interrupted Grace.

"Or trying to," agreed Mollie with perfect good-nature. "You know my repertoire consists of two pieces, and I was humming one of them as I played.

"Frank and Roy were sitting on the steps of the porch outside and I heard Frank say to Roy very earnestly:

"'Do you know, I think Mollie would have a wonderful voice if she would only have it cultivated.'"

"Goodness, I thought -- " began Grace, but the Little Captain very hastily pinched her into silence.

"Evidently they thought I couldn't hear them," Mollie continued. "But they were mistaken, for I heard Roy answer pityingly, 'Say, old man, I've heard of love being blind before, but here's a case where the poor little god is deaf.'"

"Mollie," cried Amy, shocked, while the others laughed merrily, "what did Frank say? Did he stand for that?"

"Most decidedly not," chuckled Mollie. "The last I saw of them, Frank was leaping a fence, hanging on to Roy's coat tails. It was awfully funny. I think I laughed for an hour afterward,"

"It was a wonder there was enough of poor Roy left to come home," giggled Betty. "Frank isn't what you might call gentle, when his temper is roused."

"Oh, I believe I know when that was now!" exclaimed Grace, with sudden animation. "It must have been that evening when I was baking biscuits and I looked out of the window and saw Roy. He looked like a tramp, hair all disheveled and face as red as a beat.

"I called to him and asked him if he'd been in a fight or something, and he just got redder than ever and backed off into the woods.

"I concluded he'd gone suddenly and violently insane, and as the aroma of nearly burned biscuits filled the air I promptly forgot all about him."

Mollie chuckled.

"There was probably a very good reason for his backing off," she said. "I shouldn't wonder if after that he kept his meditations to himself."

"Yes," said Grace, with gentle malice, "I've long since concluded that it's better to keep still about personal matters, no matter what you think."

"Well, perhaps you have," said gentle Amy with sudden spirit: "But I must say I never noticed it."

Grace struck a dramatic attitude.

"And you too, Amy?" she cried. "Ah, this is too much -- "

"Yes, it's all right, dear," soothed Betty, hastily rescuing a basket. "But please don't step on the lunch. These baskets cost four dollars and ninety-eight cents at a bargain sale."

"Oh, how sordid of you, Betty," chuckled Mollie. "As if Grace cared for a mere little five-dollar bill."

"Goodness, I don't know whether I do or not," remarked Grace plaintively. "It's so long since I've seen one I can't tell."

"As Allen remarks," laughed Betty, as she gathered up the remains of the lunch, "'money must think you're dead.'"

They laughed at her, and then suddenly Betty changed the subject.

"You know, I overheard something the other day," she said, "that's just made me terribly blue whenever I've let myself think of it."

"Oh, Betty," gasped Mollie, jumping unerringly to the catastrophe they had been dreading all these months, "do you mean the boys have got their orders?"

"Oh, no, I don't actually know a thing," Betty hastened to assure her, but there was a brilliant light of excitement in her eyes that did not reassure the girls.

"Then what do you mean?" cried Mollie impatiently. "Oh, Betty dear, I just haven't realized how awful it will be until this minute. When, those boys have actually gone, I'll lie down and die, that's all."

"Well, for goodness sake, don't tell them that," beseeched Grace. "Then they will think they can dictate."

"Well, let 'em," said Mollie recklessly. "They can, for all I care."

"Go on, Betty, do," urged Amy, her hands clasping and unclasping nervously. "Tell us what it was you heard."

"Well, Major Adams was talking with the colonel," Betty complied, her color bright, "and I just happened to catch a couple of phrases as I passed.

"'In a week!' the major was saying eagerly. 'The boys will be glad of that, Colonel. I've had all I could do to keep them pacified at all. Once let them get at the Huns and it will be all over but the shouting.'

"'Yes, they're a fine bunch of young fighters,' the colonel answered. And, oh girls, I wish you could have seen the way he looked, so splendidly straight and martial and proud. 'I tell you, Major,' he said, 'it's a great thing to have the leadership of such lads as those. They're the pick of the nation.'

"And then I went on and my heart was beating so hard I had to hold on to it," Betty finished. "It seemed to me I could almost hear the cannon and see the boys -- our boys -- "

Her voice trailed off into silence, and for a long time no one spoke. Each one of these young girls, who, a few short months before, had scarcely known the meaning of the word war except as they had read about it in their histories, was striving desperately to visualize the battle front -- the trenches, great guns belching forth a deadly hail of shells, the roar of cannon, the moans of dying men -- 

And there, perhaps, in the mire and horror of it all -- the boys -- their boys -- 



Chapter XIII

The Copperhead


Betty was the first to break the silence.

"But, of course," she said, and they started at the sound of her voice -- so far away had their thoughts been wandering, "it may only be one more of those rumors the boys are always talking about."

"I suppose so," said Grace, with a sigh. "Anyway, it won't do any good to worry about it till the time comes."

"Well, I don't know," said Mollie a little irritably. "It's like having a sword hanging over your head all the time. I'd just as soon have it cut me in two now and get it over with."

"Yes, it is something like cutting the poor dog's tail off an inch at a time," sighed Amy, and at the comparison and her sober countenance they had to laugh despite the very real trouble at their hearts.

"I wish," said Betty wistfully after a while, "the boys could have gotten leave to-day. I should like to have just one more picnic with them. We've had such good times together. And we're going to have lots more," she added, springing to her feet with a sudden, swift smile. "That's our part of the business from now on. Just to keep smiling and make up our minds that they're coming back to us just as they went -- only better."

"They couldn't be," declared Amy, and once more the other Outdoor Girls laughed and hugged her.

"Anyway, they've got one good backer in you, Amy dear," said Betty fondly. "You've no idea how fond all the boys are of you. I declare, sometimes I'm almost jealous."

"You," cried Amy incredulously, looking at the flushed face and shining eyes. "You'll never need to be jealous of anybody in your life Betty Nelson -- and especially of me," she added modestly.

Betty laughed and hugged her again.

"Girls, it's getting late," she said suddenly, with another of her swift changes of subject. "I guess perhaps it's time we were starting back. Oh, I forgot," she added, in consternation, "I, or rather, Amy and I, promised Mrs. Sanderson we'd gather some flowers for her, and now we've got to do it, even if it is late -- "

"Of course we have," agreed Mollie, rising with alacrity. "It wouldn't do at all to disappoint her."

"It must have been a pretty lonely day for her," said Amy thoughtfully, as she snapped the lid of a basket shut. "I wish she had come with us."

"Well, we're pretty much in the same boat as she is -- or will be soon," mused Mollie, as the girls scattered to make good Betty's promise.

"How so?" queried Amy.

"Why," said Mollie, "she's already lost her boy and now we're about to lose ours."

"Goodness, Mollie," cried Grace indignantly, while the others chuckled, "you make me feel eighty years old. They're not our sons, you know."

"Of course you had to tell me that -- " Mollie was beginning, when a scream from Amy and a hurried scramble onto a convenient stump interrupted her.

"What is it?" they cried, running to her anxiously.

"Look out, look out," Amy cried, bringing them up with a sharp turn a couple of feet from her perch.

"What is it?" they cried again, looking wildly about them.

"A snake," she screamed. "Look out, Grace, it's coming for you! Oh, look out!"

Wide-eyed and open-mouthed, the girls looked where Amy pointed, and saw, wriggling ominously toward them through the short grass, a large coppery-headed snake.

Grace gave one desperate leap and landed beside Amy on the stump while Betty and Mollie stepped to one side out of the reptile's path. Then, almost miraculously -- or so Betty thought when she looked back upon it afterward -- her eye fell upon a forked twig lying at her feet.

Quick as light she stooped and picked it up, then turned to Mollie, who was standing backed up against a tree, white-faced, terrified, in a half-hypnotized condition, staring at the snake.

The reptile had coiled itself and lay hissing at them viciously.

"I'm going to hold out this stick," whispered Betty feverishly between lips that scarcely moved, "and when he strikes, pick up that rock at your feet and let him have it. Ready?"

"Y-yes," stammered poor Mollie, terrified, yet game to the last. "Oh, Betty -- "

But the sentence was never finished for, with a menacing movement, Betty had thrust the stick toward the reptile and the latter with a hiss had struck.

Quick as a flash and before the snake had time to coil again, Mollie picked up the rock and hurled it at his sinister copper head. Her aim was true, and the long, slithery body, robbed of its deadliness, writhed and beat furiously at the short stubbly grass.

Mollie put her hands before her eyes, shivering, and even Betty leaned weakly against a tree, faint and sick, now that the crisis had passed.

"I -- I thought you'd be k-killed," moaned Amy, and though the tears of excitement and horror were rolling down her cheeks, she would have been the first to deny it had you told her she was crying. "Oh, B-Betty, you're w-wonderful!"

"No I'm not -- I'm just scared stiff," cried Betty hysterically. "Anyway, M-Mollie did it all."

"Well, let's g-get out of here," cried Grace. Later they had time to laugh at the chattering teeth that made it impossible to say anything without stammering -- but it seemed anything but funny to them then. "Let's g-get out!"

"Second the motion," cried Betty, with a wry little twist to her mouth, being, as usual, the first to recover her self control. "I can't see any sense in lingering."

A few seconds later they had gathered up their belongings and jumped thankfully into the road -- out of sight of that sinister body still writhing in the grass.

It was not until they had climbed into the car and were whirling over the smooth road at a rapid rate that they began to feel like themselves again.

"I guess that was one of the narrowest escapes we ever had," said Mollie over her shoulder with a laugh that was still a little unsteady. "I guess we won't go picnicking in the woods alone again for quite some time."

"But I didn't know there were any snakes around here," said Grace wonderingly, and, it must be admitted, still with a little quaver in her voice.

"There aren't many," Betty explained, "Allen told me that poisonous snakes of any sort had been so rarely seen around these parts that people thought the stories of them were made up. He said they always looked suspiciously at the bearers of the snake tales, shrugged their shoulders, winked, and asked each other to guess where So-and-So had been the night before."

"Goodness," cried Mollie. "I suppose we'll never dare to tell it then. They'll think we are -- "

"Slightly inebriated," finished Betty drolly.

"Goodness, I don't know what that means," objected Mollie, "but it sounds worse than what I was going to say. Now what's the matter?"

This last exclamation was caused by a sudden, grinding noise within the machine and a jerking stop that jarred them all nearly out of their seats.

Mollie looked back over her shoulder with a despairing expression:

"Well, this certainly isn't our lucky day," she said, with forced calm. "First we nearly get eaten up by a snake, and then the car breaks down -- "

"But, Mollie, what's the matter?" cried Grace impatiently. "We can't stay here. Can't you see? -- there's a storm coming up."

"Well I didn't do it," snapped Mollie. "I do think, Grace, you can be the most unreasonable -- "

"Oh, please don't start anything else," cried Betty, herself a little on edge with the rather exciting day's events. "Let's get out and see if we can find what's wrong. We certainly can't do any good by talking about it."

They got out, and Mollie even consented to "get under," but all to no avail. The machine refused to be placated and stood stubbornly still in the middle of the road while the storm clouds gathered and the first drops began to fall.

"Well," Mollie decided at last, sitting miserably on the running board, "I guess we've either got to sit here all night or walk home and trust to luck the car doesn't get stolen."

"Also get soaked through ourselves," Grace was adding disconsolately, when a familiar sound caught their ears. It was the regular tramp, tramp of marching men.

"Some of the boys from the camp!" cried Mollie, springing up joyfully. "Maybe they'll help us."

As the small squad swung around the turn in the road they were delighted to see that Sergeant Mullins was in charge. He brought the boys to a sharp halt at sight of them, and came forward to meet them, saluting gravely.

"Are you in trouble?" he asked, with his quiet smile and a glance at the stalled machine. "May I help?"

"Oh, would you?" cried Betty, her pretty forehead puckered. "We do want to get back before the storm breaks."

Without a word, the young fellow removed his jacket and examined the machine carefully. Then, with equal gravity, he wormed his way under the car.

In what seemed to the girls no more than a minute, he reappeared and smiled at them.

"I guess it's all right now," he assured them with another punctilious salute. "If I might suggest that there's no time to be lost -- " with a significant glance toward the lowering sky. For answer, Mollie threw in the clutch and the machine purred evenly. Then, with a little impulsive gesture, she turned to the sergeant.

"It's -- it's a long way to Camp Liberty," she said, with pretty hesitation. "Won't you let us show you how grateful we are by letting us take you there?"

"Please do," urged Betty.

He considered a moment, then with another of his grave smiles saluted once more and turned to the boys who stood waiting in the road.

"Pile in, fellows!" he said. "We'll just about make it before the storm."

Then, while the boys obeyed, scrambling in any way, and Betty and Grace squeezed themselves into the front seat, Sergeant Mullins leaned over and said, very quietly:

"Thank you."



Chapter XIV

The Reins Tighten


"A week!" sighed Betty. "Oh, Mollie dear, a week's such a very little time!"

"Goodness, it isn't even that now," Mollie returned, dropping a stitch in the sweater she was making and not even noticing it -- an almost unheard of procedure. "That is," she added, with a slight little flicker of hope, "if you're sure you heard the major aright, Betty. Mightn't he have been speaking of something else?"

"Well, I told you what he said," answered Betty, a trifle impatiently, for she also had dropped a stitch and saw before her the weary process of ripping out two whole rows of her helmet -- and helmets were such mean things to make, anyway!

"When he spoke of a week," she added, ripping vindictively, "and then said that the boys would be glad the waiting was over, it seems to me there's just about one conclusion we can come to."

"Oh, all right, but you needn't be so cross about it," returned Mollie, who, being very cross herself, could not make allowance for the malady in any one else.

"Have you seen any of the boys lately?" she asked, after an interval of deep concentration. "We've been kept so busy here at the Hostess House lately with these other boys that our boys might as well be dead and buried for all I've seen of them."

"Who's talking about being dead and buried?" demanded a third voice, and they turned to see Grace in the doorway with the inevitable candy box under her arm.

"Can't you choose a more cheerful subject?" she added, coming in and seating herself luxuriously in a big chair. "There's enough of that being done anyway -- "

"You talk as if getting dead and buried were some sort of new indoor sport," interrupted Mollie, glad to have this old familiar enemy to spar with.

"Goodness, there's no more sport in anything," returned Grace, disconsolately. "I don't see why any old swell-headed German -- "

"Grace!" exclaimed Betty, but with twinkling eyes. "What language!"

"Oh, I could do lots better than that," returned Grace tranquilly, "if I weren't in polite society."

"You flatter us," murmured Mollie.

"I know it," Grace retorted, still calmly. "Anyway, I was remarking that I didn't see why any swell-headed old German was allowed to take the world by the ears and turn it upside down -- "

"Gee, who's allowing him?" cried a masculine voice from the door, and the girls turned with a chorus of greetings to welcome Roy.

"We were just saying we thought you were dead," remarked Mollie somberly, never lifting her eyes from the sweater as he seated himself beside her.

"Sorry to disappoint you," he replied cheerfully. "As Frank remarked unflatteringly this morning, 'You are far from being a dead one -- go and reform.'"

"Was he speaking of me?" demanded Mollie Billette in deadly quiet, but Roy raised a placating hand.

"No, no, of course not," he said hurriedly. "He was speaking of me, poor worm that I am. But, I say," he added, looking around at the busily flying needles, "what's the idea of the knitting. We've got more sweaters and things than we know what to do with now."

Mollie lifted her eyes long enough to give him a withering glance.

"Do you think you're the only ones we care about?"

"I hope so," he responded promptly and daringly.

"Do you think maybe we'd better leave, Betty?" inquired Grace with delicately lifted eyebrows, while Mollie flushed scarlet.

"If you do, I'll never speak to you again," cried the latter, in alarm, adding, to change the subject: "Where are the other boys, Roy? You usually travel in fours."

"Well, as long as you didn't say on all fours, it's all right," responded Roy in a weak attempt at a joke that focused three pairs of girlish eyes scornfully upon him.

"Roy!" they chorused.

"All right, don't shoot," he pleaded. "What was that you asked me, Mollie?"

"I asked you," returned Mollie, with deliberation, "where the other boys were."

"I don't know, and what's more I don't care," replied Roy independently, leaning back and crossing his long legs with a sigh of content. "We've all been trying to get leave to come over and see you girls, and so far I'm the only one who's succeeded. The old boy, that is, the colonel," he corrected himself, gravely saluting the imaginary officer, "is drawing the reins pretty tight these days. Looks," he added, striving to keep the excitement out of his voice, "pretty much like business."

"Like business," they repeated in chorus, and were about to follow it up with a shower of questions when there was the sound of more masculine voices in the hall and the missing members of the quartette precipitated themselves upon the assembled company. Roy looked disgusted -- the girls happy.

"So you thought you'd have the field all to yourself, did you?" Allen demanded of the disconsolate Roy. "Well, that's the time you counted your chickens too soon."

Then, turning to Betty, he caught her two hands in his and waltzed her exuberantly about the room.

"Betty, Betty," he cried, his voice keen, his eyes shining with excitement, "we've got special permission to tell you, because you're in the service. We're going, little girl! We're on our way to lick the tar out of those Huns!"

"Allen!" Betty's face went suddenly white and she sank down on the arm of a chair, regarding him with wide, dark eyes. The other three boys with Mollie and Grace were gathered in the opposite corner of the room, chattering like magpies.

"It's -- it's really come?" she demanded, unsteadily. "Oh, Allen, when?"

"Day after to-morrow," he replied, his own hands shaking a little as they closed over hers. "Are you going to congratulate me, Betty?"

"A -- of course," she answered, smiling at him with a bravery that made him long to gather her in his arms and comfort her. She looked so little and plucky and utterly adorable.

"Then do it," he said whimsically, putting his hands behind him to keep them out of temptation.

"C-congratulations," she stammered, then her lip trembled and she bit it to keep it steady. "I know how much you've been wanting it," she continued, striving for a matter-of-fact tone, "and so, of c-course, I'm glad for your sake. Only -- "

"Only?" he prompted, gripping his hands hard to make them behave.

"Only," she added, her voice scarcely above a whisper, and glancing up at him shyly, "I can't very well help missing you, Allen, just at first -- "

"Betty," he cried, his hands breaking away from their imprisonment and seeking hers fiercely, "I'm trying so hard to do the right thing, -- be honorable and all that -- wait till I come back, you know -- but I can't. It -- it isn't human nature. You're too wonderful -- too utterly -- "

"Allen, don't!" she cried breathlessly. "You forget we're not alone."

"I -- don't -- care -- " he was beginning headily, but she wrenched her hands free, and, eluding him, plunged into the excited group at the other end of the room.

"Hello, Betty," Mollie cried, her voice high with excitement. "I guess you were right after all -- only it's five whole days sooner than we expected."

"I -- I wish they'd stop the old war," sighed Amy, who had come in in time to share the wonderful news. "I just can't bear the thought of it."

"Gee, that would be a nice note," broke in Will boyishly. "After all these weeks of training, to have the war stop just as we got ready to have a hand in it!"

"We'll be lucky if we don't leave a couple of hands in it," said Roy, again trying to be witty and again finding himself the battery for a score of indignant glances.

"If you think that's funny," Grace was beginning when Betty, color high, heart still beating suffocatingly from that brief little battle with Allen and her own inclination, interceded in his behalf.

"Oh, do leave him alone," she cried, patting Roy's scorned shoulder soothingly. "I, for one, would forgive him for anything he said or did just now without even being asked."

Roy gave her a grateful glance and Allen whispered close in her ear.

"You can be kind to every one but the one who loves you, Betty. Is that it?"

His voice was so low that no one but Betty could hear. And Betty felt an added rush of color sting her cheeks, and turned her eyes away to hide the confusion, the sudden fright in them.

If they had been alone no one knows what might have happened. But, even as it was, Allen, watching the flaming color and the downcast eyes, felt his heart leap joyfully and was almost -- almost -- satisfied.



Chapter XV

The Fateful Day


The rain that had been pouring down steadily all night stopped about dawn. Betty raised herself on one elbow to look out the window and was greeted by a dazzling burst of sunshine, as the glorious disc dispersed the fog and took possession of the world.

"A good omen," she murmured to herself, rubbing the sleepiness from her eyes. "Perhaps that's how the Huns will melt away before our boys!"

"What are you talking to yourself about?" queried Grace, irritably. "A person has a fine chance to sleep -- "

"Sleep!" cried Betty, indignantly. "What on earth do you want to sleep for? Do you know what day this is?"

"Friday," Grace answered mechanically, then seeing the point of the question, sat up in bed, rubbing her eyes.

"Oh, I -- forgot," she stammered. "They're -- they're going away, aren't they?"

"Yes; unless, they've changed their minds since last night," returned Betty dryly. "Oh, Grace, please don't look so sleepy. You -- you annoy me," she finished hysterically.

"Well, I'm sorry," said Grace, trying comically to appear dignified. "But it really isn't so strange that I should look the way I feel -- "

"Goodness, if I looked the way I feel, I'd be an awful mess," sighed Amy from the other bed.

"Maybe you do," chuckled Mollie. "Shall I get you a mirror?"

"Well, if you'd been awake almost all night," Amy began, but Mollie cut her short with a bear's hug.

"Forgive me, Amy," she said, with unusual humility. "I do know how awful it is to lie awake nearly all night and just think.

"And I shouldn't blame any one the least bit," she finished, "for calling me a mess, because I know I am. I'm positively afraid to look in the mirror."

"All right, we'll have 'em all draped in black, just for your special benefit," said Grace dryly. "Mollie, where did you put my stockings?"

"Goodness, what do you think I am?" retorted Mollie. "Your little French maid?"

"Nothing half so cute," returned Grace ungraciously, while Betty and Amy exchanged glances which, interpreted, meant: "We'll have our hands full with these two, to-day, all right."

"Anyway, you didn't answer my question," Grace persisted. "I asked you what you did with my stockings."

"Oh, I've got 'em on," replied Mollie sarcastically, smothering a yawn. "I mislaid my slumber shoes and used them instead."

The girls giggled and Grace looked around for an instrument of punishment. Not finding any, she was forced to resort to sarcasm.

"I guess you must have caught that particular form of insanity from Roy," she said.

"Well, as long as it wasn't the measles -- " Mollie was beginning when Amy broke in with one of those absolutely irrelevant remarks of hers, that made her different from every one else.

"I wonder," she said thoughtfully, "if the boys will fall in love with those nice little French girls. They say they're awfully attractive."

"Amy, what ever put such a thing into your head?" cried Betty, while the other two stared at her wide-eyed, not knowing whether to laugh or to be indignant.

"Oh -- nothing," she answered vaguely. "I was just wondering, that's all."

"Well," said Mollie, throwing back the covers preparatory to rising, "I might suggest that the next time you feel it coming on, you might choose something more comfortable, that's all. Wondering about such things might become wearing. What's that?" she asked, as a sharp tap sounded on the door.

"A caller, presumably," Grace remarked, as she slipped on a dressing gown and approached the door.

The early morning caller proved to be, much to their surprise and delight, no other than Mrs. Sanderson.

The old lady's eyes were unusually bright, and there was a flush on her face.

"I haven't been able to sleep all night," she said, her hands fluttering nervously in her lap. "Ever since Betty told me the boys were going this morning I couldn't think of anything but just that one thing."

"I am sorry I told you then until this morning," cried Betty, reproaching herself. "I didn't know it was going to make you feel bad."

"Oh, it wasn't your fault, dear," the old woman hastened to reassure her. "And it really didn't make me feel bad -- not for them, anyway. They're lucky to be able to fight -- even to die -- for a country like ours. Only," she paused, and some of the light died out of her eyes, "I couldn't help wishing -- "

"Yes," they prompted gently.

"That my Willie boy could have gone with them," she said, the words so soft that they had to lean close to her to catch them. "I would have been so proud of him."

The girls were silent, not knowing how to comfort the poor old woman.

"Perhaps," said Amy at last, scarcely knowing what she was saying, yet trying so hard to comfort, "he is a soldier somewhere. There are so many thousands of them, you know."

Mrs. Sanderson turned to her with such fierce emotion in her eyes that the girl unconsciously shrank back.

"If I thought that," she said, her voice tense, her hands clasped so tightly in her lap that the knuckles showed white, "I'd be willing, glad, to die the next minute. If I could just see my boy in uniform -- even if I knew I could never see him again -- " her voice trailed off, and once more the light died out of her eyes.

"But, of course, that's impossible," she said wearily. "If my boy had been alive, he'd have come back to me. But that wasn't why I came in to see you so early," she added after a moment, straightening up with that indomitable courage that had won, first, the girls' admiration, then their love. "I jest wanted to find out when 'twas the boys was startin'."

"We're not quite sure. The boys thought some time between nine and ten o'clock, but they didn't seem to be at all sure about it. The only thing we really know is that they're going to start early," Betty answered.

"Thank you, dear." The old lady rose, and when she started for the door Mollie ran before her and opened it.

When she had gone, the girls sat still, just looking at each other for a few minutes. Then -- 

"Isn't she wonderful?" breathed Betty. "After all these years she would give him up gladly for the sake of her country. That's real patriotism."

"She deserves to get him back," murmured Mollie, as though speaking to herself.

"Well, that's just the reason she won't," said Grace, irritably struggling with an unruly lock of hair. "Nobody ever gets what he deserves in this awful world. What is the matter with my hair this morning? It looks just exactly as I feel."

"Oh, come away from the mirror, Gracie," cried Betty, putting an arm about her and dragging her, an unwilling victim, out into the hall. "You'll feel better after you've had your breakfast. And remember," she added diplomatically, "there's a brand new box of candy in your left-hand dresser drawer."

The ruse worked, and a smile forced its way through Grace's discontent. Then a sudden thought struck her and the smile flickered and went out altogether.

"It was Roy's parting gift," she said, striving to speak lightly, though her voice trembled ever so little. "You know, Betty," she said in a rare burst of confidence, "I never had the slightest idea I could feel so really b-bad -- " her eyes filled and she brushed her hand across them impatiently.

"Am I not a goose?" she asked plaintively, and Betty, trying to laugh, choked, too, and abandoned the attempt.

Then they both smiled, an April sort of uncertain smile and went in to breakfast.

"I guess," remarked Betty whimsically, just as Mollie and Amy ran down the stairs and into the room, "that we're fast becoming what you said you were the other day, Gracie -- a regular flock of geese!"



Chapter XVI

Sparring For Time


The roads were muddy from the heavy rain that had fallen over night, but Mollie demurred when the girls suggested that they walk to the station rather than go in the automobile.

"It may be all very well for you," she declared, "but I certainly don't feel in any mood for taking a two-mile walk this morning."

"Well, my knees do feel kind of weak and wobbly," agreed Amy plaintively. "But you know how reckless you are, Mollie, and on these wet roads we're very apt to skid."

"Well, but what's one skid more or less in a good cause?" interrupted Betty merrily. "Besides, I guess we wouldn't have time to walk, anyway," she added quickly, as dozens of soldiers began pouring from their barracks. "We'll never be able to get to the station before the boys unless we take the car."

"Girls, they're really going," wailed Amy, as they quickly got into their wraps.

"Certainly looks like it," said Grace grimly, for once not knowing or caring whether the becoming little hat was tilted at exactly the right angle or not. "It makes me feel all queer and -- wobbly inside."

"Better take some candy along," advised Mollie, with a weak attempt at raillery as they ran down the porch steps and piled into the car. "You won't be able to come out of it alive if you're not properly fortified, Gracie."

"Oh, that reminds me," cried Betty, springing from her seat and from the car at the risk of her neck, for the machine had already begun to move. "We forgot the chocolate and tobacco for the boys. Wait for me, Mollie."

But Mollie, who had already brought the car to a standstill with a jerk and a grinding of brakes, leapt out after her, and the two flew up the steps, taking two at a time, and into the house.

Left behind, Amy and Grace looked at each other.

"I wish I could move like that," sighed the latter. "Those two get things done while I'm just beginning to think about it."

"And here they come back again," marveled Amy.

"Yes we have, and it's just about time, too," panted Betty, as they scrambled into the machine. "The boys are coming from the main gate now, and we'll have to make things hum if we want to get there before them."

"As Frank would remark," agreed Mollie: "'You said it!' This is going to be the race of a lifetime,"

"But Mollie," said Amy, gripping both hands tight in her lap as the car swerved sharply and executed a magnificent skid on two wheels, "you know it won't do either the boys or us any good if we get killed on the way. Do be -- "

"Amy Blackford," cried Mollie in an ominous tone of voice, "if you say that word to me again I will run into a tree or something just for spite!"

Amy gave a plaintive little moan, and her two hands gripped tighter in her lap.

"All right," she said. "I'm glad I made my will a couple of days ago."

Grace turned an interested and speculative eye upon her.

"Oh, you did," she remarked, adding in a wheedling tone, "What did you leave me, dear? You know I always was your best friend."

"Goodness, I wonder who's my worst then," retorted Amy, with an unexpected flash of humor.

"Oof, that was a bad one, Gracie," Betty laughed, glad of any diversion to keep the vision of those splendid, marching boys in the background as long as possible.

Unconsciously the girls were sparring for time. They knew that once they let themselves think, that once they let themselves realize the full significance, the utter finality of this thing that was about to happen, it would be hard for them to smile. And they so wanted to smile!

They had been so glad, so proud when the boys had volunteered among the very first. Down in their hearts they had known that that was the only thing they could have done.

And the thought of their going away had seemed so far in the future that, as yet, it need not worry them. Blinded by their own passionate patriotism, they had seen all of the glory of war and none of its horror.

And now, in order to send the boys away with the thought of bright faces and encouraging smiles to cheer them on their long, grim journey, the girls joked and laughed, carefully avoiding the subject that was uppermost in their minds.

"Oh, well, that's all a person can expect in this world," Grace had answered resignedly, in reply to Amy's thrust. "Just be kind and loving and thoughtful of other people's comfort, and you're sure to be sat upon -- "

"Goodness, she doesn't think anything of herself, does she?" Mollie flung back over her shoulder. "Now see what you made me do!" the exclamation was fairly jerked from her as the car lurched into a deep rut at the side of the road, skidded for a minute, seemingly uncertain whether to fling them out on the bank or continue its way, then bumped up on the road again and continued its flight.

"Oh, Mollie, do be -- " Amy began, but a sudden grim straightening of Mollie's back warned her in time and with a gasp she choked back the forbidden word.

"Goodness, isn't she well trained?" laughed Betty, as Mollie bent once more over the wheel.

"Who wouldn't be," protested Amy plaintively, "if a cannibal should come and hang an axe over his head -- ?"

"Is she calling me names?" demanded Mollie ferociously, half turning in her seat. "If she is, please tell her to say it to my face."

"Well, I would if I could," cried poor Amy desperately. "But I'd have to be an acrobat -- or an idiot -- "

"The last ought to be easy," drawled Grace, then hastily offered her candy. "I didn't mean it, Amy dear," she retracted humbly. "Really I didn't."

"Don't you believe her," said Betty whimsically. "She only wants to find out what you left in your will, Amy."

"I wouldn't dare tell her now, anyway," returned Amy, with a twinkle. "Methinks it might very easily become my death warrant."

"How so?" queried Mollie with interest -- or perhaps it might be said, Mollie's back expressed interest. For Mollie's back could express, Grace had once said, "more emotions in a minute than most people's faces could in a year." And, riding as they so often did, in full view of that expressive back, the girls had come to interpret its owner's emotions correctly in nine cases out of ten. So now they were able to detect a very quickened interest.

"Why," Amy explained naively, "it's barely possible that I've left something to Mollie, too, isn't it?"

"Barely," agreed Mollie dryly.

"Well," Amy chuckled, "then what would be easier than for Mollie to precipitate an accident, dash my brains out against some convenient tree, and then brazenly protest all innocence in the murder."

"Nothing," said Mollie, with the same dryness of intonation, "except the bare possibility of dashing my own brains out in the transaction."

"Oh, well, it could be fixed," said Amy with confidence.

"Do you really think so?" Mollie's back once more betrayed a lively interest, and the girls chuckled. "Suppose you tell me about it."

"And sign my own death warrant?" returned Amy plaintively. "Goodness, you must think I'm foolisher than I am."

"Impossible," retorted Mollie and once more Amy sighed and folded her hands resignedly in her lap.

"All right," she threatened, "if we only live through this, I'll change my will, that's all, and leave everything to Betty and Mrs. Sanderson."

"Goodness, what have I done?" cried Grace in dismay. "Didn't I just offer you another candy and -- and -- everything"

"I didn't notice the everything," said Amy.

"Well, you noticed the candy," retorted Grace with spirit, "and it was the fattest, juiciest one in the box, too."

"Well, give it back, Amy," directed Mollie, and Amy, in the act of swallowing the fat juicy chocolate, choked on a chuckle.

"Too late," she cried. "It is decapitated."

"I thought I heard its death rattle," sighed Grace, mournfully adding, as the girls laughed at her: "Oh, I don't know what's the matter with me this morning. I never felt so foolish before.

"Girls," she said, and suddenly her voice quivered and her eyes filled, "I've tried so not to think of it, but I can't fight it off much longer. Will and I have always been such chums, played and worked and even -- quarreled -- together -- "

"Please don't, Gracie," cried Betty, her face flushing and her eyes growing dark and wide. "It would be so easy just to g-give way, but we're in the service, too, you know, and we must be at least as b-brave as the boys."

"I -- I guess maybe that's impossible," said Mollie, her voice, even her straight little back betraying emotion. "Nobody could be as b-brave as they are."

"Well, we never know what we can do till we try, do we?" cried Betty, that indomitable fighting spirit of hers rising to the emergency. "If we say we can't, of course we can't, but we can do our best, can't we? If the boys aren't c-crying, why should we?"

"That's the way to talk," cried Mollie, straightening defiantly at the challenge. "We don't have to, and, what's more, we won't!"



Chapter XVII

Tears And Patriotism


It was a valiant determination, that one to smile whatever happened; but somehow, 'way down in their brave hearts, the girls doubted a little. They would do their best, but, after all, they were only human and there are times when to smile is the hardest achievement in the world.

"We're -- we're nearly there," ventured Amy, after a little interval of silence, during which the girls had been busily gathering all their resources for the crisis just before them. "Do you suppose we've got in ahead of the boys?"

"Goodness, I should hope so," retorted Mollie, with a brief return of her old spirit. "If this old car couldn't make better time than boys on foot, I'd give it away to any one who'd take it off my hands."

As she spoke the car swung around a sharp curve, and the station that had appeared so attractive to them several months ago, loomed into view. To-day they greeted its appearance with as much enthusiasm as they would the electric chair.

A train was coming in, but it was not one for the troops. It was a mixed train, composed of one passenger car, a baggage and smoker combined, and several milk cars.

"What a country-looking train," was Amy's comment.

She addressed Betty, but the Little Captain did not answer, for the reason that she was staring into the baggage car, the side door to which was wide open.

"See that man!"

She pointed to an individual who stood in the baggage car, his hands holding up a motorcycle.

"Oh, Betty, is it that man -- our motorcyclist -- ?" began Mollie.

"I am sure it is!" cried Grace.

The man was looking toward the end of the baggage car, so they got only a side look at his face. Then the train moved away and was soon out of sight.

"Well, if that's the fellow, he is gone," murmured Amy.

"Now, maybe, we'll never have a chance to catch him," added Mollie.

"Oh, we'll catch him yet," declared Betty,

Under ordinary circumstances the Outdoor Girls would have given the incident considerable attention. But now their thoughts were of the soldier boys so soon to leave.

"Didn't the boys say they were entraining for Philadelphia?" asked Grace, trying hard to make her voice sound natural and merely conversational.

"Yes, that's where a great many of them go," Betty answered, praying desperately that she might fight down that flood of tears that every moment threatened to rise and overwhelm her. "I won't be weak and f-foolish," she was saying, over and over, to herself. "I won't, I won't, I won't!"

Then the car came to a standstill beside the platform and the girls sat looking at each other, not quite sure what to do next.

"Do you think it would be all right to stay here?" asked Mollie uncertainly. "Of course we could get out when the boys came."

"It's a little conspicuous, don't you think?" suggested Amy mildly.

"Yes, it looks as if we had come to see a parade or something," Grace agreed.

There was a great deal of luggage and many boxes piled at one end of the station and it was upon these that Betty's eyes, roaming in search of some sheltered spot, finally focused.

"We could slip in behind those packing cases and things," she suggested; "and then we could see without being too much seen ourselves."

"Then the boys might not see us," protested Mollie, clenching her teeth over her trembling lip. "We don't want them to think we weren't here to say g-good-bye."

"Well, they'll see the car, won't they?" Betty argued, a little impatiently, for even her sweet temper was beginning to give way under the strain. "They'll know by that that we're here and then if they miss us, they deserve to -- that's all."

"Well, I suppose we'll have to take a chance," said Molly, almost crossly, as she jumped out after Betty. "I only wish it was all over. The waiting is getting on my nerves."

"Well, you don't think you're alone in that, do you?" Grace was beginning when Betty interrupted with a little hysterical laugh.

"I -- I don't see how it's going to make us feel very much better to quarrel about it," she said, adding whimsically: "Come ahead you two -- kiss and make up before the boys come. You know they always said it made them jealous enough to commit murder when we did it in their presence."

They laughed unsteadily, and Mollie threw an affectionate and repentant arm about the Little Captain's shoulders.

"Betty, dear, you make me ashamed of myself," she said impulsively. "As if you didn't have enough to worry about yourself without my making you more. I'm a selfish pig, that's all."

Just then the sound that they had all been unconsciously listening for struck heavily upon their ears. The regular tramp, tramp of hundreds, thousands, of marching feet!

"Oh, they're coming, they're coming!" cried Amy, in a sort of suffocated little moan.

"Well, of course they're coming," retorted Mollie, her nerves jumping with the effort to speak coolly. "We've been almost expecting that they would, haven't we?"

"Oh, I know. But it all seemed like a terrible d-dream till now," returned Amy, looking so like a bewildered child that Betty put a comforting arm about her and drew her into the little recess beside her.

"It isn't a dream, Amy dear," she said, very steadily. "I don't think we were ever more fully or terribly awake than we are now. Not even that day when we heard of the sinking of the Lusitania, did we realize just what this war was going to mean to us. It's only by some sacrifice -- some personal sacrifice -- " but the brave voice broke and died into silence while she listened with almost straining intensity to that regular beat of marching feet, coming nearer, ever nearer -- 

And in the distance came the long, warning whistle of the train -- the train that was going to take them away!

"Oh, keep still," cried Mollie, turning with sudden, unreasoning fury toward the oncoming locomotive with the smudge of smoke in its wake, her hands clenched passionately and her black eyes smoldering. "We know you're coming for them -- Roy and Allen and Will and Frank and -- and -- all the others. But that's no reason why you have to rub it in, is it?"

At any other time, the rather unreasoning attack upon the train would have seemed funny to the girls, and even in their trouble a faint gleam of humor came to them, but no one laughed, no one even smiled.

"I -- I wonder," said Grace, nervously patting a stray lock of hair into place beneath the smart little hat which, under the spell of excitement, had gotten slightly awry, "if we'll be able to pick our boys out from all that crowd. Oh, girls," taking a quick little survey over the top of her own particular packing case, "they're almost here! Swarms, just swarms of them!"

"Goodness, that sounds like locusts -- or mosquitoes," cried Betty hysterically, scarcely knowing what she was saying. "Squeeze in tight, Amy, or you'll get your toes stepped on. Grace, look again. How far away are they?"

"Just around the corner," reported Grace. "Goodness," she cried in sudden panic, "I almost wish we'd stayed in the automobile. I'd feel s-safer -- "

"Safer?" cried Mollie scornfully, "I'd like to know what there is to be afraid of. Oh, there you go again," shaking an impotent little fist as the great train rumbled into the station with a screaming of brakes and a shrieking of whistles.

And then the flood broke. Down the station platform came hundreds upon hundreds of khaki-clad figures, talking, gesticulating, faces eagerly flushed, eyes brilliant as they prophetically looked into the future.

"Oh, we'll never be able to pick them out of the crowd," cried Grace despairingly. "I'm getting cross-eyed as it is. Oh, there's Corporal Harris! Yes, and there goes James McDonald! Oh, oh -- "

And indeed there were scores of familiar faces among the boys that were passing perhaps forever out of their lives. Some saw the girls and saluted them gaily, but most of them were too intent upon boarding the train and embarking upon the glorious adventure with as little delay as possible to look either to the right or the left.

Then, just as the girls thought they must have missed "their own particular four" and were bracing themselves to stand the disappointment, they saw them!

They were together, the four of them, splendid specimens of young manhood with their cropped heads and service hats and packs slung over their backs.

"Allen," cried Betty impulsively, and he turned as though shot, a deep flush staining his face.

They came over then, those four, to the girls they were leaving indefinitely -- perhaps forever. Their young faces were very grave, their jaws grim and set, and the girls realized suddenly that these were not the boys who had so joyously left Deepdale in the service of their country. These were no longer careless, irresponsible boys, but men with a great and glorious duty to perform, and their hearts thrilled with a new pride.

And while eloquent things were being said, not only with lips, but with eyes and clasping hands, Allen bent nearer to Betty's little, upturned face.

"IT MAY BE A LONG TIME, BUT -- I'M COMING BACK." The Outdoor Girls at the Hostess House. page 145

"It may be a long, long time, little girl," he whispered, gravely, "but -- I'm coming back. And, Betty, I have your picture -- that little snapshot you gave me, the laughing one, you remember?"

Betty nodded, smiling bravely while she choked back something deep down in her throat.

"And -- " his eyes had grown very wistful, "and -- I'm counting on some letters from you, Betty?"

"Oh, Allen," she cried breathlessly, "I'll write you all the time, dear, every day -- "

But he had caught both her hands in his and was drawing her irresistibly toward him.

"'Dear,'" he was repeating dizzily, incredulously. "Did you call me that, Betty? Did you say 'dear'?"

"Y-yes," she nodded, breathless, a little frightened, yet adorably brave. Why, this was Allen, and he was going away! He might be killed over there! She might never see him again! "And," she added, looking up into his eyes with a shy recklessness, "I -- I'd say it again, Allen, if you asked me -- "

With a little cry he drew her to him, and for one unbelievable, breathless second his lips rested on hers.

"Betty, Betty, I love you," he whispered unsteadily. "I'll be dreaming of you always. Whatever I do 'over there' will be because of you -- " The whistle shrieked a rude warning and his hands tightened on hers. They were both trembling a little.

"Good-bye," he whispered hoarsely. "I -- love -- you -- " then he tore himself away, swinging up the steps and into the car.

The train began to move amid a great storm of cheering and waving of service hats. Betty saw it all dimly, through a mist of tears. She pressed her hand against her lips to still their trembling.

"Good-bye, dear," she murmured brokenly.



Chapter XVIII

After The Boys Left


"Well -- it's -- over," sighed Grace, as they made their way slowly down the platform to where the machine stood waiting. "I feel as though I'd like to go home and cry for a week without stopping."

"Favorite indoor sport," retorted Mollie, wiping her own eyes impatiently. "I'm sure the boys would admire us for doing that."

"I don't think they'd admire us very much if they could see us now," sighed Amy, dabbing a rather red nose with a generous portion of talcum powder. "Crying is so terribly damaging to my particular style of beauty! Every time I do it I vow I never will again -- "

"And then the boys do foolish things like going away to be shot," finished Mollie, "and -- poof, go all our good resolutions."

"But you girls are all Helen of Troys compared to me when I cry," said Grace, her tear-dimmed eyes fixed mournfully on space. "Why, after I've had a good cry I cover up all the mirrors in the house for a couple of days afterward."

"I guess," sighed Betty, "that just about everybody we know went away on that train this morning. Oh, girls, I feel as though somebody were dead."

"Well, I'd rather be, than look like this," said Grace, eyeing her somewhat disheveled reflection in the tiny mirror somberly.

"Oh, you're not quite as bad as that, Gracie," Betty comforted her, laughing a little despite the ache at her heart. "A little cold water and a curling iron will work wonders -- "

"Betty," cried Grace, pausing in the act of applying still more powder to the tip of her nose and regarding the Little Captain with a horrified expression, "why drag the mention of such unromantic things into the open -- "

"Goodness, nothing could be much more unromantic than straight hair and red noses," broke in Mollie practically. "It's lucky the boys don't do this every day -- I'd be a wreck in a week!"

"Well, at least you'd be wrecked in a good cause," said Betty, half wistfully, half whimsically.

"Goodness, you'll make me cry again after I've just powdered my nose," cried Grace in alarm, and the foolishness of it made them all laugh.

"You're a goose, Gracie," Mollie commented. "But I love you, just the same. Now," she added, "who's going to take the wheel while I do my duty with the powder puff? I need both hands you know -- "

"Heavens, don't let Amy do it," cried Grace, in still greater alarm. "She doesn't know a thing about it. Mollie, what are you doing?"

"You put the powder on then," Mollie suggested, and Amy reached for the vanity case. "If you can't drive you can at least do that much. Amy! you're getting it in my eyes. Do be careful!"

"Mollie Billette, if you dare use that word again," cried Amy, her eyes twinkling, "I'll blind you with powder -- just for spite!"

The girls chuckled, and Mollie, figuratively speaking, threw up her hands.

"Oh, all right," she said, meekly yielding up her nose to treatment. "I surrender. Only, Amy, do be -- "

Amy raised the puff threateningly, and the badgered one continued hastily: "I was only going to say -- do be a nice little girl."

"As if I were not always that!" retorted Amy, dabbing so liberally at the unfortunate member that Mollie sneezed, bumped over a rock in the road and nearly dashed the car against that long-threatening tree.

"Oh, goodness! I was sure we'd never come out of this alive," cried Grace miserably. "Isn't it enough to have our hearts broken, without our necks in the bargain?"

"Oh, might as well make a good job of it," returned Mollie cheerfully. "I don't know that I'd mind very much, anyway."

"Oh, now I know I'm going to cry!" wailed Grace, wiping a starting tear with her handkerchief. "Just when we're almost at Camp, too, and apt to meet somebody any minute -- "

"Didn't you just hear Betty say," Mollie broke in, with the patient air one assumes in speaking to little children, "that everybody who is really worth anything has gone away on that train?"

"Well, I guess I didn't altogether mean that," said Betty thoughtfully. "Of course there is the medical personnel that is stationed here indefinitely and very much against its will. And, of course," she added, after a moment's pause, "there is Sergeant Mullins."

"Goodness! we did forget all about him, didn't we?" agreed Mollie, as though surprised at herself. "I don't know how we could have done such a thing!"

"And he's simply desperate at being kept here," added Amy suddenly. "He's done everything he possibly could to get away, but they say they need him more here than on the other side, and so, of course, he can't do a thing."

"How did you know?" they asked in chorus, growing gleeful as she colored under their gaze.

"Why, he -- he told me," she stammered.

"Aha! I have you now, woman," cried Mollie, with a deep villain frown. "Secret meetings on moonlit nights -- "

"This one happened to be in the broad daylight, in the glare of noon," Amy retorted. "And if you can find anything secret or romantic about that, you're welcome to."

Mollie stared for a minute, then joined in the laugh.

"Strike one," she cried. "But do tell us, Amy clear, about this meeting with Sergeant Mullins that occurred in the broad light of day. It must have been interesting -- though unforeseen," she added hastily, as Amy turned a suspicious eye upon her.

"Yes, Amy, I humbly beseech you," added Grace.

"No, sir, I have been insulted enough," declared Amy stoutly, and nothing they could say seemed to have any effect upon her decision.

"You ask her, Betty," entreated Grace at last, turning to the Little Captain, who had been very silent and thoughtful during the ride. "She'll do anything for you, you know."

Betty brought back her wandering attention with a start. She had been thinking of those last words of Allen's, had been seeing again that exalted look in his eyes, could feel again the trembling of his hands as he grasped hers in a grip that hurt -- hurt gloriously.

"Wh-what did you say?" she asked, dimly conscious of having been addressed. "I -- I'm afraid I wasn't listening."

"I'm afraid you weren't," returned Grace, throwing a loving arm about her.

Then she repeated Amy's confession and her own question, and gradually there began to dawn in Betty's eyes a real interest.

"Oh, Amy, do tell us about it," she begged earnestly. "You know he has always been something of a mystery to us because of his reserve, and we'd love to know more about him. You know we're really not curious -- just truly interested."

"Well," agreed Amy, with a smile, not able to resist Betty -- nobody ever was for long -- "of course, I'll tell you all there is to tell -- although it really isn't much. I was hurrying along the parade a day or two ago, watching the boys drill, when somebody ran plump into me and made me drop the package I was carrying. I gasped and started to apologize for not looking where I was going when I saw that it was Sergeant Mullins. Then we both laughed and he picked up my package and offered to see me safely back to the Hostess House. Now what are you laughing at, Mollie?"

"I was just thinking," Mollie chuckled, "of the desperate need there was of a brave escort and of all the lions and tigers that were apt to attack you on the parade -- "

"Well, you don't have to be silly," Amy retorted hotly, flushing despite herself, adding, rather lamely: "He said it was so no one else would run into me."

"Worse and worse, and more of it," chortled Mollie, skidding deftly about a curve. "What an excuse!"

"Oh, all right then," Amy was beginning indignantly, when Grace hurriedly thrust the candy box beneath her nose.

"Have one, honey," she said, in a voice of sugar sweetness. "You needn't pay any attention to Mollie, you know. We're listening."

"Well," Amy continued, slightly mollified, "it was then he told me all about the ambition he had had of being one of the first on the firing line and how hard it was to train all the boys to go after the Huns and then not have a chance at them himself."

"And, of course, you told him the same old thing about his doing a great deal more for his country here than he could do on the other side -- " began Mollie.

"Well, what else was there to say?" Amy replied, a little sharply. "Of course, it didn't make him feel any better, and I knew in my heart that it wouldn't, but anything's better than just staying quiet and acting foolish."

"And natural," murmured Grace.

"Anyway, he seemed to understand that I was really sorry for him," Amy continued, not noticing the interruption. "He said he was sorry he'd bothered me with his grouchiness, that he wouldn't have felt so bad about it if it hadn't been for all the boys going away, and he supposed he'd even get used to that after a while if he tried hard enough.

"Just the same, he did look mighty grim as he turned away," she finished, with a little smile at the memory, "and he said something about not being surprised if he got mad at the last minute and hitched on the rear platform, anyway."

"It's wonderful how eager they all are," said Betty, her eyes shining and a little catch in her voice. "I suppose there are slackers, lots of them, but so far I haven't met a boy who wasn't desperate at being given a 'safe berth' away from the firing line and danger.

"It never seems to enter their minds to be thankful that they don't have to run the risk of having their arms and legs shot off, or perhaps being blinded for life.

"And it isn't that they don't think of it, either," she went on, her face flushing with enthusiasm, "or realize what it means. Just the other night Will was talking to me, Gracie -- you know he's always been almost as much my brother as yours -- and he said, 'I tell you what, Betty, it isn't often I let the grim side of this war business get to me, and it's the same with the other fellows. Of course we know it's there, but we're willing to take the bad with the good for the sake of doing what we're pretty darn sure is the only thing to do. Only,' he added, slowly, 'we're none of us pretending to say that we enjoy the idea of being maimed or perhaps crippled for life. There's not one of us but who's praying that if we have to go, it will be a good swift bullet that will do the business.

"'But,' he added, with a smile -- and I could have hugged him for that smile, girls. 'But, of course, as I said before, we're not thinking of that side of it. It's enough to know that if it comes, we'll know how to meet it.'"

"And th-that's my brother," cried Grace, half tearful, yet radiant with pride in him. "Those horrible old Huns won't have even half a chance when he gets at them."

"And Frank and Allen and Roy," added Mollie loyally. "You can't leave any one of our boys out, Gracie. They're all built on the same plan -- as far as bravery is concerned."

"Of course, I know that," said Grace, her eyes softening with the picture of Roy as he had said good-bye -- so youthfully gay, yet so strangely self-reliant.

And Mollie's eyes that could flash so wrathfully at times, were also soft with memory, and Amy, thinking of those last words that were almost, yes, so very near, a promise, flushed hotly and wondered if after all she ought -- so soon -- 

"It's no wonder that we're proud of them -- our boys," said Betty softly.



Chapter XIX

Real Tragedy


A day or two went by during which the girls tried pluckily to go on with their duties about the Hostess House with bright and smiling faces. It was hard, though, to keep their thoughts from wandering to the four boys who were now on their way to face all the realities and all the horrors of the terrible war, and perhaps it was well that the leaving of so many made their duties lighter than usual.

On their return from the station after seeing the boys entrain they had found a letter from their friend, Mrs. Barton Ross, of their home town of Deepdale, head of the Young Women's Christian Association, under whose auspices the Hostess House at Camp Liberty was run. In this letter Mrs. Ross had said that she had sent to the girls a box of books for which they had sent a request -- books all of which one boy or another had asked for, and which the regular Camp library had not been able to supply.

The books had now come, Mollie had learned on a visit to the postoffice, and as it was a heavy package she had got out the car and with the other girls had run down for it.

As the car rolled up to the curb and stopped once more before the Hostess House, Betty waved her hand to an upper window.

"There's Mrs. Sanderson," she explained as they got out of the automobile. "She looks kind of pathetic sitting up there all alone."

"She always looks pathetic to me," sighed Amy, winding an arm about the Little Captain as they ascended the steps. "But everybody looks sadder and more forlorn than usual the past few days."

"Well, we can't be sad and forlorn any longer," said Betty determinedly. "We came here to cheer people up, you know, and how we're going to do it by being doleful ourselves, I don't know. So, in the words of the vulgar -- 'here goes.' How's that?"

"That" was a rather forced and pitiful little smile, but it brought an answering one from Amy and another warm hug.

"You're just wonderful, Betty!" she said lovingly, "and we'll do just whatever you say. If you want us to smile, we'll smile, that's all. Of course, we have tried, but we'll try still harder."

Betty hugged back, and they went up the stairs toward the old familiar room, feeling better and more cheerful for their renewed good resolutions.

For a while the girls were busy unpacking the books and putting them in place. Then Betty announced her intention of calling on Mrs. Sanderson.

"I can't bear to think of her in there by the window all alone," she said. "It has been awfully hard for her to watch all those boys going away, knowing that her Willie wasn't among them. I might be able to comfort her a little."

"Let me go too," begged Amy, and arm in arm the two girls went on their little mission of kindness.

They knocked on the door, but, receiving no answer, pushed it open and stepped inside the room. The old lady was sitting in exactly the same position as when Betty had seen her from the car, almost an hour before.

She glanced up, a little startled when they spoke to her, and half rose to her feet. She looked dazed and very old and drawn. With a little cry of compassion, Betty ran over to her and gently forced her back into her chair.

"Did we startle you?" she asked anxiously. "We knocked, but you didn't answer, and we came right in. I'm sorry -- "

"You needn't be, dearie." The old eyes twinkled and the old hand was very gentle as it patted Betty's cheek reassuringly. "I'm always glad to see you and I've told you to come right in any time. I was thinking very hard, I guess, and that's why I didn't hear you."

"Then we may stay a little while?" said Betty, relieved. "But please tell us if we'll be a bother," she added hastily, as the old woman turned once more to the window.

"No, no, I was hoping you would come," said the latter so eagerly that Betty knew her impulse had been a correct one. The old woman had wanted some one -- some one who understood -- to pour out her heart to.

"It was wonderful just to sit here and watch those boys who went, an' I've been thinkin' of it," she said, after a brief silence. "Only, somethin' inside o' me, I guess 'twas my heart, kept bleedin' an' cryin' out that my boy should have been among them -- my little brown-eyed Willie who used to sit out in the sun readin' every minute he could get. I can see him now, sittin' there, jest as if 'twas yesterday -- " Her voice trailed off, and in a silence eloquent with sympathy the girls waited for her to go on.

"But I wanted to tell those boys too," she cried, straightening up with sudden fire, "that my Willie wasn't only a reader an' as bright as a dollar, -- he could fight, too. He'd have made a soldier to be proud of.

"It wouldn't be near so bad," she added, turning to the girls with such a depth of tragedy in her eyes that their hearts bled for her, "if I could only be sure o' his bein' dead. It's the heartbreak of not knowin' that's goin' to kill me in the end!

"But there," she said, catching herself up as though ashamed of the outburst, "seems like I talk to you little ladies more'n I ever talked to anybody else in all my life. Seems like it's jest been bottled up inside o' me so long it's jest got to come out.

"I wish you'd tell me," she added, looking at them wistfully, "when it bothers you, an' I'll jest bottle it all up again twice as tight as 'twas before."

"Oh, please," cried Amy, taking one of the work-worn hands and pressing it earnestly between her own warm ones. "We just feel honored to think that you trust us enough and like us enough to tell us these things. If you didn't we'd be miserable!"

"Indeed we should," added Betty fervently.

Mrs. Sanderson looked from one of the flushed earnest faces to the other, and her eyes filled slowly with tears.

"I never thought," she said tremulously, "that there were girls like you in the world."

Several days later Mrs. Watson, their chaperone, and the head of the Hostess House, called the girls to her for a consultation, and, wondering what new thing was in store for them, they responded to the call.

The boys had been gone for a week, time enough to get accustomed -- a little -- to the feeling of loss that had so oppressed them during the first few days.

And now there were rumors of new soldiers arriving at the camp and of more than enough work for the girls at the Hostess House to keep their minds continually occupied.

And, in fact, it was to discuss that very situation that Mrs. Watson had called them to her this morning.

"Well, girls," she said when they had seated themselves in characteristic attitudes about the room, "we've had a little breathing spell now, just enough time to rest up before the next onslaught."

She paused over the word, smiled, and they smiled back at her.

"Of course that means," Betty interpreted, "that not only the boys but hundreds of their relatives and friends are coming to be entertained and housed and amused."

"Exactly," nodded Mrs. Watson. "And, of course, the work that you girls have done -- "

"And you," Betty interjected loyally, but Mrs. Watson brushed the interruption aside with a wave of her hand, though she flushed happily.

"Of course I've done my part of it," she agreed modestly. "But equally of course I couldn't have done it if you girls hadn't stood shoulder to shoulder with me. And," she added, enthusiastically, "it has been more the spirit with which you did the work than the actual work itself that has won such a reputation for our Hostess House here."

"'Reputation!'" repeated Mollie wonderingly, then added with an impish inflection: "Oh, have we one of those things?"

"We have," responded Mrs. Watson, with an indulgent smile. "And, whether deserved or not, modesty would prompt us to say that it is not, of course -- " and the girls laughed amusedly. "Our reputation is unusually good and unusually widespread. So good, in fact, that the boys are glad when they find they are to be sent to Camp Liberty."

"Yes," Betty nodded thoughtfully, "several boys have told me that, but I thought they only said it in a spirit of gratitude, or perhaps, as flattery."

"That is modest," said Mrs. Watson with another smile. "But," she added, leaning forward in her chair and speaking earnestly, "I honestly think that you girls don't even begin to realize what a wonderful work you have been doing right here in this little city that sprang up over night. It isn't a small thing, you know -- sending thousands of our boys away cheered and strengthened, armed to meet the future -- better men, just for having met you.

"And the mothers and wives and sweethearts who have been entertained so royally and permitted to say good-bye to their loved ones under the very best and cheeriest conditions possible -- why, they have spoken to me of you with tears in their eyes!"

There were tears in their own eyes as the girls smiled happily at her.

"But it's been such fun," Mollie protested, "just seeing how much you can make people forget their troubles."

"That's it," Mrs. Watson broke in quickly. "That's the spirit that has made your work here such a wonderful success. You've done it -- and whether you will admit it or not, sometimes we've all been so tired at night we've ached in every joint and muscle when we've crawled into bed -- because you loved to do it and because it was 'fun' to make people forget their troubles, if only for a little while, and be happy.

"That's the secret, dear girls, and that's why the boys are all eager to be assigned here. Also, the boys in the permanent garrison will sing your praises to the few who have not already heard them, and of course we shall have to live up to their opinion of us."

"Well, if just doing what we have been doing gives us such a reputation," said Amy soberly, "I guess it won't be hard to live up to it in the future."

"Only," said Mrs. Watson warningly, "the work before us is apt to be very much more trying and arduous than any we have yet had. The camp is going to be filled to overflowing, and of course that will mean entertaining continually for us.

"We may even," she added thoughtfully, "have to quarter some of the relatives and friends outside the camp in private homes, and, of course, it will be up to us to find those homes."

"You mean we are to go canvassing -- the way we did that Thanksgiving?" queried Betty.

Mrs. Watson nodded, and Grace groaned.

"Well," said the latter, "I don't care. In fact, I rather like the idea if only my feet will hold out."

"They look pretty durable," remarked Mollie gravely.

"But you don't know how they feel," retorted Grace, wiggling one foot in its trim slipper experimentally. "Every time I get a pair of shoes I have to get a size larger, and you know," argumentatively, "at that rate I'll be a freak and you'll be able to charge admission for a look at me."

"Good," cried Mrs. Watson, laughing with the others. "I knew some one would be clever enough to think up a new way of making money. Keep it right up, Grace."

"Yes," said Betty drolly, "just think of the good you can do!"



Chapter XX

The Motorcyclist Again


"What a glorious morning!" cried Betty, raising her face to the brilliant sunshine. "I feel as if I could walk miles and miles and miles and never stop."

"Well, it's lucky for you that you do," sighed Grace. "Perhaps you'd be willing to walk a few for me."

"Oh, don't give up, Grade dear, before we've even started," cried Betty, giving a little exuberant skip with the sheer joy of being alive. "Anyway," she added, with inspiration, "if you get tired you and Mollie can go back and get the car."

"And have to walk miles to get it," Grace objected. "No, Betty, you'll have to think up something better than that."

"I wouldn't waste my time on such a lazy person, Betty," said Mollie, who was walking briskly ahead with Amy. "I suppose we might have brought the car," she added, after a minute, "only it seems foolish when you have to stop at every house you come to."

"It not only seems foolish -- it is foolish," said Betty cheerily.

"Oh, I tell you what," cried Amy, seized with sudden inspiration, while the girls stared at her expectantly.

"Hasten, Amy," cried Mollie, in a mock agony of suspense. "Do not keep us waiting in this fashion."

"Well," said Amy with a twinkle, "let's buy a couple of the worst sounding horns we can find in town, go back and get Mollie's car -- "

"Yes?" they queried breathlessly.

"And go through the streets tooting the horns until we've collected a crowd," finished Amy triumphantly.

"And when we've got it, what'll we do with it?" queried Mollie reasonably.

"Well, I should think you'd guess the rest," remarked Amy. "We could just tell 'em what we'd come for, that's all, and ask all who were willing to take a 'guest' to say 'aye.'"

"Never mind, dear, there's still hope," remarked Mollie, patting her arm soothingly. "The doctor said, with absolute rest and quiet, you might get over it."

Betty chuckled. Grace did not, for the reason that her feet were beginning to hurt and she did not feel in a chuckling mood.

"Well, I don't know but what there's something in your idea after all, Amy," she said, while Amy looked immensely gratified. "I'm in favor of anything that cuts out walking."

"'Cuts out'?" queried Mollie reprovingly.

"Yes, cuts out," returned Grace, sticking to her guns. "What do you say, Betty? Don't you think Amy has the right idea?"

"Well," said Betty diplomatically, while her eyes twinkled at the imaginary spectacle of whirling through the streets of the town, blowing raucously on horns and making stump speeches from the running board of the machine, "it would at least have the advantage of being spectacular -- "

"There, Mollie!" cried Amy, not waiting for her to finish, the light of triumph in her eyes. "You see it's three to one. Now, what have you got to say for yourself?"

"Nothing," remarked Mollie dryly, "except to suggest that you wait until Betty gets through. I imagine she hadn't said all she wanted to on the subject."

"Hadn't you, Betty?" queried Amy, a trifle disconcerted and looking back at Betty over her shoulder.

"We-ll," said Betty slowly, "I never say a thing can't be done until it's tried -- "

"There!" Grace exclaimed, but Betty interrupted her.

"But," she said hastily, "I think it might be just as well to try the less spectacular method first. Don't you?"

Both Amy and Grace heaved a great sigh of disappointment.

"For one beautiful moment," said Grace plaintively, "I dared to hope that you were with us, Betty."

"Goodness, I am!" exclaimed the latter, wilfully misunderstanding. "With you to the death, if need be. But look," she added as they turned a corner, "Methinks we have pretty nearly reached the scene of our activity."

"Methinks it's pretty nearly time," groaned Grace.

"I tell you what we'll do," suggested Betty, as they crowded eagerly about her. "It will save time, and, I think, be the easiest way. We'll each one take an entire street, visit as many of the houses as possible within an hour, and at the end of that time we'll meet here again and each make her report."

The others agreed to this, and they separated, each determined to find as many boarding places as possible for those relatives and friends who wished to be near their soldier boys.

At the end of the hour they met again, looking a little warm and tired, but immensely triumphant.

Grace was wildly excited.

"Yes, I found places," she said, in answer to a question from Betty. "But what do you think? -- I saw that motorcyclist."

"You did!" came in a chorus from the other Outdoor Girls.

"Of course you mean the rascal who ran down poor Mrs. Sanderson," came from Mollie.

"The same. I was so startled I hardly knew what to do. He was coming from a small hotel -- not a very nice place."

"Maybe that is where he plays cards," suggested Betty.

"As soon as he saw me he leaped on his motorcycle and left in a hurry, before I had a chance to say a word to him."

"What a shame that you didn't have a chance to have him arrested," cried Amy.

The girls talked the matter over for several minutes. As the motorcyclist was gone there seemed nothing they could do.

"But we'll keep our eyes open for him," declared Betty.

"I think this is the most wonderful town," Mollie remarked after a pause. "Why there's hardly a house that I visited but what the people were willing to accommodate at least one boarder, and in some cases two or three, and, what's more," waving her hand enthusiastically, "several of them didn't even want to take any money for it."

"And I found almost the very same thing," agreed Betty, as they linked arms and started on the homeward walk. "I guess we have enough promises to start with now, and I don't think we'll have any trouble finding quarters for all who want them."

"I shouldn't wonder if Mrs. Watson is right about our reputation," said Grace, a little ruefully. "Because the minute Mrs. Robinson opened the door and saw me she said she hadn't the slightest idea what I was going to ask her this time, but, seeing it was one of the girls from the Hostess House, she expected to say yes, anyway."

The girls laughed and for some time afterward walked on in silence, busy with their thoughts. Then suddenly Betty spoke.

"Girls," she said soberly, "Mrs. Sanderson is almost well again and I don't think we'll be able to keep her with us very much longer."

"What do you mean?" they cried together, their voices showing how very real their concern was.

"Well," Betty explained slowly, "it seems she overheard some of us girls talking about the rush of work in store for us and got it into her head that we might need her room."

"But I don't see what difference that makes," protested Mollie. "As long as we're doubling up and giving her our room."

"Well, of course, it appears that way to us," replied Betty, shaking her head thoughtfully. "But I'm afraid we can't hope to make her see it so. Anyway, Mrs. Watson said she spoke to her about it and said she would be going as soon as she had a chance to say good-bye to the 'young ladies.'"

For a long time the girls stared straight before them, deeply troubled. It was not so much the thought of losing the old lady, although, having grown fond of her, they would miss her badly, as it was the realization that here was one person in deep trouble, whose burden they could not seem in any way to lighten.

"And we haven't been able to get hold of that motorcyclist," mourned Mollie. "It makes me simply ferocious," she added, with sudden vigor, "to think of his getting away with a thing like that and not even a day in prison to show for it."

"And now with the boys gone," added Amy, "I don't suppose we'll have a chance in the world of capturing him."

"Humph," groaned Grace disgustedly, the temporary glow of success fading before the torture of aching feet, "I don't see that they helped very much when they were here. We did the suggesting, and all they did was to laugh at our suggestions -- "

"Well, there's no use in saying things about them now they're gone," said Amy, but Mollie caught her up indignantly.

"Goodness, Amy," she cried, "it may not be your fault that you have a gloomy disposition, but you don't need to sound exactly like a funeral!"

At this moment they were startled by the sound of a machine coming behind them at furious speed. Some chickens, crossing the road and pecking lazily as they went, scurried with alarmed squawking into the woods on either side.

The girls, turning, started, gasped, then stared at each other.

"The motorcyclist!" cried Mollie, as they turned and ran after the fast disappearing machine.



Chapter XXI

The Chase


"I -- I -- don't know what we're running after him for!" gasped Mollie. "We haven't got a chance -- in the world -- of catching -- him."

"Look," panted Betty, pointing to a machine at the side of the road with a man in chauffeur's uniform sitting behind the wheel, "maybe we can get him! Quick -- "

Betty's action always followed hard upon the heels of impulse, and before any of the girls had time to realize what she was going to do she had darted across the road, had said a few excited words, and was tumbling into the tonneau.

Without stopping to question, the girls followed, jumping in beside her, and the chauffeur, after one surprised look, touched his cap and the machine leapt forward like a wild thing.

Mollie had time, even in her excitement, to wonder how Betty had managed it.

"I think she hypnotizes them," she muttered to herself.

And all Betty had really said to the man was, "Please follow that motorcyclist! We mustn't lose sight of him!" and the man, obeying that impulse for adventure that is in all of us, had complied.

The motorcyclist had sped around the corner and darted into one of the side streets. A few minutes later the chauffeur turned the same corner with a recklessness that made them gasp, turned it just in time to see their quarry disappearing round another corner.

"Gosh, that fellow can coax some speed out of that machine of his!" cried the man at the wheel. "But if you young ladies don't mind a little danger, we may catch him yet."

"Oh, please don't think about us," cried Betty, her hands clutching the back of the seat, her eyes straining after the flying speck that seemed to be growing smaller every second. "Oh, we must catch him, -- we must! It would be awful to lose him now!"

"Well, here goes," responded the man behind the wheel, and under his skillful touch the machine leapt forward like a spirited horse at the touch of the lash.

"That's it, that's it!" cried Mollie, almost beside herself with excitement. "Just hear that engine purr! He can't get away from us now!"

"Oh, if we could only take him back to Camp Liberty with us!"

"I thought so," said the chauffeur, and even in their excitement they had time to look in surprise at his back.

"Wh-what did you think?" stammered Betty.

"That you were the girls up at the Hostess House that everybody is talking about," he told her, while the girls fairly gasped with surprise at this proof of their widespread fame. "That's why I didn't ask questions but just did as I was told," he added. And somehow they knew, though they could not see his face, that he was grinning. "You see, I'd always heard that you most always got what you set out to get, and I didn't waste time arguin'," he finished.

The girls laughed hysterically, and Betty said, with a funny little inflection:

"Sounds as if we were very strong-minded. But we don't care about that," she added, once more fixing her gaze anxiously on the road before them, "if we can only catch that man."

"May I ask who he is, miss?" asked the man.

"He's -- he's a -- criminal!" returned Betty, her little fists clenched fiercely.

"A criminal?" he repeated with interest. "May I ask what kind?"

"A murderer," cried Mollie fiercely, adding, as the man started and the girls looked at her in surprise: "Well, he might just as well have been. He didn't even stop to see whether he was or not, which is about the same thing."

There was a sound from the front seat that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle, but not being quite sure, the girls could do nothing whatever about it.

"But look -- he's getting away from us!" wailed Amy suddenly, and once more all their attention was focused on the chase.

And, quite suddenly, while they watched, the motorcyclist disappeared from view as if the earth had opened and swallowed him up.

A few seconds later, with a grinding of brakes, the car stopped at the spot where he had disappeared, and the girls looked at one another despairingly.

The path that he had taken seemed no more than a broad foot path through the woods, so narrow that no machine could follow him, and of course there was no chance of catching him on foot.

"He got away from us!" cried Grace, voicing a rather self-evident fact.

"I'm afraid so, miss," said the man, and he seemed so genuinely disappointed that they looked at him gratefully. "The man must be rather much of a dare-devil, your criminal," he added, eyeing the bumpy path thoughtfully. "An ordinary rider wouldn't be able to go two yards along that path without coming to grief."

"Do you know where this path leads to?" asked Betty, struck with a sudden inspiration. "If there's another road we might circle round and head him off."

"Sorry, miss," he said, "but the road that path leads to is nothing but a wagon road, and we'd have to go several miles before we'd cross it. And the chances are," he added, "that the fellow would double back upon himself and we'd have the run for nothing."

Betty shook her head resignedly, for, hard as it was to relinquish the man, all that the chauffeur had said was founded on hard common sense and she could see there was no alternative.

"I guess you're right," she said at last, after a pause during which the girls had looked at her hopefully. Betty so often found a way where no one else could that they never completely gave up hope until she herself relinquished it.

So now they sighed and climbed soberly back into the machine.

"Where to?" inquired the chauffeur, as he turned the car and headed back the way they had come. "If you're going back to the camp," he suggested, "I can take you there. Or anywhere you say."

"You've been awfully good," cried Betty, with real gratitude in her voice. "But you don't have to take us away back to camp. If you will drop us at the end of the road we can walk back." All this despite sundry vigorous and desperate shakings of Grace's head and pantomimic pointings toward her feet. At the conclusion of Betty's sentence she groaned, but brightened up again at the chauffeur's response.

"It won't be any trouble," he said, "to take you all the way back to camp. In fact" -- a little shyly -- "I'd like to."

"Then we'd be very, very glad to accept," said Betty cordially. "For we have walked a long way and are rather tired."

At the gates of Camp Liberty they got out of the car, thanked the chauffeur, and while they were hesitating whether or not to offer him money for his trouble, the latter turned the car and, with a last lifting of his cap and waving of his hand, was gone.

"Isn't he nice?" sighed Amy, as they started toward the Hostess House, Grace limping a little and bringing up the rear. "Meeting a man like that gives you new faith in human nature."

"Goodness, Will had better look out," chaffed Mollie, a little gleam of humor shining through her weariness. "I always thought you had it in you to run off with a chauffeur, Amy."

Before Amy had time to retort they saw a stalwart and familiar figure swinging toward them and recognized Sergeant Mullins.

"Good afternoon," he called to them, with the smile that always so surprisingly lighted up his usually grave face. "You look as if you had had rather an exciting time of it."

"Oh, we did almost have such a beautiful adventure!" cried Mollie, her eyes sparkling with the memory of it.

"And all we really got," said Grace gloomily, "were four pairs of sore feet."

Sergeant Mullins laughed at her with the rest, then asked, with real interest:

"But the adventure that you almost had, -- would you mind telling me about it?"

Whereupon Betty launched into a full and graphic account of the chase in somebody else's automobile after an unknown criminal who, at the last minute, had escaped in an apparently impossible manner.

"And that's all there is to it," she finished plaintively. "After all our trouble and everything, we find ourselves just where we were before."

The sergeant looked very grave.

"The man was a cad," he said, "to knock down an old woman that way and then not stop to see how badly she was hurt. I wish you could have won out to-day. Could you give a good description of him?"

"Yes, I can," cried both Amy and Grace in the same breath, and thereupon proceeded to do it without delay. At the description the sergeant's interest grew and his face flushed with excitement.

When they had finished, Betty, who had been watching his face closely, unable to restrain her curiosity longer, burst forth an eager question.

"Have you seen the man, Sergeant?"

"I think I have -- often," he replied slowly, adding as they turned incredulous eyes upon him. "If I'm not mistaken, this criminal of yours is one of the most famous card sharpers of the day."



Chapter XXII

Startling Developments


For a moment the girls stared. Then Sergeant Mullins was besieged with a veritable flood of questions.

"He hangs out mostly at Thomasville, a town about fifteen miles from here," the sergeant explained, when at last the girls had realized that if they ever hoped to learn anything at all they must give the man a chance to speak. "And he makes most of his money by skinning the rookies."

"You mean," cried Betty, translating camp slang into intelligible English, "that he gets the newly enlisted men to play with him before they have a chance to learn his reputation, and of course gets all their money, because his game is crooked?"

"Exactly," agreed Sergeant Mullins, his grave face clouding angrily. "And equally, of course, it's the week following pay day when he makes his big haul. I hope you succeed in getting him," he said, turning earnestly to Betty. "And if there's anything I can do to help, you can count on me."

Betty thanked him, and the girls watched the Sergeant's straight, retreating back with thoughtful eyes.

"Well, it's a comfort anyway," said Mollie, as they turned and went into the house, "to know that he's as bad as we thought he was. And perhaps," she added hopefully, "Sergeant Mullins will be able to help us."

It was more than a week later when the first eagerly looked for letters began to arrive from overseas. It was one day when the promised rush of soldiers into the camp had been fulfilled and the girls were particularly busy entertaining and finding comfortable quarters for their relatives and friends that Mollie whispered the joyful news into Betty's ear.

"Letters!" she cried. "Letters, honey! Here are yours, two of them, and each one of us others got one apiece. We've decided not to open them until to-night, when we'll have time to read them in comfort. If you'll wait, too -- "

"Of course," promised Betty, eagerly accepting her portion of the precious correspondence. "And they're thick ones, Mollie, and -- "

"Both from Allen," Mollie finished mischievously, looking back over her shoulder to enjoy Betty's blush.

And that night, when they should have been tired out with the day's unusually hard work, the girls assembled in their one big room, feeling more wide awake than ever before in all their lives.

"Oh, hasn't it been perfectly awful," cried Mollie, facing them with shining eyes, "to have to go around calmly for hours and hours as if nothing had happened?"

"With a letter just begging to be read, too!" put in Betty, two fever spots of excitement on her cheeks. "I don't think I could ever do it again."

"Well, it's all over now," said Amy, taking her own thick and promising looking letter from her silk blouse where it had rustled and crackled betrayingly all day. "I don't know about you girls, but I just can't wait another second."

"Oh, please wait just a moment until I get my shoes off," begged Grace, sinking down on the edge of the bed and removing the shoes from her aching feet. "Oh dear," she moaned, "I know I'll have to get a size larger next time, and if I do I'll be ashamed to be seen in the street."

"Well, even my patient and much-tried pedal extremities feel a little the worse for wear to-night," admitted Mollie, as she flung a shoe vindictively to the farthest corner of the room.

"And mine," agreed Betty, taking up the plaint. "I tell you what," she added. "Let's all just get undressed and tumble into the big bed and -- enjoy ourselves."

The suggestion was unanimously accepted, and thereafter various soft and filmy garments flew thick and fast as the girls got ready for the treat which had been postponed all through the long, long day, -- almost the longest they had ever known.

"Come on, Gracie," called Mollie, as barely five minutes later three figures sat propped up in the bed, waiting impatiently for the fourth. "What's the use of primping to-night? Nobody's going to see you."

"You flatter yourself," drawled Grace, as she turned away from the mirror. "Anyway, I once read that a girl should never allow herself to look homely, even when she's alone."

"Goodness, if I have to work so hard to be beautiful," retorted Mollie, holding her letter up to the light in a vain attempt to read its contents through the envelope, "I'd rather be good and homely and comfortable."

"If all wishes were so easily granted," Grace began, but at the look in Mollie's eyes thought better of it. "I meant," she corrected herself blandly, "that, of course, you can never be anything but beautiful, Mollie."

"Well, I don't know, of course," said Mollie, with the same vengeful light in her eyes, "but I'm always suspicious of any one who goes to extremes."

"Never mind your suspicions, Mollie," cried Betty, with a happy ring in her voice, as the last of the quartette climbed in under the covers. "All that really interests me now is the fact that I have a couple of letters that are just begging to be read."

"Yes, and I'd like to know if that's fair," said Grace, looking injured. "We only got one apiece, while here you are rolling in luxury -- "

"And they're both in the same handwriting -- Allen's of course," added Amy, peeping over Betty's shoulder. "Why does he write you two letters that he knows will both reach you in the same mail, Betty?"

"Just to be original, I suppose," answered Betty, striving to speak calmly while a hot flush mounted to her forehead. "Anyway," she added lightly, "I suppose the best way to satisfy our curiosity would be to read our letters and find out."

"Oh, I forgot," cried Grace, pushing back the covers and slipping out of bed. "There's just one thing better than reading letters."

"Now what are you after?" cried Mollie despairingly. "Well," she added, tearing open her letter decidedly, "there's one thing certain, -- I'm not going to wait another minute!"

"Well, nobody asked you to," retorted Grace, slipping back into bed with the precious candy box under her arm. "And, what's more," she added threateningly, "if you're going to be uncivil, I won't ask you to share my candies."

"Goodness! now isn't that the limit?" cried Betty suddenly, and they looked at her in surprise. She, in her turn, having thought aloud, flushed and turned back to the letter. "I'm sorry," she stammered. "I really didn't mean to interrupt you."

"No you don't, Betty Nelson!" cried Mollie, slipping a hand over Allen's letter and forcing Betty to meet her eyes. "We won't any of us read another word till you tell us what you were going to say."

"Well, you don't need to," Betty was beginning when she met Mollie's eyes and laughed resignedly.

"Oh, all right," she capitulated. "I was simply going to say that the nosy old censor crossed out a whole line just at the most interesting part."

"What was it?" coaxed Amy teasingly. "Come, Betty dear, tell us what he said."

"Goodness!" cried Betty crossly, getting redder every moment, and knowing it, "didn't I tell you the censor crossed it out?"

"You know very well that wasn't what we meant," cried Mollie, with a frightful frown. "Amy was referring to the sentiments on both sides of the censored part."

"Oh well, you could hardly expect," Betty was beginning, when Amy, who had been peeping over her shoulder clapped a hand to her mouth too late to check a sudden exclamation.

"Oh girls!" she cried gleefully. "What I saw! What I saw!"

"Amy Blackford," Betty's eyes were black with real anger now, "I don't know how you could do such a thing. I didn't think it of you!"

Not only Amy, but the other girls were frightened by this sudden change in their usually good-natured Little Captain, and Amy hastened to make amends.

"I'm sorry, Betty dear," she said, flushing with real shame beneath Betty's accusing eyes. "I didn't mean it -- truly I didn't. And I'll never do it again, never!"

"Oh, all right," replied Betty, controlling herself with an effort and turning back to the letter. "I'm sorry I said anything, Amy, if you didn't mean it."

There was a little constrained silence after that, no one knowing just how to clear the rather electric atmosphere. They went on reading absorbedly, only the crackling of the paper as they turned a page breaking the deep stillness of the room.

It was Betty who finally relieved the tension.

"If that doesn't sound just like Roy," she said, and they looked up expectantly, relieved at the naturalness of her tone. "Allen says that he -- Roy, that is -- was very much impressed with his first sight of a camouflaged ship. Said he had devised a fine scheme of killing off the German army in a hurry. He'd disguise himself as a piece of Limburger cheese, and when the Huns came running to him, he'd simply give them a gentle little tap on the head."

"Humph," snorted Mollie contemptuously, "how long do you suppose he'd be able to keep that up?"

"He says they'd never suspect the truth," Betty chuckled. "They'd simply think it was a particularly husky piece of cheese!"



Chapter XXIII

The Miracle


It was only a few days later that the wonderful, the incredible thing happened!

The girls were returning from a rather hurried excursion to a near-by town when they came face to face with the motorcyclist. His motor had evidently stalled, and he was standing in the middle of the road tinkering with it.

Paralyzed by the suddenness of the thing, the girls just stood still and stared until the man, evidently feeling their eyes upon him, turned slowly about and faced them.

He seemed to recognize them immediately, for his first look of bewilderment was followed quickly by one of fear, and with an abrupt motion he turned back to his machine.

"Now we have him, what are we going to do with him?" whispered Mollie, a comical look of chagrin on her face. "We can't capture him all by ourselves, and we can hardly expect him to wait while we get some one."

"He is huskier than I thought," admitted Grace, adding suddenly, "Betty, what are you going to do?"

But Betty either did not hear or did not want to, for she was approaching the man without a backward glance in their direction. Though not knowing just what was about to happen, the girls followed loyally, close at her heels.

As for Betty, she simply stepped up close to the man and stood looking at him steadily, finally forcing him by sheer concentration to straighten up and meet her eyes.

"Well, who are you?" he demanded at last, gruffly.

"That was just the question I was about to put to you," Betty replied, and by her outward composure no one could possibly have guessed how hard her heart was beating. "We are really quite desirous of knowing all about you."

"May I ask," he said, his cruel mouth sneering under the absurd moustache, "what has happened to arouse this sudden interest?"

The sneer brought a flush to Betty's face and made her eyes glow angrily.

"You ought to know that without my telling you," she said coldly. "Perhaps you will remember, if I recall it to you, the day you knocked an old woman down in the middle of the road and then rode away without finding out how seriously you had injured her."

"I really don't know what you're talking about," the man replied, with an attempt to appear frank, which made his face more sinister than before. "You must have mistaken me for some one else."

"That's impossible." Mollie's voice was crisp and clear cut, and the man glanced with surprise and a shadow of alarm at this new assailant.

Then suddenly his manner of cool insolence changed, and he shot them a look that remained quiveringly in their memories long after the man himself had passed forever out of their lives.

"Whoever you are, you're fools," he said gruffly, menacingly. "And if you don't forget all about this thing you've been spouting about, I'll make it pretty darned unpleasant for you. Get me?" And, with a quick movement, he started his motor and leaped on his machine.

Betty sprang forward and desperately clutched the handle bars, calling on the girls for assistance, but he roughly pushed her aside. At the same moment the machine leapt forward and Betty knew that he would get away again.

Then it was the first miracle happened. Sergeant Mullins, out on a hike with some of the rookies from the camp, the sound of his approach deadened by the putting of the machine, appeared around the turn in the road, coming toward them. To keep from running into the men, which would have meant a nasty spill, the motorcyclist was forced to put on his brake.

The men would have gathered to one side of the road to let him pass, but Betty's shrill cry arrested them.

"Don't let him pass," she implored them desperately. "It's our criminal, Sergeant Mullins! Don't you see? The gambler!"

But Sergeant Mullins, in one swift glance, had already taken in the situation, and as the man tried to start his machine he sprang forward and grasped the handle bars, at the same time shouting orders to his men.

"Surround him, fellows!" he cried. "This man is under arrest!"

"What do you mean?" cried the gambler, his eyes glaring with the rage of a cornered animal.

"Don't waste your breath, Denham," retorted Sergeant Mullins coolly, "your reputation isn't any too good around these parts, you know, and you'll have plenty of chance to do your shouting to the judge.

"Never mind your machine," he added sharply, as the fellow's mean eyes glanced about desperately for means of escape. "The boys will take care of that. And," he added meaningly, "I have rather a life-sized impression that you won't be needing it again for some time to come!"

Denham shot him a vicious glance, and got off sullenly from his machine while a group of soldiers stepped up smartly to take charge of it.

With his prisoner safely guarded, Sergeant Mullins ordered the march back to camp, then drew in a long breath and looked at the girls.

"Well," he said, with his slow smile, "you did it that time."

"We!" cried Betty, her cheeks flushed with excitement and the exhilaration of success. "I should say you did the work while we looked on. Oh, I'm so happy -- and so grateful to you."

"But I didn't do anything," he protested, smiling whimsically, as they turned to follow the soldiers and their prisoner. "I simply let the boys do the work while I looked on."

"Goodness! what do we care how it happened as long as it did?" cried Mollie happily. "Maybe now he'll see that he can't run down old ladies promiscuously and get away with it."

"Not with girls like you on his trail," said the sergeant admiringly.

"But what are you going to do with him, now you've got him?" asked Grace, repeating almost word for word the question Mollie had put only a few minutes before. "I suppose we've got to get out some sort of definite charge against him."

"Yes," said the sergeant thoughtfully. "We can put him in the guardhouse up at camp till we have a chance to get the township authorities up here. And," he added, turning to Betty, "I'd like to have an interview with that old lady of yours, if you can manage it. We'll have to have her evidence, you know."

"Oh, and isn't it lucky?" cried Betty, executing a little skip in her excitement. "She told us only this morning that she was feeling perfectly well again and would go away to-morrow. We were worrying ourselves sick about it, but couldn't think up a single plan to keep her with us. And if she had gone before this happened -- " she stopped, overwhelmed by the mere contemplation of the tragedy.

"I still feel as if I were dreaming," said Amy, as they entered the camp gate. "It all happened so suddenly, and just when we were feeling so awfully blue."

"Well, I know I wasn't dreaming," said Grace plaintively, "because in my excitement I dropped two perfectly good candies in the road and forgot to pick 'em up."

They laughed at her, and Betty added whimsically:

"Perhaps it was just as well for your digestion that you did. I suppose you'll have to go to the guardhouse to explain about the prisoner," she rather stated than asked, turning to Sergeant Mullins.

"Yes," he said, adding, with a trace of hesitation: "It won't take long though, and if you don't mind waiting till I get back I'd like to have that talk with the old lady he knocked down. It's necessary to see her as soon as possible."

"Goodness, we don't mind waiting," cried Betty. "And you can't see her too quickly to suit us. We're just crazy to see the whole thing settled -- "

"And that brute behind the bars," finished Mollie vindictively.

Sergeant Mullins laughed boyishly, saluted smartly, and turned on his heel to follow the boys who were fast bearing the prisoner to the guardhouse and from there to the just punishment that had been so long in overtaking him.

"Well," said Mollie, as she flopped down on the steps and favored the girls with a beaming smile, "now what have you got to say for yourselves?"

"More in truth than in modesty," twinkled the Little Captain, "I should say that we are pretty good."

"My! don't we love us?" queried Grace, fishing up from her pocket a much-mangled and sadly worn chocolate and calmly inserting it between two very pretty rows of white teeth. "It's really touching -- "

"Oh, Grace, how can you think of candies at a time like this?" cried Mollie impatiently.

"Don't know," returned Grace, calmly nibbling. "It's a gift, I guess."

"Gracie, you're an awful goose," cried Betty, hugging her impulsively. "But I'm so happy, I'll forgive you even that -- "

"It's you that ought to be forgiven for calling me names," returned Grace, in an injured tone of voice. "Goodness," she cried, a moment later, pointing a moist and tired chocolate in the direction of the horizon. "Am I mistaken, or is that the stalwart figure of our sergeant approaching in the distance?"

"Oh, it is, it is!" cried Betty, springing to her feet and fairly dancing in her excitement and impatience. "Oh, I can't wait! Why doesn't he hurry?"

As a matter of fact, the sergeant was hurrying very much indeed, for he was almost as eager as the girls to see the old lady and collect the evidence in the case against the motorcyclist.

He was panting as he sprang up the steps toward them and his eyes were bright with anticipation.

"I got back as soon as I could," he cried. "Now, if you can take me -- "

The girls wasted no time in words, and led him swiftly up the stairs, pausing before Mrs. Sanderson's door.

"What shall we do if she's gone?" whispered Betty, a sudden panic seizing her. Then, without further delay, rapped smartly on the door.

At the answering "come in" they tumbled into the room, followed by Sergeant Mullins. Then it was the second miracle happened!

Mrs. Sanderson started, stared, then rose tremblingly to her feet.

"My Willie boy!" she cried, groping toward him, dazed, unbelieving, incredulous. "It's my boy, my little son -- my -- baby -- "

Then Sergeant Mullins, with a hoarse cry, rushed across the room and gathered the little figure in his arms -- strong, man's arms that crushed and hurt.

"Mother!" he cried. "Oh, my mother!"



Chapter XXIV

Mystery Explained


The girls stared for a moment, dazed, bewildered. Stared at the dark head bent in such passionate tenderness over the gray one, stared at the old hands patting the broad young shoulders, tremblingly, joyfully, incredulously, then, with a stifled gasp, turned and fled.

Betty closed the door softly and followed the girls into their own room where they sank down on arms of chairs or tables or the edge of the bed -- any place -- and went on staring, only this time at each other.

"Betty Nelson," Mollie broke out at last, her eyes dark and wide, her voice awed, "did you ever in your life hear of such a thing?"

"Of course I never did," answered Betty, her lips trembling, her eyes shining and wet. "Not since my fairy-story days, anyway," she added softly.

"But how," Grace demanded, still too dazed to think clearly, "can Mrs. Sanderson's son be William Mullins?"

"Goodness! how do we know?" returned Mollie, wiping two tears from the end of her nose. "It's all the biggest kind of a m-mystery, anyway. Oh, dear, has anybody got a handkerchief?" as two other tears threatened to make their appearance. "I didn't know I had it in me to be such a goose."

"We seldom do realize our possibilities," drawled Grace, but Mollie was too busy wiping away the traces of her weakness to notice the insult.

"And to think," Amy murmured softly, "that if that old motorcyclist hadn't knocked Mrs. Sanderson down, she would have gone away without finding her son, and the chances are she would never have seen him again."

"I suppose you think we ought to send the motorcyclist a vote of thanks," remarked Mollie dryly, recovering herself a little. "If he keeps on knocking old ladies down in the middle of the road and then gets himself arrested, he may be counted on to do a lot of good in the world."

"I don't see how you can say such silly things," Amy began hotly, when Betty broke in pleadingly:

"Please, please, girls!" she said, smiling as only Betty knew how to smile. "What is the use of quarreling about miracles? The most wonderful thing in all the world has happened, and what do we care how it happened? Just think of it!" she added, leaning forward eagerly. "Only this morning we were feeling discouraged and down-hearted because Mrs. Sanderson was going away to-morrow and we couldn't think of a thing to do to help her. Then all in one day, in an hour, really, we capture the motorcyclist and find her son for her. It's no wonder I can't seem to make myself believe I haven't dreamed it all," she finished, with such a look of utter happiness on her face that Mollie slipped an arm about her and hugged her fondly.

"You know, Betty," she said solemnly, "I'm almost beginning to have a superstitious belief in you."

"Goodness! Why?" cried Betty, while the other two looked at Mollie wonderingly. "What have I done now that you should say such things and treat me thus?"

"Why, I was just thinking," Mollie replied with rare earnestness, "that, as usual, if it hadn't been for you we probably wouldn't have arrested the gambler -- or rather, given Sergeant Mullins a chance to -- and so wouldn't have brought him here to find out he belonged to our little old lady."

"But I don't see how -- " Betty was beginning in real bewilderment when Mollie interrupted her impatiently.

"I don't suppose you do," she said, with fond severity. "You never do give yourself credit for anything, anyway, Betty Nelson. But who was it, I'd like to know, that first had courage to go up and speak to that criminal?"

"Oh, that!" said Betty, sinking back relievedly. "Anybody could have done that."

"Perhaps anybody could," retorted Mollie practically. "But you notice nobody else did, don't you, Betty Nelson?"

"Well, I know, but that didn't have anything to do with capturing him," argued Betty, determined not to take any more than her share of the credit -- and not that, if she could help it. "If Sergeant Mullins hadn't happened along just at that moment, he'd have gotten away from us the way he did those other times."

"Yes, but who delayed him, I'd like to know," Mollie flung back triumphantly, "and gave the Sergeant time to come along and finish up the work?"

"All right," laughed Betty. "I'll admit that much, since you insist. But what earthly difference does it make, anyway, as long as it's done?" she cried. "Just think," her voice trembled a little, "how happy those two must be in there! I -- I -- oh, I can't believe it yet."

"Well, but that's still troubling me," said Grace, so apropos of nothing at all that they just stared at her.

"Goodness, don't look at me like that," she cried irritably, getting up and walking round the room. "You know I always did hate mysteries."

"We should be very much obliged," said Mollie, with forced politeness, "if you would tell us what you're raving about."

"Goodness, don't you even see there is a mystery?" she cried, facing them impatiently. "How in the world could Sergeant Mullins ever be Mrs. Sanderson's son?"

"You'd better ask 'em," chuckled Mollie. "They both seemed so tolerably sure of it that we've taken it for granted. What's the deep, dark mystery?"

"Grace means," it was Amy who acted the peacemaker this time, "that it's strange about the name."

"And, of course, it is," Betty added gravely. "Sergeant Mullins should by all rights be Sergeant Sanderson."

"And Mrs. Sanderson couldn't have known about his being called Mullins," Grace broke in eagerly, "because we've spoken to her of Sergeant Mullins more than once, and she never acted as though more than casually interested."

"Well, but I suppose that's easily enough explained," said Mollie, who was in no mood for details -- the actual occurrences being wonderful enough in themselves to occupy her attention for some time to come. "People often enough change their last names for some reason or other."

"Then you mean," said Grace, "that William Mullins is really William Sanderson?"

"A fair assumption," returned Mollie dryly. "Unless Mrs. Sanderson's name is Mullins."

"Perhaps the best way," suggested Betty peaceably, "would be to wait and let Mrs. Sanderson tell us about it."

"Wait -- " Grace was beginning, when a gentle tap sounded on the door and Betty flew to open it.

On the threshold stood Mrs. Sanderson, her eyes red with weeping, yet her whole face so transformed with joy that the girls would hardly have recognized her as the Mrs. Sanderson of that morning. Instinctively they glanced over her shoulder, expecting to see the tall figure of Sergeant Mullins looming in the background, but he was nowhere to be seen.

"He's -- he's gone," said the little old lady tremulously, seeming to interpret their glances, at the same time coming timidly into the room. "He told me to tell you," her face lighted up still more with that wonderful inward joy, "that he would have stayed and thanked you young ladies, but he'd made sort of an idiot of himself -- so he said -- an' would be around later, instead."

"And is he really -- really -- really your son?" cried Betty, unable to contain herself longer, pressing the old lady into a chair and kneeling down before her eagerly. "Oh, we knew you'd come and tell us! We've been so very happy for you."

"Yes, he's my Willie boy," answered the little old lady, speaking dreamily as though even yet she was not able to grasp the wonderful thing that had happened to her. "It's strange when I come to think of it how I knew him right away because, you see, I've always sort o' thought of him as my little son, my baby, and in my mind I've always seen him as he was that day he ran away. But he's really just the same -- my little Willie boy -- only taller and sort o' broader in the shoulders an' handsomer -- " her voice broke and Betty slipped a sympathetic little hand in hers while the girls gathered closer.

"You see, I've been prayin' for this thing for a good many years," she went on quaintly, "an' it looks like Providence sort o' saw fit to answer me at last. An' He jest picked out the sweetes' little ladies He could find to be His instruments."

The girls laughed unsteadily and Betty's young hand tightened on the old one.

"We feel as if it all must be a fairy story," she said softly.

"That's jest what it is -- a fairy story," cried the little old lady, turning those wonder-filled eyes upon them.

"It must have seemed sort o' strange to you about the name," she added, after a short pause.

Betty saw that Grace was about to interrupt, but a warning glance stopped her.

"You see, his real name is William Mullins Sanderson. But when he ran away he dropped the Sanderson so's they couldn't arrest him for somethin' he didn't do -- poor little lad." Her voice was very soft and her eyes tender. "He would have come back to me, only he heard that I was dead and thought 'twasn't any use. He said he'd jest been eatin' his heart out, thinkin' of old days an' how he'd promised to make a fortune for us both an' buy a big house where I wouldn't ever have to work again 'less I wanted to. An' now he says," she straightened up and her eyes flashed with pride in him, "he says, soon's the war is over he's goin' to make that old dream come true.

"He'd been studyin' to be a lawyer, an' had jest passed his 'bar exams' -- so he called 'em -- when the war broke out, an' he jes' couldn't resist the call o' the bugle. O' course he couldn't!" Once more was heard that thrill of pride. "Wasn't he my Willie boy, who had the blood of fightin' ancestors in his veins as well as brains an' a love o' book larnin' from his pa?

"But he says when the war's over he's goin' back to his books an' make good, an'," with simple assurance; "I know he will. Jest think," she added dreamily, "my little son, a lawyer!

"But I ain't never goin' to forget," she cried, flinging her head up with a martial gesture, "that first of all, he was a soldier!"



Chapter XXV

To "Carry On"


"I could be completely happy," sighed Betty, "if it weren't for just one thing."

It was more than a week after the wonderful discovery in their Sergeant Mullins as Mrs. Sanderson's long lost son, and until this afternoon the girls had hardly been able to find a minute to get together and discuss the remarkable affair.

But to-day they had secured very reliable substitutes to fill their places for a few hours and the Outdoor Girls had decided to make the most of this rare holiday.

Mollie had suggested a spin in the machine, and the girls had eagerly assented, anxious to blow the cobwebs of hard work and confinement from their brains and get out on the open road where they could think clearly and freely.

Exhilarated by the rushing air and the sunshine, Mollie put on extra speed, then gazed side-wise and wickedly at Amy.

"'Oh, Mollie, do be careful,'" she mimicked.

"'I don't care about dying, but I'd rather choose a neater death!'"

But for once Amy refused to bite. She simply smiled calmly and helped herself to another of Grace's fast disappearing chocolates.

"Go as far as you like, dear," was her surprising comment. "I feel rather wild and woolly myself to-day. Nothing you could do would bother me."

The girls looked surprised -- Mollie anxious.

"Goodness," she said disconsolately, "that takes away half the fun. What's the use of teasing you when you won't tease?"

"Does seem rather a waste of time," remarked Amy, and they gaped anew.

"Goodness, what has come over the child?" asked Grace of Betty, adding with sudden suspicion, "She must have had a letter."

"Did you?" they cried all at once, fixing accusing eyes upon her.

"You must be joking," Amy answered plaintively. "I haven't had a letter for so long I don't know what it would look like."

"It is just about time we heard from the boys again," said Betty thoughtfully. "Has anybody been to the post-office to-day?"

It seemed nobody had, for everybody had been too busy; so Mollie made an abrupt turn, almost sending the car into a ditch, and headed back for town.

"Now what are you doing?" queried Amy plaintively.

"Going to remedy an awful mistake," Mollie replied shortly. "I couldn't enjoy my holiday if I thought there might be letters waiting for us."

Amy and Grace protested.

But they were not disappointed. There were not only letters from the boys, but several fat and interesting epistles from friends and relatives in Deepdale, including two from Paul and Dodo, Mollie's small and mischievous brother and sister.

"Let's drive away out of town where we can be by ourselves," Betty suggested, face radiant, fingers fairly aching to tear the precious missives from their envelopes. "Then we can stop the car and Mollie can read hers, too."

"You always have the right idea, Betty honey," said Mollie, with fond emphasis, as she swung the car at breakneck speed down the street and headed for the open country. "Now aren't you glad," she flung at Grace and Amy, "that we made you go back with us and take a chance?"

"Don't rub it in, Mollie dear," purred Grace, too happy at the prospect before them to contradict anything or anybody on earth. "We are deeply appreciative and inordinately grateful to you for your wonderful foresight and insistence."

"Is she calling me names?" cried Mollie threateningly. "For if she is, I should like to remark for the benefit of each and every one that I am still in possession of the wheel, and a swift and terrible doom shall overtake -- "

"Rave on, rave on, Macbeth," chuckled Betty, adding with a whimsical smile and a quickened heart beat as she fingered the letter she had so carefully placed under the rest: "There's no use, Mollie dear -- you can't start a rumpus now. It can't be done. We're all too good-natured."

"That's the way Frank talks after a particularly good meal," chuckled Mollie.

"And I never saw boys who were so absolutely crazy about hot biscuits," sighed Amy. "If you gave them enough hot biscuits, they didn't seem to know or care whether they had anything else or not."

"Yes, somebody was always stirring up biscuit dough when we were at Pine Island," agreed Grace, her eyes dreamy. "I think one of us should have invented a patent stirrer -- just in self-defense!"

"Just the same, I'd wager anything," cried Betty, with a thrill in her voice and the hint of tears behind the brightness of her eyes, "that there isn't one of us who wouldn't be willing to make biscuits from morning till night if we only had the boys here to eat them."

"Oh, wouldn't we!" cried Amy hungrily. "I shouldn't care if I turned into a biscuit!"

They laughed at that, but the laugh was not scornful, for their hearts were very full and tender.

"Sha'n't we stop here?" Mollie asked, after they had ridden a long, long way in silence. "It's private enough -- "

"Oh, yes, yes," the others interrupted her eagerly, and as Mollie guided the car over to the side of the road, Betty sprang the news she had been bursting to tell ever since they started.

"Girls," she cried, and quickly they turned to her, sensing something unusual in her tone, "I have a surprise for you."

"Yes?" they cried eagerly.

"It's about our Sergeant William Mullins Sanderson," she announced, her eyes sparkling.

"Yes?" they cried again, and Mollie added impatiently:

"Oh, Betty, don't keep us waiting. What about him?"

"Only," said Betty, speaking very slowly and distinctly, "that he's got the thing he wanted most in the world -- besides his mother. This morning he received his overseas orders."

"Oh, Betty!" cried Mollie, her eyes big and round. "Isn't he simply wild about it?"

"He's delirious," said Betty simply, adding, with the ring of pride in her voice: "He seemed two inches taller when he told me about it. Oh, the spirit of our boys -- the wonderful spirit of them! It can't take them long, it can't, when they once get started!"

"But Mrs. Sanderson," put in Amy gently. "How is she taking it?"

"I haven't seen her yet," said Betty, her face sobering a little. But it brightened again as she added with conviction: "I think we know enough about that little lady to be sure she'll take it standing up and be prouder than ever of her 'Willie boy.'"

"Of course she will," said Grace softly, her eyes following the red disc of the sun as it sank slowly in the west. "We're all awfully proud of them, but I don't think any of us can help wishing that it were all over instead of just beginning, and that the boys were coming home to us victorious."

"We shouldn't be human if we didn't feel that way," said Betty soberly. "But we haven't come to the joyful part, yet. Just now we've got to keep cheerful and hold on hard to our hope and faith in the future. We owe that to the boys, the boys who are fighting, perhaps dying for us, more than we owe it to ourselves.

"But now," she added, forcing a lighter tone, "we've got a big treat before us and we're not going to think of anything but just that. Our letters, girls -- we've been forgetting them."

The girls started, looked surprised, then instantly responded to the challenge of her lighter tone.

"Goodness, it's you who made us forget them, Betty Nelson," cried Grace, squeezing the Little Captain's hand fondly, then falling to with a will on her own momentarily neglected mail. "Just see," she added wickedly, holding up two letters with the coveted foreign postmark before their envious eyes, "what an advantage it is to have a brother in the army as well as a -- a -- "

"Well, go ahead," Betty teased, while the others laughed delightedly at her flaming color. "What is that other thing you've got besides a brother, the mere mention of whose name makes you the color of a beet? -- I should say," correcting herself with a demure little smile, "the color of a flaming sunset -- "

"That would be more poetic," agreed Mollie soberly, while her eyes danced. "But either description would be correct."

"You geese," cried Grace, trying vainly to hide her flushed face behind the letter she had opened. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about."

"She remindeth me of the graceful ostrich," chanted Mollie cruelly, "who hideth his head and thinks thereby -- "

"Now I know you're calling me names," cried Grace, raising the flushed face and glaring threateningly at the back of the mischievous Mollie.

"Well, she at least said you were graceful," chuckled Betty, tearing open a letter from Deepdale and still reserving the best till the last. "Anyway," she added, "we have better things to do than to engage in useless controversy."

"I don't know what it's all about," said Mollie, settling herself luxuriously to enjoy her own small pile of letters. "But I'll take your word for it, Betty, just the same."

And while they read the dusk came down upon them softly like a mantle, and the setting sun sent ruddy rays to touch their young, bowed heads.

The last paragraph of Allen's letter Betty read and reread, finally through a mist of tears that blurred the words and ran them in together.

"It won't be long," he wrote, "before we fellows will receive the orders that we've all been crazy for -- the orders that will take us to the front. And then, Betty, there's not a Hun that can stand before me. For I've a memory, little girl, that will make me carry on to victory -- and you. Will you be waiting for me, Betty, when it's over? Will you want me then? For I'm coming to you, little girl. As surely as the sun rises every morning and sets again at night, I'm coming to you. Betty, dear, I'm loving you -- "

And Betty, raising a transfigured, tremulous face, gazed straight into the heart of the setting sun.

"Yes, I'll be waiting," she whispered to herself. "Oh, Allen, come back to me -- come back to me -- soon -- "

And so, in the midst of stirring scenes, with martial music always ringing in their ears, with pride in the past and courage in the future, we once more wave farewell to our Outdoor Girls.

<eob>

The Tiger Of Mysore: A Story Of The War With Tippoo Saib

By

G. A. Henty.



Chapter 1: A Lost Father.


"There is no saying, lad, no saying at all. All I know is that your father, the captain, was washed ashore at the same time as I was. As you have heard me say, I owed my life to him. I was pretty nigh gone when I caught sight of him, holding on to a spar. Spent as I was, I managed to give a shout loud enough to catch his ear. He looked round. I waved my hand and shouted, 'Goodbye, Captain!' Then I sank lower and lower, and felt that it was all over, when, half in a dream, I heard your father's voice shout, 'Hold on, Ben!' I gave one more struggle, and then I felt him catch me by the arm. I don't remember what happened, until I found myself lashed to the spar beside him.

"'That is right, Ben,' he said cheerily, as I held up my head; 'you will do now. I had a sharp tussle to get you here, but it is all right. We are setting inshore fast. Pull yourself together, for we shall have a rough time of it in the surf. Anyhow, we will stick together, come what may.'

"As the waves lifted us up, I saw the coast, with its groves of coconuts almost down to the water's edge, and white sheets of surf running up high on the sandy beach. It was not more than a hundred yards away, and the captain sang out,

"'Hurrah! There are some natives coming down. They will give us a hand.'

"Next time we came up on a wave, he said, 'When we get close, Ben, we must cut ourselves adrift from this spar, or it will crush the life out of us; but before we do that, I will tie the two of us together.'

"He cut a bit of rope from the raffle hanging from the spar, and tied one end round my waist and the other round his own, leaving about five fathoms loose between us.

"'There,' he shouted in my ear. 'If either of us gets chucked well up, and the natives get a hold of him, the other must come up, too. Now mind, Ben, keep broadside on to the wave if you can, and let it roll you up as far as it will take you. Then, when you feel that its force is spent, stick your fingers and toes into the sand, and hold on like grim death.'

"Well, we drifted nearer and nearer until, just as we got to the point where the great waves tumbled over, the captain cut the lashings and swam a little away, so as to be clear of the spar. Then a big wave came towering up. I was carried along like a straw in a whirlpool. Then there was a crash that pretty nigh knocked the senses out of me. I do not know what happened afterwards. It was a confusion of white water rushing past and over me. Then for a moment I stopped, and at once made a clutch at the ground that I had been rolling over. There was a big strain, and I was hauled backwards as if a team of wild horses were pulling at me. Then there was a jerk, and I knew nothing more, till I woke up and found myself on the sands, out of reach of the surf.

"Your father did not come to for half an hour. He had been hurt a bit worse than I had, but at last he came round.

"Well, we were kept three months in a sort of castle place; and then one day a party of chaps, with guns and swords, came into the yard where we were sitting. The man, who seemed the head of the fellows who had been keeping us prisoners, walked up with one who was evidently an officer over the chaps as had just arrived. He looked at us both, and then laid his hand on the captain. Then the others came up.

"The captain had just time to say, 'We are going to be parted, Ben. God bless you! If ever you get back, give my love to my wife, and tell her what has happened to me, and that she must keep up her heart, for I shall make a bolt of it the first time I get a chance.'

"The next day, I was taken off to a place they call Calicut. There I stopped a year, and then the rajah of the place joined the English against Tippoo, who was lord of all the country, and I was released. I had got, by that time, to talk their lingo pretty well, though I have forgotten it all now, and I had found out that the chaps who had taken your father away were a party sent down by Tippoo, who, having heard that two Englishmen had been cast on shore, had insisted upon one of them being handed over to him.

"It is known that a great many of the prisoners in Tippoo's hands have been murdered in their dungeons. He has sworn, over and over again, that he has no European prisoners, but every one knows that he has numbers of them in his hands. Whether the captain is one of those who have been murdered, or whether he is still in one of Tippoo's dungeons, is more than I or any one else can say."

"Well, as I have told you, Ben, that is what we mean to find out."

"I know that is what your mother has often said, lad, but it seems to me that you have more chance of finding the man in the moon than you have of learning whether your father is alive, or not."

"Well, we are going to try, anyhow, Ben. I know it's a difficult job, but Mother and I have talked it over, ever since you came home with the news, three years ago; so I have made up my mind, and nothing can change me. You see, I have more chances than most people would have. Being a boy is all in my favour; and then, you know, I talk the language just as well as English."

"Yes, of course that is a pull, and a big one; but it is a desperate undertaking, lad, and I can't say as I see how it is to be done."

"I don't see either, Ben, and I don't expect to see until we get out there; but, desperate or not, Mother and I are going to try."

Dick Holland, the speaker, was a lad of some fifteen years of age. His father, who was captain of a fine East Indiaman, had sailed from London when he was nine, and had never returned. No news had been received of the ship after she touched at the Cape, and it was supposed that she had gone down with all hands; until, nearly three years later, her boatswain, Ben Birket, had entered the East India Company's office, and reported that he himself, and the captain, had been cast ashore on the territories of the Rajah of Coorg; the sole survivors, as far as he knew, of the Hooghley.

After an interview with the Directors, he had gone straight to the house at Shadwell inhabited by Mrs. Holland. She had left there, but had removed to a smaller one a short distance away, where she lived upon the interest of the sum that her husband had invested from his savings, and from a small pension granted to her by the Company.

Mrs. Holland was a half caste, the daughter of an English woman who had married a young rajah. Her mother's life had been a happy one; but when her daughter had reached the age of sixteen, she died, obtaining on her deathbed the rajah's consent that the girl should be sent to England to be educated, while her son, who was three years younger, should remain with his father.

Over him she had exercised but little influence. He had been brought up like the sons of other native princes, and, save for his somewhat light complexion, the English blood in his veins would never have been suspected.

Margaret, on the other hand, had been under her mother's care, and as the latter had always hoped that the girl would, at any rate for a time, go to her family in England, she had always conversed with her in that language, and had, until her decreasing strength rendered it no longer possible, given her an English education.

In complexion and appearance, she took far more after her English mother than the boy had done; and, save for her soft, dark eyes, and glossy, jet-black hair, might have passed as of pure English blood. When she sailed, it was with the intention of returning to India, in the course of a few years; but this arrangement was overthrown by the fact that on the voyage, John Holland, the handsome young first mate of the Indiaman, completely won her heart, and they were married a fortnight after the vessel came up the Thames.

The matter would not have been so hurried had not a letter she posted on landing, to her mother's sister, who had promised her a home, received an answer written in a strain which determined her to yield, at once, to John Holland's pressing entreaties that they should be married without delay. Her aunt had replied that she had consented to overlook the conduct of her mother, in uniting herself to a native, and to receive her for a year at the rectory; but that her behaviour, in so precipitately engaging herself to a rough sailor, rendered it impossible to countenance her. As she stated that she had come over with a sum sufficient to pay her expenses, while in England, she advised her to ask the captain -- who, by the way, must have grossly neglected his duties by allowing an intimacy between her and his mate -- to place her in some school, where she would be well looked after until her return to India.

The Indian blood in Margaret's veins boiled fiercely, and she wrote her aunt a letter which caused that lady to congratulate herself on the good fortune that had prevented her from having to receive, under her roof, a girl of so objectionable and violent a character.

Although the language that John Holland used concerning this letter was strong, indeed, he was well satisfied, as he had foreseen that it was not probable Margaret's friends would have allowed her to marry him, without communicating with her father; and that the rajah might have projects of his own for her disposal. He laid the case before the captain, who placed her in charge of his wife, until the marriage took place.

Except for the long absences of her husband, Margaret's life had been a very happy one, and she was looking forward to the time when, after another voyage, he would be able to give up his profession and settle down upon his savings.

When months passed by, and no news came of the Hooghley having reached port, Mrs. Holland at once gave up her house and moved into a smaller one; for, although her income would have been sufficient to enable her to remain where she was, she determined to save every penny she was able, for the sake of her boy. She was possessed of strong common sense and firmness of character, and when Ben Birket returned with his tale, he was surprised at the composure with which she received it.

"I have always," she said, "had a conviction that John was still alive, and have not allowed Dick to think of his father as dead; and now I believe, as firmly as before, that someday John will be restored to me. I myself can do nothing towards aiding him. A woman can do little, here. She can do nothing in India, save among her own people. I shall wait patiently, for a time. It may be that this war will result in his release. But in the meantime, I shall continue to prepare Dick to take up the search for him, as soon as he is old enough.

"I hear, once a year, from my brother, who is now rajah; and he will be able to aid my boy, in many ways. However, for a time I must be patient and wait. I have learnt to wait, during my husband's long absences; and besides, I think that the women of India are a patient race. I trust that John will yet come home to me, but if not, when it is time, we will try to rescue him."

Ben said nothing, at the time, to damp her courage; but he shook his head, as he left the cottage.

"Poor creature," he said. "I would not say anything to discourage her, but for a woman and boy to try to get a captive out of the claws of the Tiger of Mysore is just madness."

Each time he returned from a voyage, Ben called upon Mrs. Holland. He himself had given up every vestige of hope, when it was known that the name of her husband was not among the list of those whom Tippoo had been forced to release. Margaret Holland, however, still clung to hope. Her face was paler, and there was a set, pathetic expression in it; so, when she spoke of her husband as being still alive, Ben would sooner have cut out his tongue than allow the slightest word, indicative of his own feeling of certainty as to the captain's fate, to escape him; and he always made a pretence of entering warmly into her plans.

The training, as she considered it, of her son went on steadily. She always conversed with him in her father's language, and he was able to speak it as well as English. She was ever impressing upon him that he must be strong and active. When he was twelve, she engaged an old soldier, who had set up a sort of academy, to instruct him in the use of the sword; and in such exercises as were calculated to strengthen his muscles, and to give him strength and agility.

Unlike most mothers, she had no word of reproach when he returned home from school with a puffed face, or cut lips; the signs of battle.

"I do not want you to be quarrelsome," she often said to him, "but I have heard your father say that a man who can use his fists well is sure to be cool and quick, in any emergency. You know what is before you, and these qualities are of far more importance, in your case, than any book learning. Therefore, Dick, I say, never quarrel on your own account, but whenever you see a boy bullying a smaller one, take the opportunity of giving him a lesson while learning one yourself. In the days of old, you know, the first duty of a true knight was to succour the oppressed, and I want you to be a true knight. You will get thrashed sometimes, no doubt, but don't mind that. Perhaps, next time, you will turn the tables."

Dick acted upon this advice and, by the time he was fifteen, had established a reputation among, not only the boys of his own school, but of the district. In addition to his strength and quickness, he had a fund of dogged endurance, and imperturbable good temper, that did not fail him; even on the rare occasions when, in combats with boys much older than himself, he was forced to admit himself defeated.

The fact that he fought, not because he was angry, but as if it were a matter of business, gave him a great advantage; and his readiness to take up the cause of any boy ill-treated by another was so notorious, that "I will tell Dick Holland" became a threat that saved many a boy from being burned.

Ten days before his conversation with Ben, his mother had said:

"Dick, I can stand this no longer. I have tried to be patient, for six years, but I can be patient no longer. I feel that another year of suspense would kill me. Therefore, I have made up my mind to sail at once. The voyage will take us five months, and perhaps you may have to remain some little time, at my brother's, before you can start.

"Now that the time is come, I think that perhaps I am about to do wrong, and that it may cost you your life. But I cannot help it, Dick. I dream of your father almost every night, and I wake up thinking that I hear him calling upon me to help him. I feel that I should go mad, if this were to last much longer."

"I am ready, Mother," the boy said, earnestly. "I have been hoping, for some time, that you would say you would start soon; and though I have not, of course, the strength of a man, I think that will be more than made up by the advantage I should have, as a boy, in looking for my father; and at any rate, from what you tell me, I should think that I am quite as strong as an average native of your country.

"Anyhow, Mother, I am sure that it will be best for us to go now. It must have been awful for you, waiting all this time; and though you have never said anything about it, I have noticed for a long time that you were looking ill, and was sure that you were worrying terribly. What would be the use of staying any longer? I should not be very much stronger in another year than I am now, and a year would seem an age, to Father."

And so it was settled, and Mrs. Holland at once began to make preparations for their departure. She had already, without saying anything to Dick, given notice that she should give up the house. She had, during the six years, saved a sum of money amply sufficient for the expenses of the journey and outfit, and she had now only to order clothes for herself and Dick, and to part with her furniture.

Ben, on his return, had heard with grave apprehension that she was about to carry out her intention; but, as he saw that any remonstrance on his part would be worse than useless, he abstained from offering any, and warmly entered into her plans. After an hour's talk, he had proposed to Dick to go out for a stroll with him.

"I am glad to have a talk with you, Ben," Dick said. "Of course, I have heard, from Mother, what you told her when you came home; but I shall be glad to hear it from you, so as to know exactly how it all was. You know she feels sure that Father is still alive. I should like to know what your opinion really is about it. Of course, it will make no difference, as I should never say anything to her; but I should like to know whether you think there is any possibility of his being alive."

To this Ben had replied as already related. He was silent when Dick asserted that, desperate or not, he intended to carry out his mother's plan.

"I would not say as I think it altogether desperate, as far as you are concerned," he said thoughtfully. "It don't seem to me as there is much chance of your ever getting news of your father, lad; and as to getting him out of prison, if you do come to hear of him; why, honest, I would not give a quid of 'baccy for your chance; but I don't say as I think that it is an altogether desperate job, as far as you are concerned, yourself. Talking their lingo as you do, it's just possible as you might be able to travel about, in disguise, without anyone finding you out; especially as the Rajah, your uncle, ought to be able to help you a bit, and put you in the way of things, and perhaps send some trusty chap along with you. There is no doubt you are strong for your age, and being thin, and nothing but muscle, you would pass better as a native than if you had been thick and chunky. My old woman tells me as you have a regular name as a fighter, and that you have given a lesson to many a bully in the neighbourhood. Altogether, there is a lot in your favour, and I don't see why you should not pull through all right; at any rate, even should the worst come to the worst, and you do get news, somehow, that your poor father has gone down, I am sure it will be better for your mother than going on as she has done for the last six years, just wearing herself out with anxiety."

"I am sure it will, Ben. I can tell you that it is as much as I can do, sometimes, not to burst out crying when I see her sitting, by the hour, with her eyes open, but not seeing anything, or moving as much as a finger -- just thinking, and thinking, and thinking.

"I wish we were going out in your ship, Ben."

"I wish you was, lad; but it will be five or six weeks before we are off again. Anyhow, the ship you are going in -- the Madras -- is a fine craft, and the captain bears as high a character as anyone in the Company's fleet.

"Well, lad, I hope that it will all turn out well. If I could have talked the lingo like a native, I would have been glad to have gone with you, and taken my chances. The captain saved my life in that wreck, and it would only have been right that I should risk mine for him, if there was but a shadow of chance of its being of use. But I know that, in a job of this sort, I could be of no good whatsomever, and should be getting you into trouble before we had gone a mile together."

"I am sure that you would help, if you could, Ben; but, of course, you could be of no use."

"And when do you think of being home again, lad?"

"There is no saying, Ben -- it may be years. But, however long it takes, I sha'n't give it up until I find out, for certain, what has become of my father."

"And ain't there a chance of hearing how you are getting on, Dick? I shall think of you and your mother, often and often, when I am on deck keeping my watch at night; and it will seem hard that I mayn't be able to hear, for years, as to what you are doing."

"The only thing that I can do, Ben, will be to write if I get a chance of sending a messenger, or for my mother to write to you, to the office."

"That is it. You send a letter to Ben Birket, boatswain of the Madeira, care of East India Company, Leadenhall Street; and I shall get it, sooner or later. Of course, I shall not expect a long yarn, but just two or three words to tell me how you are getting on, and whether you have got any news of your father. And if you come back to England, leave your address at the Company's office for me; for it ain't an easy matter to find anyone out, in London, unless you have got their bearings right."

Ten days later, Mrs. Holland and Dick embarked on the Madras. Dick had been warned, by his mother, to say nothing to anyone on board as to the object of their voyage.

"I shall mention," she said, "that I am going out to make some inquiries respecting the truth of a report that has reached me, that some of those on board the Hooghley, of which my husband was captain, survived the wreck, and were taken up the country. That will be quite sufficient. Say nothing about my having been born in India, or that my father was a native rajah. Some of these officials -- and still more, their wives -- are very prejudiced, and consider themselves to be quite different beings to the natives of the country. I found it so on my voyage to England.

"At any rate, we don't want our affairs talked about. It will be quite sufficient for people to know that we are, as I said, going out to make some inquiries about the truth of this rumour."

"All right, Mother. At any rate, the captain has told you that he will look after you, and make things comfortable for you, so we need not care about anything else."

"We certainly need not care, Dick; but it is much more agreeable to get on nicely with everyone. I was very pleased when Captain Barstow called yesterday and said that, having heard at the office that the Mrs. Holland on the passenger list was the widow of his old shipmate, John Holland, he had come round to see if there was anything that he could do for her, and he promised to do all in his power to make us comfortable. Of course, I told him that I did not regard myself as Captain Holland's widow -- that all we knew was that he had got safely ashore, and had been taken up to Mysore; and, as I had a strong conviction he was still alive, I was going out to endeavour to ascertain, from native sources, whether he was still living.

"'Well, ma'am, I hope that you will succeed,' he said. 'All this is new to me. I thought he was drowned, when the Hooghley went ashore. Anyhow, Mrs. Holland, I honour you for making this journey, just on the off chance of hearing something of your husband, and you may be sure I will do all I can to make the voyage a pleasant one for you.'

"So you see, we shall start favourably, Dick; for the captain can do a great deal towards adding to the comfort of a passenger. When it is known, by the purser and steward, that a lady is under the special care of the captain, it ensures her a larger share of civility, and special attentions, than she might otherwise obtain."

As soon as they went on board, indeed, the captain came up to them.

"Good morning, Mrs. Holland," he said. "You have done quite right to come on board early. It gives you a chance of being attended to, before the stewards are being called for by twenty people at once."

He beckoned to a midshipman.

"Mr. Hart, please tell the purser I wish to speak to him.

"So this is your son, Mrs. Holland? A fine, straight-looking young fellow. Are you going to put him in the Service? You have a strong claim, you know, which I am sure the Board would acknowledge."

"Do you know, Captain, it is a matter that I have hardly thought of -- in fact, I have, for years, been so determined to go out and try and obtain some news of my husband, as soon as Dick was old enough to journey about as my protector, that I have not thought, as I ought to have done, what profession he should follow. However, he is only fifteen yet, and there will be time enough when he gets back."

"If he is to go into the service, the sooner the better, ma'am -- one can hardly begin too young. However, I don't say there are not plenty of good sailors, afloat, who did not enter until a couple of years older than he is -- there is no strict rule as to age.

"Only fifteen, is he? I should have taken him for at least a year older. However, if you like, Mrs. Holland, I will put him in the way of learning a good deal, during the voyage. He might as well be doing that as loafing about the deck all day."

"Much better, Captain. I am very much obliged to you, and I am sure that he will be, too."

"I should like it immensely, Captain," Dick exclaimed.

At this moment, the purser came up.

"Mr. Stevenson," the captain said, "this is Mrs. Holland. She is the wife of my old friend, John Holland -- we were midshipmen together on board the Ganges. He commanded the Hooghley, which was lost, you know, five or six years ago, somewhere near Calicut. There were two or three survivors, and he was one of them, and it seems that he was taken up the country; so Mrs. Holland is going out to endeavour to ascertain whether he may not be still alive, though perhaps detained by one of those native princes.

"Please do everything you can to make her comfortable, and tell the head steward that it is my particular wish she shall be well attended to. Who is she berthed with?"

The purser took the passenger list from his pocket.

"She is with Mrs. Colonel Williamson, and the wife of Commissioner Larkins."

The captain gave a grunt of dissatisfaction. The purser went on.

"There is a small cabin vacant, Captain. Two ladies who were to have it -- a mother and daughter -- have, I hear this morning, been unexpectedly detained, owing to the sudden illness of one of them. Their heavy baggage is all in the hold, and must go on, and they will follow in the next ship. Shall I put Mrs. Holland in there?"

"Certainly. This is most fortunate.

"I don't think that you would have been comfortable, with the other two, Mrs. Holland. I don't know the colonel's wife, but Mrs. Larkins has travelled with us before, and I had quite enough of her on that voyage."

"Thank you very much, Captain. It will indeed be a comfort to have a cabin to myself."

Dick found that he was berthed with two young cadets, whose names, he learned from the cards fastened over the bunks, were Latham and Fellows.

Half an hour after the arrival of the Hollands on board, the passengers began to pour in rapidly, and the deck of the Madras was soon crowded with them, their friends, and their luggage. Below, all was bustle and confusion. Men shouted angrily to stewards; women, laden with parcels, blocked the gangway, and appealed helplessly to every one for information and aid; sailors carried down trunks and portmanteaus; and Mrs. Holland, when she emerged from her cabin, having stowed away her belongings and made things tidy, congratulated herself on having been the first on board, and so had not only avoided all this confusion, but obtained a separate cabin, which she might not otherwise have been able to do, as the captain would have been too busy to devote any special attention to her.

After having handed her over to the care of the purser, Captain Barstow had spoken to the second officer, who happened to be passing.

"Mr. Rawlinson," he said, "this is the son of my old friend, Captain Holland. He is going out with his mother. I wish you would keep your eye upon him, and let him join the midshipmen in their studies with you, in the morning. Possibly he may enter the Service, and it will be a great advantage to him to have got up navigation, a bit, before he does so. At any rate, it will occupy his mind and keep him out of mischief. A lad of his age would be like a fish out of water, among the passengers on the quarterdeck."

"Ay, ay, sir. I will do what I can for him."

And he hurried away.

Dick saw that, for the present, there was nothing to be done but to look on, and it was not until the next morning, when the Madras was making her way south, outside the Goodwins, that the second officer spoke to him.

"Ah, there you are, lad! I have been too busy to think of you, and it will be another day or two before we settle down to regular work. However, I will introduce you to one or two of the midshipmen, and they will make you free of the ship."

Dick was, indeed, already beginning to feel at home. The long table, full from end to end, had presented such a contrast to his quiet dinner with his mother, that, as he sat down beside her and looked round, he thought he should never get to speak to anyone throughout the voyage. However, he had scarcely settled himself when a gentleman in a naval uniform, next to him, made the remark:

"Well, youngster, what do you think of all this? I suppose it is all new to you?"

"It is, sir. It seems very strange, at first, but I suppose I shall get accustomed to it."

"Oh, yes. You will find it pleasant enough, by and bye. I am the ship's doctor. The purser has been telling me about you and your mother.

"I made one voyage with your father. It was my first, and a kinder captain I never sailed with. I heard, from the purser, that there seems to be a chance of his being still alive, and that your mother is going out to try and find out something about him. I hope, most sincerely, that she may succeed in doing so; but he has been missing a long time now. Still, that is no reason why she should not find him. There have been instances where men have been kept for years by some of these rascally natives -- why, goodness only knows, except, I suppose, because they fear and hate us; and think that, some time or other, an English prisoner may be useful to them.

"Your mother looks far from strong," he went on, as he glanced across Dick to Mrs. Holland, who was talking to a lady on the other side of her. "Has she been ill?"

"No, sir. I have never known her ill, yet. She has been worrying herself a great deal. She has waited so long, because she did not like to go out until she could take me with her. She has no friends in England with whom she could leave me. She looks a good deal better, now, than she did a month ago. I think, directly she settled to come out, and had something to do, she became better."

"That is quite natural," the doctor said. "There is nothing so trying as inactivity. I have no doubt that the sea air will quite set her up again. It performs almost miracles on the homeward-bound passengers. They come on board looking pale, and listless, and washed out; at the end of a month at sea, they are different creatures altogether."

The purser had taken pains to seat Mrs. Holland, at table, next to a person who would be a pleasant companion for her; and the lady she was now talking to was the wife of a chaplain in the army. She had, a year before, returned from India in the Madras, and he knew her to be a kind and pleasant woman.

Dick did not care for his cabin mates. They were young fellows of about eighteen years of age. One was a nephew of a Director of the Company, the other the son of a high Indian official. They paid but little attention to him, generally ignoring him altogether, and conversing about things and people in India, in the tone of men to whom such matters were quite familiar.

In three or four days, Dick became on good terms with the six midshipmen the Madras carried. Two of them were younger than himself, two somewhat older, while the others were nearly out of their time, and hoped that this would be their last trip in the midshipmen's berth. The four younger lads studied, two hours every morning, under the second officer's instruction; and Dick took his place at the table regularly with them.

Mathematics had been the only subject in which he had at all distinguished himself at school, and he found himself able to give satisfaction to Mr. Rawlinson, in his studies of navigation. After this work was over, they had an hour's practical instruction by the boatswain's mate, in knotting and splicing ropes, and in other similar matters.

In a fortnight, he had learned the names and uses of what had, at first, seemed to him the innumerable ropes; and long before that, had accompanied one of the midshipmen aloft. On the first occasion that he did so, two of the topmen followed him, with the intention of carrying out the usual custom of lashing him to the ratlines, until he paid his footing. Seeing them coming up, the midshipman laughed, and told Dick what was in store for him.

The boy had been as awkward as most beginners in climbing the shrouds, the looseness and give of the ratlines puzzling him; but he had, for years, practised climbing ropes in the gymnasium at Shadwell, and was confident in his power to do anything in that way. The consequence was that, as soon as the sailors gained the top, where he and the midshipman were standing, Dick seized one of the halliards and, with a merry laugh, came down hand over hand. A minute later, he stood on the deck.

"Well done, youngster," said the boatswain's mate, who happened to be standing by, as Dick's feet touched the deck. "This may be the first time you have been on board a ship, but it is easy to see that it isn't the first, by a long way, that you have been on a rope. Could you go up again?"

"Yes, I should think so," Dick said. "I have never climbed so high as that, because I have never had the chance; but it ought to be easy enough."

The man laughed.

"There are not many sailors who can do it," he said. "Well, let us see how high you will get."

As Dick was accustomed to go up a rope thirty feet high, hand over hand, without using his legs, he was confident that, with their assistance, he could get up to the main top, lofty as it was, and he at once threw off his jacket and started. He found the task harder than he had anticipated, but he did it without a pause. He was glad, however, when the two sailors above grasped him by the arms, and placed him beside them on the main top.

"Well, sir," one said, admiringly, "we thought you was a Johnny Newcome, by the way you went up the ratlines, but you came up that rope like a monkey.

"Well, sir, you are free up here, and if you weren't it would not make much odds to you, for it would take half the ship's company to capture you."

"I don't want to get off paying my footing," Dick said, pulling five shillings from his pocket and handing them to the sailors; for his mother had told him that it was the custom, on first going aloft, to make a present to them, and had given him the money for the purpose. "I can climb, but I don't know anything about ropes, and I shall be very much obliged if you will teach me all you can."



Chapter 2: A Brush With Privateers.


Dick was surprised when, on descending to the deck, he found that what seemed to him a by no means very difficult feat had attracted general attention. Not only did half a dozen of the sailors pat him on the back, with exclamations expressive of their surprise and admiration, but the other midshipmen spoke quite as warmly, the eldest saying:

"I could have got up the rope, Holland, but I could not have gone up straight, as you did, without stopping for a bit to take breath. You don't look so very strong, either."

"I think that it is knack more than strength," Dick replied. "I have done a lot of practice at climbing, for I have always wanted to get strong, and I heard that there was no better exercise."

When, presently, Dick went aft to the quarterdeck, Captain Barstow said to him:

"You have astonished us all, lad. I could hardly believe my eyes, when I saw you going up that rope. I first caught sight of you when you had climbed but twenty feet, and wondered how far you would get, at that pace. I would have wagered a hundred guineas to one that you would not have kept it up to the top.

"Well, lad, whatever profession you take to, it is certain that you will be a good sailor spoilt."

They had now been three weeks out, but had made slow progress, for the winds had been light, and mostly from the southwest.

"This is very dull work," the doctor said to Dick one day, at dinner. "Here we are, three weeks out, and still hardly beyond the Channel. There is one consolation. It is not the fault of the ship. She has been doing well, under the circumstances, but the fates have been against her, thus far. I have no doubt there are a score of ships still lying in the Downs, that were there when we passed; and, tedious as it has been beating down the Channel, with scarce wind enough most of the time to keep our sails full, it would have been worse lying there, all the time."

"Still, we have gained a good bit on them, sir."

"If the wind were to change round, say to the northeast, and they brought it along with them, they would soon make up for lost time, for it would not take them three days to run here. However, we shall begin to do better, soon. I heard the captain say that he should change his course tomorrow. We are somewhere off Cork, and when he makes a few miles more westing, he will bear away south. If we had had a favourable wind, we should have taken our departure from the Start, but with it in this quarter we are obliged to make more westing, before we lay her head on her course, or we should risk getting in too close to the French coast; and their privateers are as thick as peas, there."

"But we should not be afraid of a French privateer, doctor?"

"Well, not altogether afraid of one, but they very often go in couples; and sometimes three of them will work together. I don't think one privateer alone would venture to attack us, though she might harass us a bit, and keep up a distant fire, in hopes that another might hear it and bear down to her aid. But it is always as well to keep free of them, if one can. You see, an unlucky shot might knock one of our sticks out of us, which would mean delay and trouble, if no worse.

"We had a sharp brush with two of them, on the last voyage, but we beat them off. We were stronger then than we are now, for we had two hundred troops on board, and should have astonished them if they had come close enough to try boarding -- in fact, we were slackening our fire, to tempt them to do so, when they made out that a large craft coming up astern was an English frigate, and sheered off.

"I don't know what the end of it was, but I rather fancy they were taken. The frigate followed them, gaining fast; and, later on, we could hear guns in the distance."

"You did not join in the chase then, doctor?"

"Oh, no. Our business is not fighting. If we are attacked, of course we defend ourselves; but we don't go a foot out of our way, if we can help it."

Three weeks at sea had done wonders for Mrs. Holland. Now that she was fairly embarked upon her quest, the expression of anxiety gradually died out. The sea air braced up her nerves, and, what was of still greater benefit to her, she was able to sleep soundly and dreamlessly, a thing she had not done for years. Dick was delighted at the change in her.

"You look quite a different woman, Mother," he said. "I don't think your friends at Shadwell would know you, if they were to see you now."

"I feel a different woman, Dick. I have not felt so well and so bright since your father sailed on his last voyage. I am more convinced than ever that we shall succeed. I have been trying very hard, for years, to be hopeful, but now I feel so without trying. Of course, it is partly this lovely weather and the sea air, and sleeping so well; and partly because everyone is so kind and pleasant."

As soon as the Madras had been headed for the south, she began to make better way. The wind freshened somewhat, but continued in the same quarter. Grumbling ceased over the bad luck they were having, and hopeful anticipations that, after all, they would make a quick passage were freely indulged in.

On the fourth day after changing her course, she was off the coast of Spain, which was but a hundred and fifty miles distant. At noon that day the wind dropped suddenly, and, an hour later, it was a dead calm.

"We are going to have a change, Dick," the doctor said, as he stopped by the lad, who was leaning against the bulwark watching a flock of seabirds that were following a shoal of fish, dashing down among them with loud cries, and too intent upon their work to notice the ship, lying motionless a hundred yards away.

"What sort of a change, doctor?"

"Most likely a strong blow, though from what quarter it is too soon to say. However, we have no reason to grumble. After nearly a month of light winds, we must expect a turn of bad weather. I hope it will come from the north. That will take us down to the latitude of Madeira, and beyond that we may calculate upon another spell of fine weather, until we cross the Line."

As the afternoon wore on, the weather became more dull. There were no clouds in the sky, but the deep blue was dimmed by a sort of haze. Presently, after a talk between the captain and the first officer, the latter gave the order, "All hands take in sail."

The order had been expected, and the men at once swarmed up the rigging. In a quarter of an hour all the upper sails were furled. The light spars were then sent down to the deck.

"You may as well get the top-gallant sails off her, too, Mr. Green," the captain said to the first officer. "It is as well to be prepared for the worst. It is sure to blow pretty hard, when the change comes."

The top-gallant sails were got in, and when the courses had been brailed up and secured, the hands were called down. Presently the captain, after going to his cabin, rejoined Mr. Green.

"The glass has gone up again," Dick heard him say.

"That looks as if it were coming from the north, sir."

"Yes, with some east in it. It could not come from a better quarter."

He turned and gazed steadily in that direction.

"Yes, there is dark water over there."

"So there is, sir. That is all right. I don't mind how hard it blows, so that it does but come on gradually."

"I agree with you. These hurricane bursts, when one is becalmed, are always dangerous, even when one is under bare poles."

Gradually the dark line on the horizon crept up towards the ship. As it reached her the sails bellied out, and she began to move through the water. The wind increased in strength rapidly, and in half an hour she was running south at ten or eleven knots an hour. The thermometer had fallen many degrees, and as the sun set, the passengers were glad to go below for shelter.

Before going to bed, Dick went up on deck for a few minutes. The topsails had been reefed down, but the Madras was rushing through the water at a high rate of speed. The sea was getting up, and the waves were crested with foam. Above, the stars were shining brilliantly.

"Well, lad, this is a change, is it not?" the captain said, as he came along in a pea jacket.

"We seem to be going splendidly, Captain."

"Yes, we are walking along grandly, and making up for lost time."

"It is blowing hard, sir."

"It will blow a good deal harder before morning, lad, but I do not think it will be anything very severe. Things won't be so comfortable downstairs, for the next day or two, but that is likely to be the worst of it."

The motion of the ship kept Dick awake for some time, but, wedging himself tightly in his berth, he presently fell off to sleep, and did not wake again until morning. His two cabin mates were suffering terribly from seasickness, but he felt perfectly well, although it took him a long time to dress, so great was the motion of the ship.

On making his way on deck, he found that overhead the sky was blue and bright, and the sun shining brilliantly. The wind was blowing much harder than on the previous evening, and a heavy sea was running; but as the sun sparkled on the white crests of the waves, the scene was far less awe inspiring than it had been when he looked out before retiring to his berth. The ship, under closely-reefed main and fore-top sails, was tearing through the water at a high rate of speed, throwing clouds of spray from her bows, and occasionally taking a wave over them that sent a deluge of water along the deck.

"What do you think of this, lad?" Mr. Rawlinson, who was in charge of the watch, asked him; as, after watching his opportunity, he made a rush to the side and caught a firm hold of a shroud.

"It is splendid, sir," he said. "Has she been going like this all night?"

The officer nodded.

"How long do you think it will last, sir?"

"Two or three days."

"Will it be any worse, sir?"

"Not likely to be. It is taking us along rarely, and it is doing us good in more ways than one.

"Look there;" and as they rose on a wave, he pointed across the water, behind Dick.

The lad turned, and saw a brig running parallel to their course, half a mile distant.

"What of her, sir?"

"That is a French privateer, unless I am greatly mistaken."

"But she has the British ensign flying, sir."

"Ay, but that goes for nothing. She may possibly be a trader, on her way down to the Guinea coast, but by the cut of her sails and the look of her hull, I have no doubt that she is a Frenchman."

"We are passing her, sir."

"Oh, yes. In a gale and a heavy sea, weight tells, and we shall soon leave her astern; but in fine weather, I expect she could sail round and round us. If the French could fight their ships as well as they can build them, we should not be in it with them."

"Why don't we fire at her, Mr. Rawlinson?"

The officer laughed.

"How are you going to work your guns, with the ship rolling like this? No, lad, we are like two muzzled dogs at present -- we can do nothing but watch each other. I am sorry to say that I don't think the fellow is alone. Two or three times I have fancied that I caught a glimpse of a sail on our starboard quarter. I could not swear to it, but I don't think I was mistaken, and I called the captain's attention that way, just before he went down ten minutes ago, and he thought he saw it, too. However, as there was nothing to be done, he went down for a caulk. He had not left the deck since noon, yesterday."

"But if she is no bigger than the other, I suppose we shall leave her behind, too, Mr. Rawlinson?"

"Ay, lad, we shall leave them both behind presently; but if they are what I think, we are likely to hear more of them, later on. They would not be so far offshore as this, unless they were on the lookout for Indiamen, which of course keep much farther out than ships bound up the Mediterranean; and, having once spotted us, they will follow us like hounds on a deer's trail. However, I think they are likely to find that they have caught a tartar, when they come up to us.

"Ah! Here is the doctor.

"Well, doctor, what is the report below?"

"Only the usual number of casualties -- a sprained wrist, a few contusions, and three or four cases of hysterics."

"Is Mother all right, doctor?" Dick asked.

"As I have heard nothing of her, I have no doubt she is. I am quite sure that she will not trouble me with hysterics. Women who have had real trouble to bear, Dick, can be trusted to keep their nerves steady in a gale."

"I suppose you call this a gale, doctor?"

"Certainly. It is a stiff north-easterly gale, and if we were facing it, instead of running before it, you would not want to ask the question.

"That is a suspicious-looking craft, Rawlinson," he broke off, catching sight of the brig, now on their port quarter.

"Yes, she is a privateer I have no doubt, and, unless I am mistaken, she has a consort somewhere out there to starboard. However, we need not trouble about them. Travelling as we are, we are going two knots an hour faster than the brig."

"So much the better," the doctor said, shortly. "We can laugh at one of these fellows, but when it comes to two of them, I own that I don't care for their company. So the longer this gale holds on, the better."

The mate nodded.

"Well, Dick," the doctor went on, "do you feel as if you will be able to eat your breakfast?"

"I shall be ready enough for it, doctor, but I don't see how it will be possible to eat it, with the vessel rolling like this."

"You certainly will not be able to sit down to it -- nothing would stay on the table a minute. There will be no regular breakfast today. You must get the steward to cut you a chunk of cold meat, put it between two slices of bread, and make a sandwich of it. As to tea, ask him to give you a bottle and to pour your tea into that; then, if you wedge yourself into a corner, you will find that you are able to manage your breakfast comfortably, and can amuse yourself watching people trying to balance a cup of tea in their hand."

Not more than half a dozen passengers ventured on deck, for the next two days, but at the end of that time the force of the wind gradually abated, and on the following morning the Madras had all her sails set, to a light but still favourable breeze. Madeira had been passed, to Dick's disappointment; but, except for a fresh supply of vegetables, there was no occasion to put in there, and the captain grudged the loss of a day, while so favourable a wind was taking them along.

"Do you think we shall see anything of that brig again, doctor?" Dick asked, as, for the first time since the wind sprang up, the passengers sat down to a comfortable breakfast.

"There is no saying, Dick. If we gained two knots an hour during the blow (and I don't suppose we gained more than one and a half), they must be a hundred and twenty miles or so astern of us; after all, that is only half a day's run. I think they are pretty sure to follow us for a bit, for they will know that, in light winds, they travel faster than we do; and if we get becalmed, while they still hold the breeze, they will come up hand over hand. It is likely enough that, in another three days or so, we may get a sight of them behind us."

This was evidently the captain's opinion also, for during the day the guns were overhauled, and their carriages examined, and the muskets brought up on deck and cleaned. On the following day the men were practised at the guns, and then had pike and cutlass exercise.

None of the passengers particularly noticed these proceedings, for Dick had been warned by the captain to say nothing about the brig; and as he was the only passenger on deck at the time, no whisper of the privateers had come to the ears of the others.

The party were just going down to lunch, on the third day, when a lookout in the maintop hailed the deck:

"A sail astern."

"How does she bear?"

"She is dead astern of us, sir, and I can only make out her upper sails. I should say that they are her royals."

Mr. Green ran up, with his telescope slung over his shoulder.

"I cannot make much out of her, sir," he shouted to the captain. "She may be anything. She must be nearly thirty miles astern. I think, with Pearson, that it is her royals we see."

"Take a look round, Mr. Green."

The mate did so, and presently called down:

"I can make out something else away on the starboard quarter, but so far astern that I can scarce swear to her. Still, it can be nothing but a sail."

"Thank you, Mr. Green. I daresay that we shall know more about her, later on."

When the captain joined the passengers at table, one of the ladies said:

"You seem interested in that ship astern of us, captain."

"Yes, Mrs. Seaforth. One is always interested in a ship, when one gets down as far as this. She may be another Indiaman, and although the Madras has no claim to any great speed in a light breeze like this, one never likes being passed."

The explanation was considered as sufficient, and nothing more was said on the subject. By sunset, the upper sails of the stranger could be made out from the deck of the Madras. Mr. Green again went up, and had a look at her.

"She is coming up fast," he said, when he rejoined the captain. "She keeps so dead in our wake that I can't make out whether she is a brig or a three master; but I fancy that she is a brig, by the size and cut of her sails. I can see the other craft plainly enough now; she is eight or ten miles west of the other, and has closed in towards her since I made her out before. I have no doubt that she is a large schooner."

"Well, it is a comfort that they are not a few miles nearer, Mr. Green. There is no chance of their overtaking us before morning, so we shall be able to keep our watches as usual, and shall have time to get ready for a fight, if there is to be one."

"The sooner the better sir, so that it is daylight. It is quite certain that they have the legs of us."

In the morning, when Dick came up, he found that the wind had quite died away, and the sails hung loosely from the yards. Looking astern, he saw two vessels. They were some six miles away, and perhaps two miles apart. As they lay without steerage way, they had swung partly round, and he saw that they were a brig and a schooner. The former he had no doubt, from her lofty masts and general appearance, was the same the Madras had passed six days before. As the passengers came up, they were full of curiosity as to the vessels.

"Of course, we know no more actually than you do yourselves," the captain said, as some of them gathered round and questioned him, "but I may as well tell you, frankly, that we have very little doubt about their being two French privateers. We passed them during the gale, and had some hopes that we should not see them again; but, in the light breeze we have been having during the last few days, they have made up lost ground, and I am afraid we shall have to fight them."

Exclamations of alarm broke from some of the ladies who heard his words.

"You need not be alarmed, ladies," he went on. "We carry twelve guns, you know, and I expect that all of them are of heavier metal than theirs. The Madras is a strongly-built ship, and will stand a good deal more hammering than those light craft will, so that I have no doubt we shall give a good account of ourselves."

After breakfast, the hatches were opened and the gun cases belonging to the passengers brought on deck. Scarce one of them but had a rifle, and many had, in addition, a shotgun. The day passed without any change in the positions of the vessels, for they still lay becalmed.

"Why don't they get out their boats, and tow their vessels up?" Dick asked the doctor.

"Because they would be throwing away their chances, if they did so. They know that we cannot get away from them, and we might smash up their boats as soon as they came within range. Besides, their speed and superior handiness give them a pull over us, when fighting under sail. They may try to tow up during the night, if they think they are strong enough to take us by boarding, but I hardly think they will do so."

The night, however, passed off quietly. But in the morning a light breeze sprang up from the east, the sails were trimmed, and the Madras again began to move through the water. By breakfast time, the craft behind had visibly decreased their distance.

The meal was a silent one. When it was over, the captain said:

"As soon as those fellows open fire, ladies, I must ask you all to go down into the hold. The sailors have already cleared a space, below the waterline, large enough for you; and they will take down some cushions, and so on, to make you as comfortable as possible, under the circumstances. Pray do not be alarmed at any noises you may hear. You will be below the waterline, and perfectly safe from their shot; and you may be sure that we shall do our best to keep the scoundrels from boarding us; and I will let you know, from time to time, how matters are going."

The unmarried men at once went up on deck. The others lingered for a short time behind, talking to their wives and daughters, and then followed.

"The wind has strengthened a bit, Mr. Green," the captain said, "and I fancy we shall get more."

"I think so, too, Captain."

"Then you may as well get off the upper sails, and make her snug. Get off everything above the top gallant. Then, if the wind increases, we shall not want to call the men away from the guns."

The crew had, without orders, already mustered at quarters. The lashings had been cast off the guns, the boatswain had opened the magazines, and a pile of shot stood by each gun, together with cases of canister and grapeshot for close work. Boarding pikes and cutlasses were ranged along by the bulwarks. The men had thrown aside their jackets, and many of those at the guns were stripped to the waist. Some of them were laughing and talking, and Dick saw, by their air of confidence, that they had no doubt of their ability to beat off the assault of the privateers.

The latter were the first to open the ball. A puff of smoke burst out from the brig's bows, followed almost instantly by one from the schooner. Both shots fell short, and, for a quarter of an hour, the three vessels kept on their way.

"We have heavier metal than that," the captain said, cheerfully, "and I have no doubt we could reach them. But it is not our game to play at long bowls, for it is probable that both of them carry a long pivot gun, and if they were to draw off a bit, they could annoy us amazingly, while we could not reach them."

Presently the privateers opened fire again. They were now about a mile away, and the same distance from each other. Their shot fell close to the Indiaman, and two or three passed through her sails.

Still no reply was made. The men at the guns fidgeted, and kept casting glances towards the poop, in expectation of an order. It came at last, but was not what they had expected.

"Double shot your guns, men," the captain said.

Scarcely was the order obeyed when the brig, which was now on the port quarter, luffed up a little into the wind, and fired a broadside of eight guns. There was a crashing of wood. The Madras was hulled in three places; two more holes appeared in her sails; while the other shot passed harmlessly just astern of her.

There was an angry growl among the sailors, as the schooner bore away a little, and also fired her broadside. Except that a man was struck down by a splinter from the bulwarks, no damage was done.

"Bear up a little," the captain said to the second officer, who was standing by the helmsman. "I want to edge in a little towards the brig, but not enough for them to notice it.

"Now, gentlemen," he went on, to the passengers, "I have no doubt that most of you are good shots, and I want you, after we have fired our broadside, to direct your attention to the brig's helmsmen. If you can render it impossible for the men to stand at the wheel, we will make mincemeat of this fellow in no time. Directly I have fired our port broadside, I am going to bring her up into the wind on the opposite tack, and give him the starboard broadside at close quarters. Don't fire until we have gone about, and then pick off the helmsmen, if you can.

"Get ready, men."

The brig was now but a little more than a quarter of a mile distant.

"Aim at the foot of his mainmast," he went on. "Let each man fire as he gets the mast on his sight."

A moment later the first gun fired, and the whole broadside followed in quick succession.

"Down with the helm! Hard down, sheets and tacks!"

The men whose duty it was to trim the sails ran to the sheets and braces. The Madras swept up into the wind, and, as her sails drew on the other tack, she came along on a course that would take her within a hundred yards of the brig.

As she approached, three rifles cracked out on her poop. One of the men at the helm of the brig fell, and as he did so, half a dozen more shots were fired; and as his companion dropped beside him, the brig, deprived of her helm, flew up into the wind.

Three men ran aft to the wheel, but the deadly rifles spoke out again. Two of them fell. The third dived under the bulwark, for shelter.

"Steady, men!" the captain shouted. "Fetch her mainmast out of her!"

As they swept along under the stern of the brig, each gun of their other broadside poured in its fire in succession, raking the crowded deck from end to end. A moment later, the mainmast was seen to sway, and a tremendous cheer broke from the Madras as it went over the side, dragging with it the foretopmast, with all its gear.

"Down with the helm again!" the captain shouted. "Bring her head to wind, and keep her there!"

The first officer sprang forward, to see that the order was carried into effect, and a minute later the Indiaman lay, with her sails aback, at a distance of a hundred yards, on the quarter of the brig.

"Grape and canister!" the captain shouted, and broadside after broadside swept the decks of the brig, which, hampered by her wreckage, was lying almost motionless in the water. So terrible was the fire, that the privateer's men threw down the axes with which they were striving to cut away the floating spars, and ran below.

"Double shot your guns, and give her one broadside between wind and water!" the captain ordered.

"Haul on the sheets and braces, Mr. Green, and get her on her course again -- the schooner won't trouble us, now."

That craft had indeed, at first, luffed up, to come to the assistance of her consort; but on seeing the fall of the latter's mast, and that she was incapable of rendering any assistance, had again altered her course, feeling her incapacity to engage so redoubtable an opponent, single handed. Three hearty cheers broke from all on board the Madras as, after pouring in a broadside at a distance of fifty yards, she left the brig behind her, and proceeded on her way.

"Then you don't care about taking prizes, captain?" one of the passengers said, as they crowded round to congratulate him upon his easy, and almost bloodless, victory.

"No, taking prizes is not my business; and were I to weaken my crew, by sending some of them off in a prize, I might find myself short-handed if we met another of these gentlemen, or fell in with bad weather. Besides, she would not be worth sending home."

"The brig is signalling to her consort, sir," Mr. Green said, coming up.

"Ay, ay. I expect she wants help badly enough. I saw the chips fly close to her waterline, as we gave her that last broadside."

"They are lowering a boat," one of the passengers said.

"So they are. I expect they haven't got more than one that can swim.

"I think she is settling down," the captain said, as he looked earnestly at the wreck astern. "See how they are crowding into that boat, and how some of the others are cutting and slashing, to get the wreckage clear of her."

"She is certainly a good bit lower in the water than she was," the first officer agreed. "The schooner has come round, and won't be long before she is alongside of her."

There was no doubt that the brig was settling down fast. Men stood on the bulwarks, and waved their caps frantically to the schooner. Others could be seen, by the aid of a glass, casting spars, hen coops, and other articles overboard, and jumping into the water after them; and soon the sea around the wreck was dotted with heads and floating fragments, while the wreckage of the mainmast was clustered with men.

When the Madras was a mile away, the schooner was lying, thrown up head to wind, fifty yards from the brig; and her boats were already engaged in picking up the swimmers. Suddenly the brig gave a heavy lurch.

"There she goes!" the captain exclaimed.

A moment later the hull had disappeared, and the schooner remained alone.

By this time, the whole of the ladies had ascended from their place of safety to the poop, and a general exclamation broke from the passengers, as the brig disappeared.

"The schooner will pick them all up," the captain said. "They must have suffered heavily from our fire, but I don't think any will have gone down with her. The boat, which has already reached the schooner, must have taken a good many, and the mainmast and foretopmast and spars would support the rest, to say nothing of the things they have thrown overboard. There is one wasp the less afloat."

No further adventure was met with, throughout the voyage. They had a spell of bad weather off the Cape, but the captain said it was nothing to the gales they often encountered there, and that the voyage, as a whole, was an exceptionally good one; for, even after the delays they had encountered at the start, the passage had lasted but four months and a half.

They touched at Point de Galle for news, and to ascertain whether any French warships had been seen, of late, along the coast. A supply of fresh vegetables and fruit was taken on board, as the vessel, after touching at Madras, was to go on to Calcutta. A few of the passengers landed at Point de Galle, but neither Dick nor his mother went ashore.

"You will have plenty of opportunities of seeing Indians, later on, Dick," Mrs. Holland had said; "and, as the gigs will not take all ashore, we may as well stop quietly here. I heard the captain say that he would weigh anchor again, in four hours."

Dick was rather disappointed, but, as they would be at Madras before long, he did not much mind.

Ten days later, they anchored off that town. Little was to be seen except the fort, a number of warehouses, and the native town, while the scenery contrasted strongly with that of Ceylon, with its masses of green foliage, with hills rising behind.

For the last fortnight, Mrs. Holland had been somewhat depressed. Now that the voyage was nearly over, the difficulties of the task before her seemed greater than they had done when viewed from a distance, and she asked herself whether, after all, it would not have been wiser to have waited another two or three years, until Dick had attained greater strength and manhood. The boy, however, when she confided her doubts to him, laughed at the idea.

"Why, you know, Mother," he said, "we agreed that I had a much greater chance, as a boy, of going about unsuspected, than I should have as a man. Besides, we could never have let Father remain any longer, without trying to get him out.

"No, no, Mother, you know we have gone through it over and over again, and talked about every chance. We have had a first-rate voyage, and everything is going on just as we could have wished, and it would never do to begin to have doubts now. We have both felt confident, all along. It seems to me that, of all things, we must keep on being confident, at any rate until there is something to give us cause to doubt."

On the following morning, they landed in a surf boat, and were fortunate in getting ashore without being drenched. There was a rush of wild looking and half-naked natives to seize their baggage; but upon Mrs. Holland, with quiet decision, accosting the men in their own language, and picking out four of them to carry the baggage up, to one of the vehicles standing on the road that ran along the top of the high beach, the rest fell back, and the matter was arranged without difficulty.

After a drive of twenty minutes, they stopped at a hotel.

"It is not like a hotel, Mother," Dick remarked, as they drew up. "It is more like a gentleman's house, standing in its own park."

"Almost all the European houses are built so, here, Dick, and it is much more pleasant than when they are packed together."

"Much nicer," Dick agreed. "If each house has a lot of ground like this, the place must cover a tremendous extent of country."

"It does, Dick; but, as every one keeps horses and carriages, that does not matter much. Blacktown, as they call the native town, stands quite apart from the European quarter."

As soon as they were settled in their rooms, which seemed to Dick singularly bare and unfurnished, mother and son went out for a drive, in one of the carriages belonging to the hotel. Dick had learned so much about India from her that, although extremely interested, he was scarcely surprised at the various scenes that met his eye, or at the bright and varied costumes of the natives.

Many changes had taken place, during the seventeen years that had elapsed since Mrs. Holland had left India. The town had increased greatly in size. All signs of the effects of the siege by the French, thirty years before, had been long since obliterated. Large and handsome government buildings had been erected, and evidences of wealth and prosperity were everywhere present.



Chapter 3: The Rajah.


"Now, Mother, let us talk over our plans," Dick said as, after dinner, they seated themselves in two chairs in the veranda, at some little distance from the other guests at the hotel. "How are we going to begin?"

"In the first place, Dick, we shall tomorrow send out a messenger to Tripataly, to tell my brother of our arrival here."

"How far is it, Mother?"

"It is about a hundred and twenty miles, in a straight line, I think; but a good bit farther than that, by the way we shall go."

"How shall we travel, Mother?"

"I will make some inquiries tomorrow, but I think that the pleasantest way will be to drive from here to Conjeveram. I think that is about forty miles. There we can take a native boat, and go up the river Palar, past Arcot and Vellore, to Vaniambaddy. From there it is only about fifteen miles to Tripataly.

"I shall tell my brother the way I propose going. Of course, if he thinks any other way will be better, we shall go by that."

"Are we going to travel as we are, Mother, or in native dress?"

"That is a point that I have been thinking over, Dick. I will wait, and ask my brother which he thinks will be the best. When out there I always dressed as a native, and never put on English clothes, except at Madras. I used to come down here two or three times every year, with my mother, and generally stayed for a fortnight or three weeks. During that time, we always dressed in English fashion, as by so doing we could live at the hotel, and take our meals at public tables without exciting comment. My mother knew several families here, and liked getting back to English ways, occasionally.

"Of course, I shall dress in Indian fashion while I stay at my brother's, so it is only the question of how we shall journey there, and I think I should prefer going as we are. We shall excite no special observation, travelling as English, as it will only be supposed that we are on our way to pay a visit to some of our officers, at Arcot. At Conjeveram, which is a large place, there is sure to be a hotel of some sort or other, for it is on the main road from Madras south. On the way up, by water, we shall of course sleep on board, and we shall go direct from the boat to Tripataly.

"However, we need not decide until we get an answer to my letter, for it will take a very short time to get the necessary dresses for us both. I think it most likely that my brother will send down one of his officers to meet us, or possibly may come down himself.

"You heard what they were all talking about, at dinner, Dick?"

"Yes, Mother, it was something about Tippoo attacking the Rajah of Travancore, but I did not pay much attention to it. I was looking at the servants, in their curious dresses."

"It is very important, Dick, and will probably change all our plans. Travancore is in alliance with us, and every one thinks that Tippoo's attack on it will end in our being engaged in war with him. I was talking to the officer who sat next to me, and he told me that, if there had been a capable man at the head of government here, war would have been declared as soon as the Sultan moved against Travancore. Now that General Meadows had been appointed governor and commander-in-chief, there was no doubt, he said, that an army would move against Tippoo in a very short time -- that it was already being collected, and that a force was marching down here from Bengal.

"So you see, my boy, if this war really breaks out, the English may march to Seringapatam, and compel Tippoo to give up all the captives he has in his hands."

"That would be splendid, Mother."

"At any rate, Dick, as long as there is a hope of your father being rescued, in that way, our plans must be put aside."

"Well, Mother, that will be better, in some respects; for of course, if Father is not rescued by our army, I can try afterwards as we arranged. It would be an advantage, in one way, as I should then be quite accustomed to the country, and more fit to make my way about."

A week later, an old officer arrived from Tripataly.

"Ah, Rajbullub," Mrs. Holland exclaimed, as he came up with a deep salaam; "I am, indeed, glad to see you again. I knew you were alive, for my brother mentioned you when he wrote last year."

Rajbullub was evidently greatly pleased at the recognition.

"I think I should have known you, lady," he said; "but eighteen years makes more changes in the young than in the old. Truly I am glad to see you again. There was great joy among us, who knew you as a child, when the Rajah told us that you were here. He has sent me on to say that he will arrive, tomorrow. I am to see to his apartments, and to have all in readiness. He intends to stay here, some days, before returning to Tripataly."

"Will he come to this hotel?"

"No, lady, he will take the house he always has, when he is here. It is kept for the use of our princes, when they come down to Madras. He bade me say that he hopes you will remain here, for that none of the rooms could be got ready, at such a short notice.

"He has not written, for he hates writing, which is a thing that he has small occasion for. I was to tell you that his heart rejoiced, at the thought of seeing you again, and that his love for you is as warm as it was when you were a boy and girl together."

"This is my son, Rajbullub. He has often heard me speak of you."

"Yes, indeed," Dick said, warmly. "I heard how you saved her from being bitten by a cobra, when she was a little girl."

"Ah! The young lord speaks our tongue," Rajbullub said, with great pleasure. "We wondered whether you would have taught it to him. If it had not been that you always wrote to my lord in our language, we should have thought that you, yourself, would surely have forgotten it, after dwelling so long among the white sahibs."

"No, we always speak it when together, Rajbullub. I thought that he might, some day, come out here, and that he would find it very useful; and I, too, have been looking forward to returning, for a time, to the home where I was born."

There were many questions to ask about her brother, his wife and two sons. They were younger than Dick, for Mrs. Holland was three years senior to the Rajah.

At last, she said, "I will not detain you longer, Rajbullub. I know that you will have a great deal to do, to get ready for my brother's coming. At what time will he arrive?"

"He hopes to be here by ten in the morning, before the heat of the day sets in."

"I shall, of course, be there to meet him."

"So he hoped, lady. He said that he would have come straight here, first, but he thought it would be more pleasant for you to meet him in privacy."

"Assuredly it would," she agreed.

"I will bring a carriage for you, here, at nine o'clock; and take you and my young lord to the Rajah's house."

At the appointed time, a handsome carriage and pair drove up to the door of the hotel, and in ten minutes Mrs. Holland and Dick alighted in the courtyard of a large house. Four native servants were at the door, and the old officer led the way to a spacious room. This was carpeted with handsome rugs. Soft cushions were piled on the divan, running round the room, the divan itself being covered with velvet and silk rugs. Looking glasses were ranged upon the walls; a handsome chandelier hung from the roof; draperies of gauze, lightly embroidered with gold, hung across the windows.

"Why, Rajbullub, you have done wonders -- that is, if the house was unfurnished, yesterday."

"It is simple," the Hindoo said. "My lord your brother, like other rajahs who use the house when they come down here, has a room upstairs; in which are kept, locked up, everything required for furnishing the rooms he uses. Four of his servants came down here, with me. We had but to call in sweepers, to clear the house from dust and wash down the marble floors, and then everything was put into its place. The cook, who also came down, has hired assistants, and all will be ready for my lord, when he arrives."

In half an hour, one of the servants ran in, and announced that the Rajah was in the courtyard. There was a great trampling of hoofs, and a minute later he ascended the stairs, and was met by his sister and Dick at the door of the room.

Mrs. Holland had attired herself handsomely, not so much for the sake of her brother, but that, as his sister, those with him would expect to see in her an English lady of position; and Dick thought that he had never seen her looking so well as when, in a dress of rich brocade, and with a flush of pleasure and expectation on her cheeks, she advanced to the door. She was still but a little over thirty-three years old, and although the long years of anxiety and sorrow had left their traces on her face, the rest and quiet of the sea voyage had done much to restore the fulness of her cheeks, and to soften the outline of her figure.

The Rajah, a young and handsome-looking man of thirty, ascended the stairs with an eagerness and speed that were somewhat at variance with Dick's preconceived ideas of the stateliness of an Eastern prince.

"My sister Margaret!" he exclaimed, in English, and embraced her with a warmth that showed that his affection for her was unimpaired by the years that had passed since he last saw her.

Then he stood with his hands on her shoulders, looking earnestly at her.

"I know you again," he said. "You are changed, but I can recall your face well. You are welcome, Margaret, most welcome.

"And this is my nephew?" he went on, turning to Dick, and holding out both his hands to him. "You are taller than I expected -- well nigh as tall as I am. You are like your mother and my mother; and you are bold and active and strong, she writes me. My boys are longing to see you, and you will be most welcome at Tripataly.

"I have almost forgotten my English, Margaret " -- and, indeed, he spoke with some difficulty, evidently choosing his words -- "I should quite have forgotten it, had not I often had occasion to speak it with English officers. I see, by your letters, that you have not forgotten our tongue."

"Not in the least, Mortiz. I have, for years, spoken nothing else with Dick, and he speaks it as well as I do."

"That is good," the Rajah replied, in his own tongue, and in a tone of relief. "I was wondering how he would get on with us.

"Now, let us sit down. We have so much to tell each other, and, moreover, I am ravenous for breakfast, as I have ridden forty miles since sunrise."

Breakfast was speedily served, the Rajah eating in English fashion.

"I cling to some of our mother's ways, you see, Margaret. As I have grown older, I have become more English than I was. Naturally, as a boy of thirteen, as I was when you last saw me, I listened to the talk of those around me, and was guided by their opinions a good deal. Among them, there was a feeling of regret that our father had married an English woman; and I, of course, was ever trying my hardest to show that in riding, or the chase, or in exercises of any kind, I was as worthy to be the son of an Indian rajah as if I had no white blood in my veins.

"As I grew up, I became wiser. I saw how great the English were, how steadily they extended their dominions, and how vastly better off were our people, under their sway, than they were in the days when every rajah made war against his neighbour, and the land never had rest. Then I grew proud of my English blood, and although I am, to my people, Rajah of Tripataly, a native prince and lord of their destinies, keeping up the same state as my father, and ruling them in native fashion, in my inner house I have adopted many English ways.

"My wife has no rival in the zenana. I encourage her to go about, as our mother did, to look after the affairs of the house, to sit at table with me, and to be my companion, and not a mere plaything. I am sure, Margaret, your stay with us will do her much good, and she will learn a great deal from you."

"You have heard no news since you last wrote, Mortiz?"

A slight cloud passed across the Rajah's animated face.

"None, Margaret. We have little news from beyond the mountains. Tippoo hates us, who are the friends of the English, as much as he hates the English themselves, so there is little communication between Mysore and the possessions of the Nabob of Arcot. We will talk, later on, of the plans you wrote of in your last letter to me."

"You do not think that they are hopeless, Mortiz?" Mrs. Holland asked, anxiously.

"I would not say that they are hopeless," he said gently, "although it seems to me that, after all these years, the chances are slight, indeed, that your husband can be alive; and the peril and danger of the enterprise that, so far as I understood you, you intend your son to undertake, would be terrible, indeed."

"We see that, Mortiz. Dick and I have talked it over, a thousand times. But so long as there is but a shadow of a chance of his finding his father, he is ready to undertake the search. He is a boy in years, but he has been trained for the undertaking, and will, when the trial comes, bear himself as well as a man."

"Well, Margaret, I shall have plenty of opportunities for forming my own judgment; because, of course, he will stay with us a long time before he starts on the quest, and it will be better to say no more of this, now.

"Now, tell me about London. Is it so much a greater city than Madras?"

Mrs. Holland sighed. She saw, by his manner, that he was wholly opposed to her plan, and although she was quite prepared for opposition, she could not help feeling disappointed. However, she perceived that, as he said, it would be better to drop the subject for a time; and she accordingly put it aside, and answered his questions.

"Madras is large -- that is, it spreads over a wide extent; but if it were packed with houses, as closely as they could stand, it would not approach London in the number of its population."

"How is it that the English do not send more troops out here, Margaret?"

"Because they can raise troops here, and English soldiers cannot stand the heat as well as those born to it. Moreover, you must remember that, at present, England is at war, not only with France and half Europe, but also with America. She is also obliged to keep an army in Ireland, which is greatly disaffected. With all this on her hands, she cannot send a large army so far across the seas, especially when her force here is sufficient for all that can be required of it."

"That is true," he said. "It is wonderful what they have done out here, with such small forces. But they will have harder work, before they conquer all India -- as I believe they will do -- than they have yet encountered. In spite of Tippoo's vauntings, they will have Mysore before many years are over. The Sultan seems to have forgotten the lesson they taught him, six or seven years back. But the next time will be the last, and Tippoo, tiger as he is, will meet the fate he seems bent on provoking.

"But beyond Mysore lies the Mahratta country, and the Mahrattis alone can put thirty thousand horsemen into the field. They are not like the people of Bengal, who have ever fallen, with scarce an attempt at resistance, under the yoke of one tyrant after another. The Mahrattis are a nation of warriors. They are plunderers, if you will, but they are brave and fearless soldiers, and might, had they been united, have had all India under their feet before the coming of the English. That chance has slipped from them. But when we -- I say 'we' you see, Margaret -- meet them, it will be a desperate struggle, indeed."

"We shall thrash them, Uncle," Dick broke in. "You will see that we shall beat them thoroughly."

The Rajah smiled at Dick's impetuosity.

"So you think English soldiers cannot be beaten, eh?"

"Well, Uncle, somehow they never do get beaten. I don't know how it is. I suppose that it is just obstinacy. Look how we thrashed the French here, and they were just as well drilled as our soldiers, and there were twice as many of them."

The Rajah nodded.

"One secret of our success, Dick, is that the English get on better with the natives here than the French do -- I don't know why, except what I have heard from people who went through the war. They say that the French always seemed to look down on the natives, and treated even powerful allies with a sort of haughtiness that irritated them, and made them ready to change sides at the first opportunity; while the British treated them pleasantly, so that there was a real friendship between them."

Dick, finding that the conversation now turned to the time when his mother and uncle were girl and boy together, left them and went downstairs. He found some twenty horses ranged in the courtyard, while their riders were sitting in the shade, several of them being engaged in cooking. These were the escort who had ridden with the Rajah from Tripataly -- for no Indian prince would think of making a journey, unless accompanied by a numerous retinue.

Scarcely had he entered the yard than Rajbullub came up, with the officer in command of the escort, a fine-looking specimen of a Hindoo soldier. He salaamed, as Rajbullub presented him to Dick. The lad addressed him at once in his own tongue, and they were soon talking freely together. The officer was surprised at finding that his lord's nephew, from beyond the sea, was able to speak the language like a native.

First, Dick asked the nature of the country, and the places at which they would halt on their way. Then he inquired what force the Rajah could put into the field, and was somewhat disappointed to hear that he kept up but a hundred horsemen, including those who served as an escort.

"You see, Sahib, there is no occasion for soldiers. Now that the whites are the masters, they do the fighting for us. When the Rajah's father was a young man, he could put two thousand men under arms, and he joined at the siege of Trichinopoly with twelve hundred. But now there is no longer need for an army. There is no one to fight. Some of the young men grumble, but the old ones rejoice at the change. Formerly, they had to go to the plough with their spears and their swords beside them, because they never knew when marauders from the hills might sweep down; besides, when there was war, they might be called away for weeks, while the crops were wasting upon the ground.

"As to the younger men who grumble, I say to them, 'If you are tired of a peaceful life, go and enlist in a Company's regiment;' and every year some of them do so.

"In other ways, the change is good. Now that the Rajah has no longer to keep up an army, he is not obliged to squeeze the cultivators. Therefore, they pay but a light rent for their lands, and the Rajah is far better off than his father was; so that, on all sides, there is content and prosperity. But, even now, the fear of Mysore has not quite died out."

"My position, Margaret," the Rajah said, after Dick had left the room, "is a very precarious one. When Hyder Ali marched down here, eight years ago, he swept the whole country, from the foot of the hills to the sea coast. My father would have been glad to stand neutral, but was, of course, bound to go with the English, as the Nabob of Arcot, his nominal sovereign, went with them. His sympathies were, of course, with your people; but most of the chiefs were, at heart, in favour of Hyder. It was not that they loved him, or preferred the rule of Mysore to that of Madras. But at that time Madras was governed by imbeciles. Its Council was composed entirely of timid and irresolute men. It was clear to all that, before any force capable of withstanding him could be put in the field, the whole country, beyond reach of the guns of the forts at Madras, would be at the mercy of Hyder.

"What that mercy was, had been shown elsewhere. Whole populations had been either massacred, or carried off as slaves. Therefore, when the storm was clearly about to burst, almost all of them sent secret messages to Hyder, to assure him that their sympathies were with him, and that they would gladly hail him as ruler of the Carnatic.

"My father was in no way inclined to take such a step. His marriage with an English woman, the white blood in my veins, and his long-known partiality for the English, would have marked him for certain destruction; and, as soon as he received news that Hyder's troops were in movement, he rode with me to Madras. At that time, his force was comparatively large, and he took three hundred men down with us. He had allowed all who preferred it to remain behind; and some four hundred stayed to look after their families. Most of the population took to the hills and, as Hyder's forces were too much occupied to spend time in scouring the ghauts in search of fugitives, when there was so much loot and so many captives ready to their hands on the plains, the fugitives for the most part remained there in safety. The palace was burnt, the town sacked and partly destroyed, and some fifteen hundred of our people, who had remained in their homes, killed or carried off.

"My father did some service with our horse, and I fought by his side. We were with Colonel Baillie's force when it was destroyed, after for two days resisting the whole of Hyder All's army. Being mounted, we escaped, and reached Madras in safety, after losing half our number. But all that I can tell you about, some other day.

"When peace was made and Hyder retired, we returned home, rebuilt the palace, and restored the town. But if Tippoo follows his father's example, and sweeps down from the hills, there will be nothing for it but to fly again. Tippoo commanded one of the divisions of Hyder's army, last time, and showed much skill and energy; and has, since he came to the throne, been a scourge to his neighbours in the north. So far as I can see, Madras will be found as unprepared as it was last time; and although the chiefs of Vellore, Arcot, Conjeveram, and other places may be better disposed towards the English than they were before -- for the Carnatic had a terrible lesson last time -- they will not dare to lift a finger against him, until they see a large British force assembled.

"So you see, sister, your position will be a very precarious one at Tripataly; and it is likely that, at any time, we may be obliged to seek refuge here. The trouble may come soon, or it may not come for a year; but, sooner or later, I regard it as certain that Tippoo will strive to obtain what his father failed to gain -- the mastership of the Carnatic. Indeed, he makes no secret of his intention to become lord of the whole of southern India. The Nizam, his neighbour in the north, fears his power, and could offer but a feeble resistance, were Tippoo once master of the south and west coast. The Mahrattis can always be bought over, especially if there is a prospect of plunder. He relies, too, upon aid from France; for although the French, since the capture of Pondicherry, have themselves lost all chance of obtaining India, they would gladly aid in any enterprise that would bring about the fall of English predominance here.

"There are, too, considerable bodies of French troops in the pay of the Nizam, and these would, at any rate, force their master to remain neutral in a struggle between the English and Tippoo.

"However, it will be quite unnecessary that you should resume our garb, or that Dick should dress in the same fashion. Did I intend to remain at Tripataly, I should not wish to draw the attention of my neighbours to the fact that I had English relations resident with me. Of course, every one knows that I am half English myself, but that is an old story now. They would, however, be reminded of it, and Tippoo would hear of it, and would use it as a pretext for attacking and plundering us. But, as I have decided to come down here, there is no reason why you should not dress in European fashion."

"We would remain here, brother," Mrs. Holland said, "rather than bring danger upon you. Dick could learn the ways of the country here, as well as with you, and could start on his search without going to Tripataly."

"Not at all, Margaret. Whether you are with me or not, I shall have to leave Tripataly when Tippoo advances, and your presence will not in any way affect my plans. My wife and sons must travel with me, and one woman and boy, more or less, will make no difference. At present, this scheme of yours seems to me to border on madness. But we need not discuss that now. I shall, at any rate, be very glad to have you both with me. The English side of me has been altogether in the background, since you went away; and though I keep up many of the customs our mother introduced, I have almost forgotten the tongue, though I force myself to speak it, sometimes, with my boys, as I am sure that, in the long run, the English will become the sole masters of southern India, and it will be a great advantage to them to speak the language.

"However, I have many other things to see about, and the companionship of Dick will benefit them greatly. You know what it always is out here. The sons of a rajah are spoilt, early, by every one giving way to them, and their being allowed to do just as they like. Naturally, they get into habits of indolence and self indulgence, and never have occasion to exert themselves, or to obtain the strength and activity that make our mother's countrymen irresistible in battle. They have been taught to shoot and to ride, but they know little else, and I am sure it will do them an immense deal of good to have Dick with them, for a time.

"If nothing comes of this search for your husband, I hope you will take up your residence, permanently, at Tripataly. You have nothing to go back to England for, and Dick, with his knowledge of both languages, should be able to find good employment in the Company's service."

"Thank you greatly, brother. If, as you say, my quest should come to nothing, I would gladly settle down in my old home. Dick's inclinations, at present, turn to the sea, but I have no doubt that what you say is true, and that there may be far more advantageous openings for him out here. However, that is a matter for us to talk over, in the future."

The Rajah stayed four days at Madras. Every morning the carriage came at nine o'clock to fetch Mrs. Holland, who spent several hours with her brother, and was then driven back to the hotel, while Dick wandered about with Rajbullub through the native town, asking questions innumerable, observing closely the different costumes and turbans, and learning to know, at once, the district, trade, or caste, from the colour or fashion of the turban, and other little signs.

The shops were an endless source of amusement to him, and he somewhat surprised his companion by his desire to learn the names of all the little articles and trinkets, even of the various kinds of grain. Dick, in fact, was continuing his preparations for his work. He knew that ignorance of any trifling detail which would, as a matter of course, be known to every native, would excite more surprise and suspicion than would be caused by a serious blunder in other matters; and he wrote down, in a notebook, every scrap of information he obtained, so as to learn it by heart at his leisure.

Rajbullub was much surprised at the lad's interest in all these little matters, which, as it seemed to him, were not worth a thought on the part of his lord's nephew.

"You will never have to buy these things, Sahib," he said. "Why should you trouble about them?"

"I am going to be over here some time, Rajbullub, and it is just as well to learn as much as one can. If I were to stroll into the market in Tripataly, and had a fancy to buy any trifle, the country people would laugh in my face, were I ignorant of its name."

His companion shook his head.

"They would not expect any white sahib to know such things," he said. "If he wants to buy anything, the white sahib points to it and asks, 'How much?' Then, whether it is a brass iota, or a silver trinket, or a file, or a bunch of fruit, the native says a price four times as much as he would ask anyone else. Then the sahib offers him half, and after protesting many times that the sum is impossible, the dealer accepts it, and both parties are well satisfied.

"If you have seen anything that you want to buy, sahib, tell me, and I will go and get it for you. Then you will not be cheated."

The start for Tripataly was made at daybreak. Dick and his mother drove, in an open carriage that had been hired for the journey. The Rajah rode beside it, or cantered on ahead. His escort followed the vehicle. The luggage had been sent off, two days before, by cart.

The country as far as Arcot was flat, but everything was interesting to Dick; and when they arrived at the city, where they were to stop for the night at the house the Rajah had occupied on his way down, he sallied out, as soon as their meal was over, to inspect the fort and walls. He had, during his outward voyage, eagerly studied the history of Clive's military exploits, and the campaigns by which that portion of India had been wrested from the French; and he was eager to visit the fort, whose memorable defence, by Clive, had first turned the scale in favour of the British. These had previously been regarded, by the natives, as a far less warlike people than the French, who were expected to drive them, in a very short time, out of the country.

Rajbullub was able to point out to him every spot associated with the stirring events of that time.

"'Tis forty-six years back, and I was but a boy of twelve; but six years later I was here, for our rajah was on the side of the English, although Tripataly was, and is now, under the Nabob of Arcot. But my lord had many causes of complaint against him, and when he declared for the French, our lord, who was not then a rajah, although chief of a considerable district, threw in his lot with the English; and, when they triumphed, was appointed rajah by them, and Tripataly was made almost wholly independent of the Nabob of Arcot. At one time a force of our men was here, with four companies of white troops, when it was thought that Dupleix was likely to march against us; and I was with that force, and so learned all about the fighting here."

The next day the party arrived, late in the evening, at Tripataly. A large number of men, with torches, received them in front of the palace; and, on entering, Mrs. Holland was warmly received by the Rajah's wife, who carried her off at once to her apartments, which she did not leave afterwards, as she was greatly fatigued by the two long days of travel.

Dick, on the contrary, although he had dozed in the carriage for the last two or three hours of the journey, woke up thoroughly as they neared Tripataly. As soon as they entered the house, the Rajah called his two sons, handsome, dark-faced lads of twelve and thirteen.

"This is your cousin, boys," he said. "You must look after him, and see that he has everything he wants, and make his stay as pleasant as you can."

Although a little awed by the, to them, tall figure, they evinced neither shyness or awkwardness, but, advancing to Dick, held out their hands one after the other, with grave courtesy. Their faces both brightened, as he said in their own language:

"I hope we shall be great friends, cousins. I am older and bigger than you are, but everything is new and strange to me, and I shall have to depend upon you to teach me everything."

"We did not think that you would be able to talk to us," the elder, whose name was Doast Assud, said, smiling. "We have been wondering how we should make you understand. Many of the white officers, who come here sometimes, speak our language, but none of them as well as you do."

"You see, they only learn it after they come out here, while I learnt it from my mother, who has talked to me in it since I was quite a little boy; so it comes as naturally to me as to you."

In a few minutes, supper was announced. The two boys sat down with their father and Dick, and the meal was served in English fashion. Dick had already become accustomed to the white-robed servants, at the hotel at Madras, and everything seemed to him pleasant and home-like.

"Tomorrow, Dick," his uncle said, "you must have your first lesson in riding."

The two boys looked up in surprise. They had been accustomed to horses from their earliest remembrance, and it seemed to them incredible that their tall cousin should require to be taught. Dick smiled at their look of astonishment.

"It is not, with us in England, as it is here," he said. "Boys who live in the country learn to ride, but in London, which is a very great town, with nothing but houses for miles and miles everywhere, few people keep horses to ride. The streets are so crowded, with vehicles of all sorts, and with people on foot, that it is no pleasure to ride in them, and everyone who can afford it goes about in a carriage. Those who cannot, go in hired vehicles, or on foot. You would hardly see a person on horseback once in a week."

"I do not like walking," Doast said gravely.

"Well, you see, you have no occasion to walk, as you always have your horses. Besides, the weather here is very hot. But in England it is colder, and walking is a pleasure. I have walked over twenty miles a day, many times, not because I had to do it, but as a day's pleasure with a friend."

"Can you shoot, cousin?"

"No," Dick laughed. "There is nothing to shoot at. There are no wild beasts in England, and no game birds anywhere near London."

Dick saw, at once, that he had descended many steps in his cousins' estimation.

"Then what can you find to do?" the younger boy asked.

"Oh, there is plenty to do," Dick said. "In the first place, there is school. That takes the best part of the day. Then there are all sorts of games. Then I used to take lessons in sword exercise, and did all sorts of things to improve my muscles, and to make me strong. Then, on holidays, three or four of us would go for a long walk, and sometimes we went out on the river in a boat; and every morning, early, we used to go for a swim. Oh, I can tell you, there was plenty to do, and I was busy from morning till night. But I want very much to learn to shoot, both with gun and pistol, as well as to ride."

"We have got English guns and pistols," Doast said. "We will lend them to you. We have a place where we practise.

"Our father says everyone ought to be able to shoot -- don't you, Father?"

The Rajah nodded.

"Everyone out here ought to, Doast, because, you see, every man here may be called upon to fight, and everyone carries arms. But it is different in England. Nobody fights there, except those who go into the army, and nobody carries weapons."

"What! Not swords, pistols, and daggers, Father?" Doast exclaimed, in surprise; for to him it seemed that arms were as necessary a part of attire as a turban, and much more necessary than shoes. "But, when people are attacked by marauders, or two chiefs quarrel with each other, what can they do if they have no arms?"

"There are no marauders, and no chiefs," Dick laughed. "In the old times, hundreds of years ago, there were nobles who could call out all their tenants and retainers to fight their battles, and in those days people carried swords, as they do here. There are nobles still, but they have no longer any power to call out anyone, and if they quarrel they have to go before a court for the matter to be decided, just as everyone else does."

This seemed, to Doast, a very unsatisfactory state of things, and he looked to his father for an explanation.

"It is as your cousin says, Doast. You have been down with me to Madras, and you have seen that, except the officers in the army, none of the Europeans carry arms. It is the same in England. England is a great island, and as they have many ships of war, no enemy can land there. There is one king over the whole country, and there are written laws by which everyone, high and low alike, are governed. So you see, no one has to carry arms. All disputes are settled by the law, and there is peace everywhere; for as nothing would be settled by fighting, and the law would punish any one, however much in the right he might be, who fought, there is no occasion at all for weapons. It is a good plan, for you see no one, however rich, can tyrannise over others; and were the greatest noble to kill the poorest peasant, the law would hang him, just the same as it would hang a peasant who killed a lord.

"And now, boys, you had better be off to bed. Your cousin has had a long day of it, and I have no doubt he will be glad to do so. Tomorrow we will begin to teach him to ride and to shoot, and I have no doubt that he will be ready, in return, to teach you a great deal about his country."

The boys got up. But Doast paused to ask his father one last question.

"But how is it, Father, if the English never carry weapons, and never fight, that they are such brave soldiers? For have they not conquered all our princes and rajahs, and have even beaten Tippoo Sahib, and made him give them much of his country?"

"The answer would be a great deal too long to be given tonight, Doast. You had better ask your cousin about it, in the morning."



Chapter 4: First Impressions.


The next morning Dick was up early, eager to investigate the palace, of which he had seen little the night before. The house was large and handsome, the Rajah having added to it gradually, every year. On passing the doors, the great hall was at once entered. Its roof, of elaborately carved stones, was supported by two rows of pillars with sculptured capitals. The floor was made of inlaid marble, and at one end was raised a foot above the general level. Here stood a stone chair, on which the Rajah sat when he adjudicated upon disputes among his people, heard petitions, and gave audiences; while a massive door on the left-hand side gave entrance to the private apartments. These were all small, in comparison with the entrance hall. The walls were lined with marble slabs, richly carved, and were dimly lighted by windows, generally high up in the walls, which were of great thickness. The marble floors were covered with thick rugs, and each room had its divan, with soft cushions and rich shawls and covers.

The room in which they had supped the night before was the only exception. This had been specially furnished and decorated, in English fashion. The windows here were low, and afforded a view over the garden. Next to it were several apartments, all fitted with divans, but with low windows and a bright outlook. They could be darkened, during the heat of the day, by shutters. With the exception of these windows, the others throughout the house contained no glass, the light entering through innumerable holes that formed a filigree work in the thin slabs of stone that filled the orifices.

The grounds round the palace were thickly planted with trees, which constituted a grove rather than a garden, according to Dick's English notions. This was, indeed, the great object of the planter, and numerous fountains added to the effect of the overhanging foliage.

Dick wandered about, delighted. Early as it was, men with water skins were at work among the clumps of flowers and shrubs, that covered the ground wherever there was a break among the trees. Here and there were small pavilions, whose roofs of sculptured stone were supported by shafts of marble. The foliage of shrubs and trees alike was new to Dick, and the whole scene delighted him. Half an hour later, his two cousins joined him.

"We wondered what had become of you," Doast said, "and should not have found you, if Rajbullub had not told us that he saw you come out here.

"Come in, now. Coffee is ready. We always have coffee the first thing, except in very hot weather, when we have fruit sherbet. After that we ride or shoot till the sun gets hot, and then come in to the morning meal, at ten."

On going in, Dick found that his mother and the ranee were both up, and they all sat down to what Dick considered a breakfast, consisting of coffee and a variety of fruit and bread. One or two dishes of meat were also handed round, but were taken away untouched.

"Now come out to the stables, Dick," the Rajah said. "Anwar, the officer who commanded the escort, will meet us there. He will be your instructor."

The stables were large. The horses were fastened to rings along each side, and were not, as in England, separated from each other by stalls. A small stone trough, with running water, was fixed against each wall at a convenient height, and beneath this was a pile of fodder before each horse.

"This is the one that I have chosen for you," the Rajah said, stopping before a pretty creature, that possessed a considerable proportion of Arab blood, as was shown by its small head. "It is very gentle and well trained, and is very fast. When you have got perfectly at ease upon it, you shall have something more difficult to sit, until you are able to ride any horse in the stable, bare backed. Murad is to be your own property, as long as you are out here."

A syce led the horse out. It was bridled but unsaddled, and Anwar gave a few instructions to Dick, and then said:

"I will help you up, but in a short time you will learn to vault on to his back, without any assistance. See! you gather your reins so, in your left hand, place your right hand on its shoulder, and then spring up."

"I can do that now," Dick laughed, and, placing his hand on the horse's shoulder, he lightly vaulted into his seat.

"Well done, Dick," the Rajah said, while the two boys, who had been looking on with amused faces, clapped their hands.

"Now, Sahib," Anwar went on, "you must let your legs hang easily. Press with your knees, and let your body sway slightly with the movement of the horse. Balance yourself, rather than try to hold on."

"I understand," Dick said. "It is just as you do on board ship, when she is rolling a bit. Let go the reins."

For half an hour the horse proceeded, at a walk, along the road that wound in and out through the park-like grounds.

"I begin to feel quite at home," Dick said, at the end of that time. "I should like to go a bit faster now. It is no odds if I do tumble off."

"Shake your rein a little. The horse will understand it," Anwar said.

Dick did so, and Murad at once started at a gentle canter. Easy as it was, Dick thought several times that he would be off. However, he gripped as tightly as he could with his knees, and as he became accustomed to the motion, and learned to give to it, acquired ease and confidence. He was not, however, sorry when, at the end of another half hour, Anwar held up his hand as he approached him, and the horse stopped at the slightest touch of the rein.

As he slid off, his legs felt as if they did not belong to him, and his back ached so that he could scarce straighten it. The Rajah and his sons had returned to the palace, and the boys were there waiting for him.

"You have done very well, cousin," Doast said, with grave approval. "You will not be long before you can ride as well as we can. Now you had better go up at once and have a bath, and put on fresh clothes."

Dick felt that the advice was good, as, bathed in perspiration, and stiff and sore in every limb, he slowly made his way to his room.

For the next month, he spent the greater part of his time on horseback. For the first week he rode only in the grounds of the palace; then he ventured beyond, accompanied by Anwar on horseback; then his two cousins joined the party; and, by the end of the month, he was perfectly at home on Murad's back.

So far, he had not begun to practise shooting.

"It would be of no use," the Rajah said, when he one day spoke of it. "You want your nerves in good order for that, and it requires an old horseman to have his hand steady enough for shooting straight, after a hard ride. Your rides are not severe for a horseman, but they are trying for you. Leave the shooting alone, lad. There is no hurry for it."

By this time, the Rajah had become convinced that it was useless to try and dissuade either his sister or Dick from attempting the enterprise for which they had come over. Possibly, the earnest conviction of the former that her husband was still alive influenced him to some extent, and the strength and activity of Dick showed him that he was able to play the part of a man. He said little, but watched the boy closely, made him go through trials of strength with some of his troopers, and saw him practise with blunted swords with others. Dick did well in both trials, and the Rajah then requested Anwar, who was celebrated for his skill with the tulwar, to give him, daily, half-an-hour's sword play, after his riding lesson. He himself undertook to teach him to use the rifle and pistol.

Dick threw himself into his work with great ardour, and in a very short time could sit any horse in the stable, and came to use a rifle and pistol with an amount of accuracy that surprised his young cousins.

"The boy is getting on wonderfully well," the Rajah said one day to his sister. "His exercises have given him so much nerve, and so steady a hand, that he already shoots very fairly. I should expect him to grow up into a fine man, Margaret, were it not that I have the gravest fears as to this mad enterprise, which I cannot help telling you, both for your good and his, is, in my opinion, absolutely hopeless."

"I know, Mortiz," she said, "that you think it is folly, on my part, to cling to hope; and while I do not disguise from myself that there would seem but small chance that my husband has survived, and that I can give no reason for my faith in his still being alive, and my confidence that he will be restored to me some day, I have so firm a conviction that nothing will shake it. Why should I have such a confidence, if it were not well founded? In my dreams, I always see him alive, and I believe firmly that I dream of him so often, because he is thinking of me.

"When he was at sea, several times I felt disturbed and anxious, though without any reason for doing so; and each time, on his return, I found, when we compared dates, that his ship was battling with a tempest at the time I was so troubled about him. I remember that, the first time this happened, he laughed at me; but when, upon two other occasions, it turned out so, he said:

"'There are things we do not understand, Margaret. You know that, in Scotland, there are many who believe in second sight, as it is called; and that there are families there, and they say in Ireland, also, where a sort of warning is given of the death of a member of the family. We sailors are a superstitious people, and believe in things that landsmen laugh at. It does not seem to me impossible that, when two people love each other dearly, as we do, one may feel when the other is in danger, or may be conscious of his death. It may be said that such things seldom happen; but that is no proof that they never do so, for some people may be more sensitive to such feelings or impressions than others, and you may be one of them.

"'There is one thing, Margaret. The fact that you have somehow felt when I was in trouble should cheer you, when I am away, for if mere danger should so affect you, surely you will know should death befall me; and as long as you do not feel that, you may be sure that I shall return safe and sound to you.'

"Now, I believe that firmly. I was once troubled -- so troubled, that, for two or three days, I was ill -- and so convinced was I that something had happened to Jack, and yet that he was not dead, that when, nigh two years afterwards, Ben came home, and I learned that it was on the day of the wreck of his ship that I had so suffered, I was not in the least surprised. Since then, I have more than once had the same feelings, and have always been sure that, at the time, Jack was in special danger; but I have never once felt that he was dead, never once thought so, and am as certain that he is still alive as if I saw him sitting in the chair opposite to me, for I firmly believe that, did he die, I should see his spirit, or that, at any rate, I should know for certain that he had gone.

"So whatever you say, though reason may be altogether on your side, it will not shake my confidence, one bit. I know that Jack is alive, and I believe firmly, although of this I am not absolutely sure, that he will, someday, be restored to me."

"You did not tell me this before, Margaret," the Rajah said, "and what you say goes for much, with me. Here in India there are many who, as is said, possess this power that you call second sight. Certainly, some of the Fakirs do. I have heard many tales of warnings they have given, and these have always come true. I will not try, in future, to damp your confidence; and will hope, with you, that your husband may yet be restored to you."

One evening, Dick remarked:

"You said down at Madras, Uncle, that you would, someday, tell me about the invasion by Hyder Ali. Will you tell me about it, now?"

The Rajah nodded. His sons took their seats at his feet, and Dick curled himself up on the divan, by his side.

"You must know," the Rajah began, "that the war was really the result of the intrigues of Sir Thomas Rumbold, the governor of Madras, and his council. In the first place, they had seriously angered the Nizam. The latter had taken a French force into his service, which the English had compelled Basult Jung to dismiss; and Madras sent an officer to his court, with instructions to remonstrate with him for so doing. At the same time, they gave him notice that they should no longer pay to him the tribute they had agreed upon, for the territory called the Northern Circars. This would have led to war, but the Bengal government promptly interfered, cancelled altogether the demands made by the Madras government, and for the time patched up the quarrel. The Nizam professed to be satisfied, but he saw that trouble might arise when the English were more prepared to enforce their demands. He therefore entered into negotiations with Hyder Ali and the Mahrattis for an alliance, whose object was the entire expulsion of the British from India.

"The Mahrattis from Poonah were to operate against Bombay; those in Central India and the north were to make incursions into Bengal; the Nizam was to invade the Northern Circars; and Hyder was to direct his force against Madras. Hyder at once began to collect military stores, and obtained large quantities from the French at Mahe, a town they still retain, on the Malabar coast.

"The Madras government prepared to attack Mahe, when Hyder informed them that the settlements of the Dutch, French, and English on the Malabar coast, being situated within his territory, were equally entitled to his protection; and that, if Mahe were attacked, he should retaliate by an incursion into the province of Arcot. In spite of this threat, Mahe was captured. Hyder for a time remained quiet, but the Madras government gave him fresh cause for offence by sending a force, in August, 1779, to the assistance of Basult Jung at Adoni.

"To get there, this detachment had to pursue a route which led, for two hundred miles, through the most difficult passes, and through the territories both of the Nizam and Hyder. The Council altogether ignored the expressed determination, of both these princes, to oppose the march, and did not even observe the civility of informing them that they were going to send troops through their territory.

"I do not say, Dick, that this made any real difference, in the end. The alliance between the three native Powers being made, it was certain that war would break out shortly. Still, had it not been for their folly, in giving Hyder and the Nizam a reasonable excuse for entering upon hostilities, it might have been deferred until the Madras government was better prepared to meet the storm.

"The Bengal government, fortunately, again stepped in and undid at least a part of the evil. It took the entire management of affairs out of the hands of Rumbold's council; and its action was confirmed by the Board of Directors, who censured all the proceedings, dismissed Sir Thomas Rumbold and his two chief associates from the Council, and suspended other members.

"The prompt and conciliatory measures, taken by the Bengal government, appeased the resentment felt by the Nizam, and induced him to withdraw from the Confederacy. Hyder, however, was bent upon war, and the imbecile government here took no steps, whatever, to meet the storm. The commissariat was entirely neglected, they had no transport train whatever, and the most important posts were left without a garrison.

"It was towards the end of June that we received the news that Hyder had left his capital at the head of an army of ninety thousand men, of whom twenty-eight thousand were cavalry. He attempted no disguise as to his object, and moved, confident in his power, to conquer the Carnatic and drive the English into the sea.

"My father had already made his preparations. Everything was in readiness, and as soon as the news reached him, he started for Madras, under the guard of his escort, with my mother and myself, most of the traders of the town, and the landowners, who had gathered here in fear and trembling.

"It was a painful scene, as you may imagine, and I shall never forget the terrified crowds in the streets, and the wailing of the women. Many families who then left reached Madras in safety, but of those who remained in the town, all are dead, or prisoners beyond the hills. Hyder descended through the pass of Changama on the 20th of July, and his horsemen spread out like a cloud over the country, burning, devastating, and slaughtering. Hyder moved with the main army slowly, occupying town after town, and placing garrisons in them.

"You must not suppose that he devastated the whole country. He was too wise for that. He anticipated reigning over it as its sovereign, and had no wish to injure its prosperity. It was only over tracts where he considered that devastation would hamper the movements of an English army, that everything was laid waste.

"On the 21st of August he invested Arcot, and a week later, hearing that the British army had moved out from Madras, he broke up the siege and advanced to meet them. Sir Hector Munro, the British general, was no doubt brave, but he committed a terrible blunder. Instead of marching to combine his force with that of Colonel Baillie, who was coming down from Guntoor, he marched in the opposite direction to Conjeveram, sending word to Colonel Baillie to follow him. Baillie's force amounted to over two thousand eight hundred men, Munro's to five thousand two hundred. Had they united, the force would have exceeded eight thousand, and could have given battle to Hyder's immense army with fair hope of success. The English have won, before now, with greater odds against them.

"My father had marched out with his cavalry, one hundred and fifty strong, with Munro. Of course, I was with him, and it was to him that the English general gave the despatch to carry to Colonel Baillie. We rode hard, for at any moment Hyder's cavalry might swoop down and bar the road; but we got through safely, and the next morning, the 24th, Baillie started.

"The encampment was within twenty-five miles of Madras, and with one long forced march, we could have effected a junction with Munro. The heat was tremendous, and Baillie halted that night on the bank of the River Cortelour. The bed was dry, and my father urged him to cross before halting. The colonel replied that the men were too exhausted to move farther, and that, as he would the next day be able to join Munro, it mattered not on which side of the river he encamped.

"That night the river rose, and for ten days we were unable to cross. On the 4th of September we got over; but by that time Tippoo, with five thousand picked infantry, six thousand horse, six heavy guns, and a large body of irregulars, detached by Hyder to watch us, barred the way.

"Colonel Baillie, finding that there was no possibility of reaching Conjeveram without fighting, took up a position at a village, and on the 6th was attacked by Tippoo. The action lasted three hours, and although the enemy were four times more numerous than we were, the English beat off the attacks. We were not engaged, for against Tippoo's large cavalry force our few horsemen could do nothing, and were therefore forced to remain in the rear of the British line. But though Colonel Baillie had beaten off the attacks made on him, he felt that he was not strong enough to fight his way to Conjeveram, which was but fourteen miles distant; and he therefore wrote to Sir Hector Munro, to come to his assistance.

"For three days Sir Hector did nothing, but on the evening of the 8th he sent off a force, composed of the flank companies of the regiments with him. These managed to make their way past the forces both of Hyder and Tippoo, and reached us without having to fire a shot.

"Their arrival brought our force up to over three thousand seven hundred men. Had Munro made a feigned attack upon Hyder, and so prevented him from moving to reinforce Tippoo, we could have got through without much difficulty. But he did nothing; and Hyder, seeing the utter incapacity of the man opposed to him, moved off with his whole army and guns to join his son.

"Our force set out as soon as it was dark, on the evening of the 9th; but the moment we started, we were harassed by the enemy's irregulars. The march was continued for five or six miles, our position becoming more and more serious, and at last Colonel Baillie took the fatal resolution of halting till morning, instead of taking advantage of the darkness to press forward. At daybreak, fifty guns opened on us. Our ten field pieces returned the fire, until our ammunition was exhausted. No orders were issued by the colonel, who had completely lost his head; so that our men were mowed down by hundreds, until at last the enemy poured down and slaughtered them relentlessly.

"We did not see the end of the conflict. When the colonel gave the orders to halt, my father said to me:

"'This foolish officer will sacrifice all our lives. Does he think that three thousand men can withstand one hundred thousand, with a great number of guns? We will go while we can. We can do no good here.'

"We mounted our horses and rode off. In the darkness, we came suddenly upon a body of Tippoo's horsemen, but dashed straight at them and cut our way through, but with the loss of half our force, and did not draw rein until we reached Madras.

"The roar of battle had been heard at Conjeveram, and the fury and indignation in the camp, at the desertion of Colonel Baillie's detachment, was so great that the general at last gave orders to march to their assistance. When his force arrived within two miles of the scene of conflict, the cessation of fire showed that it was too late, and that Baillie's force was well-nigh annihilated. Munro retired to Conjeveram, and at three o'clock the next morning retreated, with the loss of all his heavy guns and stores, to Madras.

"The campaign only lasted twenty-one days, and was marked by almost incredible stupidity and incapacity on the part of the two English commanders. We remained at Madras. My father determined that he would take no more share in the fighting until some English general, possessing the courage and ability that had always before distinguished them, took the command. In the meantime, Hyder surrounded and captured Arcot, after six weeks' delay, and then laid siege to Amboor, Chingleput, and Wandiwash.

"In November Sir Eyre Coote arrived from England and took the command. Confidence was at once restored, for he was a fine old soldier, and had been engaged in every struggle in India from the time of Clive; but with the whole country in the hands of Hyder, it was impossible to obtain draft animals or carts, and it was not until the middle of January that he was able to move. On the 19th he reached Chingleput, and on the 20th sent off a thousand men to obtain possession of the fort of Carangooly. It was a strong place, and the works had been added to by Hyder, who had placed there a garrison of seven hundred men. The detachment would not have been sent against it, had not news been obtained, on the way, that the garrison had fallen back to Chingleput.

"Our troop of cavalry went with the detachment, as my father knew the country well. To the surprise of Captain Davis, who was in command, we found the garrison on the walls.

"'What do you think, Rajah?' Captain Davis, who was riding by his side, asked. 'My orders were that I was to take possession of the place, but it was supposed that I should find it empty.'

"'I should say that you had better try, with or without orders,' my father replied. 'The annihilation of Baillie's force, and the miserable retreat of Munro, have made a terribly bad impression through the country, and a success is sorely needed to raise the spirits of our friends.'

"'We will do it,' Captain Davis said, and called up a few English engineers, and a company of white troops he had with him, and ordered them to blow in the gate.

"My father volunteered to follow close behind them, with his dismounted cavalry, and, when the word was given, forward we went. It was hot work, I can tell you. The enemy's guns swept the road, and their musketry kept up an incessant roar. Many fell, but we kept on until close to the gate, and then the white troops opened fire upon Hyder's men on the walls, so as to cover the sappers, who were fixing the powder bags.

"They soon ran back to us. There was a great explosion, and the gates fell. With loud shouts we rushed forward into the fort; and close behind us came the Sepoys, led by Captain Davis.

"It took some sharp fighting before we overcame the resistance of the garrison, who fought desperately, knowing well enough that, after the massacre of Baillie's force, little quarter would be given them. The British loss was considerable, and twenty of my father's little company were among the killed. Great stores of provisions were found here, and proved most useful to the army.

"The news, of the capture of Carangooly, so alarmed the besiegers of Wandiwash that they at once raised the siege, and retreated; and, on the following day, Sir Eyre Coote and his force arrived there. It was a curious thing that, on the same day of the same month, Sir Eyre Coote had, twenty-one years before, raised the siege of Wandiwash by a victory over the army that was covering the operation. Wandiwash had been nobly defended by a young lieutenant named Flint, who had made his way in through the enemy's lines, a few hours before the treacherous native officer in command had arranged with Hyder to surrender it, and, taking command, had repulsed every attack, and had even made a sortie.

"There was now a long pause. Having no commissariat train, Sir Eyre Coote was forced to make for the seashore, and, though hotly followed by Hyder, reached Cuddalore. A French fleet off the coast, however, prevented provisions being sent to him, and, even after the French had retired, the Madras government were so dilatory in forwarding supplies that the army was reduced to the verge of starvation.

"It was not until the middle of June that a movement was possible, owing to the want of carriage. The country inland had been swept bare by Hyder, and, on leaving Cuddalore, Sir Eyre Coote was obliged to follow the seacoast. When he arrived at Porto Novo, the army was delighted to find a British fleet there, and scarcely less pleased to hear that Lord Macartney had arrived as governor of Madras.

"Hyder's army had taken up a strong position, between the camp and Cuddalore, and Sir Eyre Coote determined to give him battle. Four days' rice was landed from the fleet, and with this scanty supply in their knapsacks, the troops marched out to attack Hyder. We formed part of the baggage guard and had, therefore, an excellent opportunity of seeing the fight. The march was by the sea. The infantry moved in order of battle, in two lines. After going for some distance, we could see the enemy's position plainly. It was a very strong one. On its right was high ground, on which were numerous batteries, which would take us in flank as we advanced, and their line extended from these heights to the sand hills by the shore.

"They had thrown up several batteries, and might, for aught we knew, have many guns hidden on the high ground on either flank. An hour was spent in reconnoitring the enemy's position, during which they kept up an incessant cannonade, to which the English field guns attempted no reply. To me, and the officers of this troop, it seemed impossible that any force could advance to the attack of Hyder's position without being literally swept away by the crossfire that would be opened upon it; but when I expressed my fears, my father said:

"'No; you will see no repetition of that terrible affair with Baillie's column. The English have now got a commander who knows his business, and when that is the case, there is never any fear as to what the result will be. I grant that the lookout seems desperate. Hyder has all the advantage of a very strong position, a very powerful artillery, and has six or seven to one in point of numbers; but for all that, I firmly believe that, before night, you will see us in possession of those hills, and Hyder's army in full flight.'

"Presently, we saw a movement. The two lines of infantry formed into columns, and instead of advancing towards Hyder's position, turned down towards the sea, and marched along between it and the sand hills. We were at the same time set in motion, and kept along between the infantry and the sea, so as to be under their protection, if Hyder's cavalry should sweep down. All his preparations had been made under the supposition that we should advance by the main road to Cuddalore, and this movement entirely disconcerted his plans. The sand hills completely protected our advancing columns, and when they had reached a point almost in line with Hyder's centre, the artillery dashed up to the crest of the hills, and the first column passed through a break in them, and moved forward against the enemy, the guns above clearing a way for them.

"A short halt was made, until the artillery of the second line came up, and also took their position on the hill. Then the first column, with its guns, moved forward again.

"Hyder had, in the meantime, moved back his line and batteries into a position at right angles to that they had before occupied, and facing the passage through the sand hills by which the English were advancing. As soon as the column issued from the valley, a tremendous fire was poured upon it, but it again formed into line of battle, and, covered by the fire of the artillery, moved forward.

"It was a grand sight. My father and I had left the baggage, which remained by the sea, and had ridden up on to a sand hill, from which we had a view of the whole of the battleground. It was astonishing to see the line of English infantry advancing, under that tremendous fire, against the rising ground occupied by the dense masses of the enemy.

"Presently there was a movement opposite, and a vast body of cavalry moved down the slope. As they came the red English line suddenly broke up, and, as if by magic, a number of small squares, surrounded by glistening bayonets, appeared where it had stood.

"Down rode Hyder's cavalry. Every gun on our side was turned upon them. But though we could see the confusion in the ranks, caused by the shot that swept them, they kept on. It seemed that the little red patches must be altogether overwhelmed by the advancing wave. But as it came closer, flashes of fire spurted out from the faces of the squares. We could see the horses recoil when close to the bayonets, and then the stream poured through the intervals between the squares. As they did so, crackling volleys broke out, while from the batteries on the sand hills an incessant fire was kept up upon them. Then, following the volleys, came the incessant rattle of musketry. The confusion among the cavalry grew greater and greater. Regiments were mixed up together, and their very numbers impeded their action. Many gallant fellows, detaching themselves from the mass, rode bravely at the squares, and died on the bayonets; others huddled together, confused and helpless against the storm of bullets and shot; and at last, as if with a sudden impulse, they rode off in all directions, and, sweeping round, regained their position in the rear of their infantry, while loud cheers broke from our side.

"The squares again fell into line, which, advancing steadily, drove Hyder's infantry before it. As this was going on, a strong force of infantry and cavalry, with guns, was moved round by Hyder to fall on the British rear. These, however, were met by the second line, which had hitherto remained in reserve, and after fierce fighting were driven back along the sand hills. But, as they were retiring, the main body of Hyder's cavalry moved round to support the attack. Fortunately a British schooner, which had sailed from Porto Novo when the troops started, had anchored near the shore to give what protection she could to the baggage, and now opened fire with her guns upon the cavalry, as they rode along between the sand hills and the sea; and with such effect that they halted and wavered; and when two of the batteries on the sand hills also opened fire upon them, they fell back in haste.

"This was Hyder's last effort. The British line continued to advance, until it had gained all the positions occupied by the enemy, and these were soon in headlong flight; Hyder himself, who had been almost forced by his attendants to leave the ground, being with them. It was a wonderful victory. The English numbered but 8,476 men, of whom 306 were killed or wounded. Hyder's force was about 65,000, and his loss was not less than 10,000.

"The victory had an immense effect in restoring the confidence of the English troops, which had been greatly shaken by the misfortunes caused by the incapacity of Munro and Baillie. But it had no other consequences, for want of carriage, and a deficiency of provisions and equipment, prevented Sir Eyre Coote from taking the offensive, and he was obliged to confine himself to capturing a few forts near the coast.

"On the 27th of August the armies met again, Hyder having chosen the scene of his victory over Baillie's force to give battle, believing the position to be a fortunate one for himself. Hyder had now been joined by Tippoo, who had not been present at the last battle, and his force numbered 80,000 men, while the English were 11,000 strong.

"I did not see the battle, as we were, at the time, occupied in escorting a convoy of provisions from Madras. The fight was much better contested than the previous battle had been. Hyder was well acquainted with the ground, and made skilful use of his opportunities, by fortifying all the points at which he could be attacked. The fight lasted eight hours. At last Sir Eyre Coote's first division turned the enemy's left flank, by the capture of the village of Pillalore; while his second turned their right, and Hyder was obliged to fall back. But this was done in good order, and the enemy claimed that it was a drawn battle. This, however, was not the case, as the English, at night, encamped on the position occupied by Hyder in the morning.

"Still, the scandalous mismanagement at Madras continued to cripple us. But, learning from the commandant at Vellore that, unless he were relieved, he would be driven to surrender for want of provisions, Sir Eyre Coote marched to his help. He met the enemy on the way. Hyder was taken by surprise, and was moving off when the English arrived. In order to give his infantry time to march away, he hurled the whole of his cavalry against the English. Again and again they charged down, with the greatest bravery, and although the batteries swept their ranks with grape, and the squares received them with deadly volleys, they persevered until Tippoo had carried off his infantry and guns; and then, having lost five thousand men, followed him. The English then moved on towards Vellore. Hyder avoided another encounter, and Vellore was relieved. Sir Eyre Coote handed over, to its commandant, almost the whole of the provisions carried by the army, and, having thus supplied the garrison with sufficient food for six weeks, marched back to Madras, his troops suffering greatly from famine on the way.

"Nothing took place during the winter, except that Sir Eyre Coote again advanced and revictualled Vellore. In March a French fleet arrived off the coast, landed a force of three thousand men to assist Hyder, and informed him that a much larger division was on its way. Fortunately, this did not arrive, many of the ships being captured by the English on their way out. In the course of the year there were several fights, but none of any consequence, and things remained in the same state until the end of the year, when, on the 7th of December, Hyder died, and Tippoo was proclaimed his successor.

"Bussy arrived with fresh reinforcements from France in April, and took the command of Hyder's French contingent, and in June there was a battle between him and a force commanded by General Stuart, the successor to Sir Eyre Coote, who had been obliged to resign from ill health, and who had died in the spring.

"The French position was a very strong one, and was protected by numerous field works. The battle was the most sanguinary fought during the war, considering the numbers engaged. The English carried a portion of the works, and captured fourteen guns, and, as the French retired during the night, were able to claim a victory. Their loss, however, was over a thousand, while that of the French was not more than a third of that number.

"During that year there was little fighting down here. A Bombay force, however, under the command of General Matthews, captured Bednore; but Tippoo hastened against him with a great force, besieged Bednore, and forced it to surrender, after a desperate defence. Tippoo violated the terms of capitulation, and made the defenders prisoners. Bangalore was next besieged by him, but resisted for nearly nine months, and only surrendered in January, 1784.

"Tippoo had, by this time, lost the services of his French auxiliaries, as England and France had made peace at home. Negotiations between Tippoo and the English went on till March, when a treaty was signed. By its provisions, Tippoo should have handed back all his prisoners. He murdered large numbers of them, but 1000 British soldiers, and 1600 Sepoys obtained their liberty. No one knows how many were retained of the number, calculated at 200,000, of natives carried off from the countries overrun by Hyder's troops. Only 2000 were released.

"More British would doubtless have been freed, had it not been for the scandalous cowardice of the three men sent up, as British commissioners, to Tippoo. They were treated with the greatest insult and contempt by him, and, in fear of their lives, were too glad to accept the prisoners he chose to hand over, without troubling themselves in the slightest about the rest, whom they basely deserted and left to their fate."



Chapter 5: War Declared.


"That gives you a general idea, Dick, of the war with Tippoo. I saw little of the events after the battle of Porto Novo, as my father was taken ill soon after, and died at Madras. Seeing that there was no probability, whatever, of the English driving Hyder back, until they had much larger forces and a much better system of management, I remained in Madras until peace was made; then I came back here, rebuilt the palace, and have since been occupied in trying to restore the prosperity of my poor people.

"It is, I feel, a useless task, for it is certain that, ere long, the English will again be engaged with Mysore; and if they are, it is well-nigh certain that Tippoo's hordes will again sweep down from the hills, and carry ruin and desolation everywhere.

"He would, as Hyder had, have the advantage on his side at the beginning of the war. He has a score of passes to choose from, and can descend on to the plain by any one he may select. And, even were there a force here capable of giving battle to the whole Mysorean army, it could not watch all the passes, as to do so the army would have to be broken up into a dozen commands. Tippoo will therefore again be able to ravage the plains, for weeks, perhaps, before the English can force him to give battle.

"But there is no army, at present, in existence of sufficient strength to meet him. The Madras force would have to wait until reinforcements arrived from Calcutta. It was bad before, but it will be worse, now. Hyder, no doubt, slaughtered many, but he was not cruel by nature. He carried off enormous quantities of people, with their flocks and herds, but he did this to enrich Mysore with their labour, and did not treat them with unnecessary cruelty.

"Tippoo, on the other hand, is a human tiger. He delights in torturing his victims, and slays his prisoners from pure love of bloodshed. He is proud of the title of 'Tiger.' His footstool is a tiger's head, and the uniforms of his infantry are a sort of imitation of a tiger's stripes. He has military talent, and showed great judgment in command of his division -- indeed, most of the successes gained during the last war were his work. Since then, he has laboured incessantly to improve his army. Numbers of regiments have been raised, composed of the captives carried off from here and from the west coast. They are drilled, in European fashion, by the English captives he still holds in his hands."

"But why, Uncle, instead of giving time to Tippoo to come down here, should we not march up the passes, and compel him to keep his army up there to defend Seringapatam?"

"Because, Dick, in the first place, there is not an army strong enough to do so; but even were there a force of fifty thousand men at Madras, they could not take the offensive in time. An English army cannot move without a great train to carry ammunition, stores and provisions; and to get such a train together would be the work of months. As I have been telling you, during the three years the last war lasted, the Madras authorities were never able to collect such a train, and the consequence was that their army was unable to go more than two or three days' march from the city.

"On the other hand, Tippoo could, any day, order that three days' supply of rice or grain should be served out to each soldier, and could set out on his march the following morning; as, from the moment he reached the plains, his cavalry would have the whole of the resources of the country at their mercy."

"I see, Uncle. Then, if war broke out, you would at once go to Madras again?"

"There would be nothing else to do, Dick. I should send everything of value down there, as soon as I saw that war was inevitable. The traders here have already begun to prepare. The shops are half empty, for they have not replaced goods they have sold, and a very few hours would suffice for everything worth taking to be cleared out of the town. The country round here is comparatively uninhabited, and but a small portion of it tilled, so great was the number carried off by Hyder. Next time they will take to the hills at once, and I believe that many have already stored up grain in hiding places there. This time it may be hoped that a few weeks, or months at most, may see Tippoo driven back, and for that time the peasants can manage to exist in the hills. No doubt the richer sort, who have large flocks of goats, and many cattle, will, as soon as danger threatens, drive them down to Madras, where they are sure to fetch good prices for the use of the army.

"I have already told all men who have bullock carts and teams, that they can, if forced to leave home, earn a good living by taking service in the English transport train. I hope, therefore, that the results will not be so disastrous as before. The town may be burnt down again, but unless they blow up my palace, they can do little harm to it. When I rebuilt it, seeing the possibility of another war, I would not have any wood whatever used in its construction. Therefore, when the hangings are taken down, and the furniture from these rooms cleared out, there will be nothing to burn, and they are not likely to waste powder in blowing it up.

"As to the town, I warned the people who returned that it might be again destroyed before long, and therefore there has been no solid building. The houses have all been lightly run up with wood, which is plentiful enough in the hills, and no great harm, therefore, will be done if it is again burnt down. The pagoda and palace are the only stone buildings in it. They did some harm to the former, last time, by firing shot at it for a day or two; and, as you can see for yourself, no attempt has since been made to repair it, and I do not suppose they will trouble to damage it further.

"So you see, Dick, we are prepared for the worst."

"Will you fight again, as you did last time, Uncle?"

"I do not know, Dick. I show my loyalty to the English rule by repairing to the capital; but my force is too small to render much service. You see, my revenues have greatly diminished, and I cannot afford to keep up so large a force as my father could. Fortunately, his savings had been considerable, and from these I was able to build this palace, and to succour my people, and have still enough to keep up my establishment here, without pressing the cultivators of the soil for taxes. This year is the first that I have drawn any revenue from that source; but, at any rate, I am not disposed to keep up a force which, while it would be insufficient to be of any great value in a war like this, would be a heavy tax on my purse."

"Even the force you have must be that, Uncle."

"Not so much as you would think, Dick, with your English notions. The pay here is very small -- so small that it would seem to you impossible for a man to live on it; and yet, many of these men have wives and families. All of them have patches of land that they cultivate; only twenty, who are changed once a month, being kept on duty. They are necessary; for I should have but little respect from my people, and less still from other rajahs, did I not have sentries at the gates, and a guard ready to turn out in honour of any visitor who might arrive; to say nothing of an escort, of half a dozen men, when I ride through the country. Of course, all can be called out whenever I want them, as, for example, when I rode to Madras to meet you. The men think themselves well off upon the pay of three rupees a month, as they are practically only on duty two months each year, and have the rest of the time to cultivate their fields. Therefore, with the pay of the officers, my troop only costs me about four hundred rupees a month, which is, you know, equivalent to forty English pounds; so that you cannot call it an expensive army, even if it is kept for show rather than use."

"No, indeed, Uncle! It seems ridiculous that a troop of a hundred men can be kept up, for five hundred pounds a year."

"Of course, the men have some little privileges, Dick. They pay no rent or taxes for their lands. This is a great thing for them, and really costs me nothing, as there is so much land lying uncultivated. Then, when too old for service, they have a pension of two rupees a month for life, and on that, and what little land they can cultivate, they are comparatively comfortable."

"Well, it does not seem to me, Uncle, that soldiering is a good trade in this country."

"I don't know that it is a good trade, in the money way, anywhere. After all, the pay out here is quite as high, in comparison with the ordinary rate of earning of a peasant, as it is in England. It is never the pay that tempts soldiers. Among young men there are always great numbers who prefer the life to that of a peasant, working steadily from daylight to dark, and I don't know that I altogether blame them."

"Then you think, Uncle, there is no doubt whatever that there will be war?"

"Not a shadow of doubt, Dick -- indeed, it may be said to have begun already; and, like the last, it is largely due to the incapacity of the government of Madras."

"I have just received a message from Arcot," the Rajah said, two months later, "and I must go over and see the Nabob."

"I thought," Mrs. Holland said, "that Tripataly was no longer subject to him. I understood that our father was made independent of Arcot?"

"No, Margaret, not exactly that. The Nabob had involved himself in very heavy debts, during the great struggle. The Company had done something to help him, but were unable to take all his debts on their shoulders; and indeed, there was no reason why they should have done so, for although during most of the war he was their ally, he was fighting on his own behalf, and not on theirs.

"In the war with Hyder it was different. He was then quite under English influence, and, indeed, could scarcely be termed independent. And as he suffered terribly -- his lands were wasted, his towns besieged, and his people driven off into slavery -- the Company are at present engaged in negotiations for assisting him to pay his debts, which are very heavy.

"It was before you left, when the Nabob was much pressed for money, and had at that time no claim on the Company, that our father bought of him a perpetual commutation of tribute, taxes, and other monies and subsidies payable by Tripataly; thus I am no longer tributary to Arcot. Nevertheless, this forms a portion of the Nabob's territories, and I cannot act as if I were an independent prince.

"I could not make a treaty with Mysore on my own account, and it is clear that neither Arcot nor the English could allow me to do so, for in that case Mysore could erect fortresses here, and could use Tripataly as an advanced post on the plain. Therefore, I am still subject to the Nabob, and could be called upon for military service by him. Indeed, that is one of the reasons why, even if I could afford it, I should not care to keep up a force of any strength. As it is, my troop is too small to be worth summoning. The Nabob has remonstrated with me more than once, but since the war with Hyder I have had a good excuse, namely, that the population has so decreased that my lands lie untilled, and it would be impossible for me to raise a larger force. I have, however, agreed that, in case of a fresh war, I will raise an additional hundred cavalry.

"I expect it is in relation to this that he has sent for me to Arcot. We know that the English are bound, by their treaty with Travancore, to declare war. They ought, in honour, to have done it long ago, but they were unprepared. Now that they are nearly ready, they may do so at any time, and indeed the Nabob may have learned that fighting has begun.

"The lookout is bad. The government of Madras is just as weak and as short sighted as it was during Hyder's war. There is but one comfort, and that is that Lord Cornwallis, at Calcutta, has far greater power than his predecessors; and as he is an experienced soldier, and is said to be an energetic man, he may bring up reinforcements from Calcutta without loss of time, and also set the troops of Bombay in motion. I expect that, as before, things will go badly at first; but hope that, this time, we shall end by giving Mysore so heavy a lesson that she will be powerless for mischief, in future."

"And release all the captives," Mrs. Holland exclaimed, clasping her hands.

"I sincerely trust so, Margaret," her brother said gravely; "but, after what happened last time, we must not be sanguine. Scattered about as they may be, in the scores of little hill forts that dot the whole country, we can, unhappily, never be sure that all are delivered, when we have only the word of a treacherous tyrant like Tippoo. We know that, last time, he kept back hundreds of prisoners, among whom, as we may hope, was your husband; and it may be that, however completely he may be defeated, he may yet retain some of them, knowing full well it is impossible that all these hill forts and their dungeons can be searched. However, doubtless if an English army marches to Seringapatam, many will be recovered, though we have reason to fear that many will, as before, be murdered before our arrival."

When the Rajah returned from Arcot, on the following day, he brought back the news that General Meadows had moved to the frontier at Caroor, fifty miles beyond Trichinopoly, and that the war was really about to begin.

"You know," he said, "how matters stand, up to now. Tippoo, after making peace with the Nizam and the Mahrattis, with whom he had been engaged in hostilities for some time, turned his attention to the western coast, where Coorg and Malabar had risen in rebellion. After, as usual, perpetrating horrible atrocities, and after sending a large proportion of the population as slaves to Mysore, he marched against Travancore. Now, Travancore was specially mentioned, in the treaty of Mangalore, as one of the allies of the English, with whom Tippoo bound himself not to make war; and had he not been prepared to fight the English, he would not have attacked their ally. The excuse for attacking Travancore was that some of the fugitives, from Coorg and Malabar, had taken refuge there.

"Seeing that Tippoo was bent upon hostilities, Lord Cornwallis and his council at Calcutta directed, as I learnt from an official at Madras, the authorities there to begin at once to make preparations for war. Instead of doing so, Mr. Holland, the governor, gave the Rajah the shameful and cowardly advice to withdraw his protection from the fugitives. The Rajah refused to comply with such counsel, and after some months spent in negotiations, Tippoo attacked the wall that runs along the northern frontier of Travancore.

"That was about six months ago. Yes, it was on the 28th of December -- so it is just six months. His troops, fourteen thousand strong, made their way without difficulty through a breach, but they were suddenly attacked by a small body of Travancore men. A panic seized them. They rushed back to the breach, and in the wild struggle to pass through it, no less than two thousand were either killed or crushed to death.

"It was nearly three months before Tippoo renewed his attack. The lines were weak, and his army so strong that resistance was impossible. A breach, three-quarters of a mile in length, was made in the wall, and marching through this, he devastated Travancore from end to end.

"His unaccountable delay, before assaulting the position, has been of great advantage to us. Had he attacked us at once, instead of wasting his time before Travancore, he would have found the Carnatic as defenceless and as completely at his mercy as Hyder did. He would still have done so, had it depended upon Madras, but as the authorities here did nothing, Lord Cornwallis took the matter into his own hands. He was about to come here himself, when General Meadows, formerly Governor of Bombay, arrived, invested by the Company with the offices of both governor and of commander-in-chief.

"He landed here late in February, and at once set to work to prepare for war. Lord Cornwallis sent, from Calcutta, a large amount of money, stores, and ammunition, and a battalion of artillerymen. The Sepoys objected to travel by sea, as their caste rules forbade them to do so, and he therefore sent off six battalions of infantry by land, and the Nabob tells me they are expected to arrive in four or five weeks' time. The Nabob of Arcot and the Rajah of Tanjore, both of whom are very heavily in debt to the government, are ordered, during the continuance of the war, to place their revenues at its disposal, a liberal allowance being made to them both for their personal expenses.

"Tippoo is still in Travancore -- at least, he was there ten days ago, and has been endeavouring to negotiate. The Nabob tells me he believes that the object of General Meadows, in advancing from Trichinopoly to Caroor, is to push on to Coimbatoor, where he will, if he arrives before Tippoo, cut him off from his return to his capital; and as Meadows has a force of fifteen thousand men, he ought to be able to crush the tyrant at a blow.

"I fear, however, there is little chance of this. The Mysore troops move with great rapidity, and as soon as Tippoo hears that the English army is marching towards Caroor, he is sure to take the alarm, and by this time has probably passed Coimbatoor on his way back. With all his faults, Tippoo is a good general, and the Nabob's opinion -- and I quite agree with him -- is that, as soon as he regains the table land of Mysore, he will take advantage of the English army being far away to the south, and will pour down through the passes into this part of the Carnatic, which is at present absolutely defenceless. This being the case, I shall at once get ready to leave for Madras, and shall move as soon as I learn, for certain, that Tippoo has slipped past the English.

"The Nabob has called upon me to join him with my little body of cavalry, and as soon as the news comes that Tippoo is descending the passes, I shall either join him or the English army. That will be a matter to decide afterwards."

"You will take me with you, of course, Uncle?" Dick asked eagerly.

"Certainly, Dick. If you are old enough to undertake the really perilous adventure of going up in disguise to Mysore, you are certainly old enough to ride with me. Besides, we may hope that, this time, the war is not going to be as one-sided as it was the last time, and that we may end by reaching Seringapatam; in which case we may rescue your father, if he is still alive, very much more easily than it could be managed in the way you propose."

The news that the English army had marched to Caroor, and that there was no force left to prevent the Mysoreans from pouring down from the hills, spread quickly; and when Dick went out with the two boys into the town, groups of people were talking earnestly in the streets. Some of them came up, and asked respectfully if there was any later news.

"Nothing later than you have heard," Dick said.

"The Rajah is not going away yet, Sahib?"

"No; he will not leave unless he hears that Tippoo has returned, with his army, to Seringapatam. Then he will go at once, for the sultan might come down through the passes at any moment, and can get here a fortnight before the English army can return from Caroor."

"Yes; it will be no use waiting here to be eaten up, Sahib. Do you think Conjeveram would be safe? Because it is easy to go down there by boat."

"I should think so. Hyder could not take it last time, and the English army is much stronger than it was then. Besides, there will be six thousand men arriving from Bengal, in a month's time, so I should think there is no fear of Conjeveram being taken."

"It is little trouble getting there," the trader said, "but it is a long journey to Madras. We could go down with our families and goods in two days, in a boat; but there would not be boats enough for all, and it will be best, therefore, that some should go at once, for if all wait until there is news that Tippoo is coming, many will not be able to get away in time."

"No, not in boats," Dick agreed; "but in three days a bullock cart would get you there."

Next day, several of the shops containing the most valuable goods were shut up; and, day by day, the number remaining open grew smaller.

"It is as I expected," the Rajah said, one morning, as he came into the room where the family was sitting. "A messenger has just come in from the Nabob, with the news that sickness broke out among the army, as soon as they arrived at Caroor, and in twenty-four hours a thousand men were in hospital. This delayed the movement, and when they arrived at Coimbatoor they were too late. Tippoo and his army had already passed, moving by forced marches back to Mysore.

"Finish your packing, ladies. We will start at daybreak tomorrow morning. I secured three boats, four days ago, and have been holding them in readiness. Rajbullub will go in charge of you. There is not the least fear of Tippoo being here for another fortnight, at the earliest.

"I shall ride with the troop. Dick and the boys will go with me. We shall meet you at Conjeveram. I have already arranged with some of our people, who have gone on in their bullock carts, with their belongings, and will unload them there, to be in readiness to take our goods on to Madras, so there will be no delay in getting forward."

By nightfall, the apartments were completely dismantled. The furniture was all stowed away, in a vault which the Rajah had had constructed for the purpose, when the palace was rebuilt. Access was obtained to it through the floor in one of the private apartments. The floor was of tessellated marble, but some ten squares of it lifted up in a mass, forming together a trapdoor, from which steps led down into the vault. When the block was lowered again, the fit was so accurate that, after sweeping a little dust over the joint, the opening was quite imperceptible to any one not aware of the hiding place. The cushions of the divans were taken down here, as well as the furniture, and all the less valuable carpets, rugs and hangings, while the costlier articles were rolled up into bales, for transport.

The silver cups and other valuables were packed in boxes, and were, during the night, carried by coolies down to the boats, over which a guard was placed until morning. Provisions for the journey down the river were also placed on board. The palace was astir long before daybreak. The cushions that had been slept on during the night were carried down to the boats, the boxes of wearing apparel closed and fastened, and a hasty meal was taken.

The sun was just rising when they started. One boat had been fitted up with a bower of green boughs, for the use of the two ladies and their four attendants. The other two carried the baggage.

After seeing them push off, the Rajah, his sons, and Dick returned to the palace. Here for a couple of hours he held a sort of audience, and gave his advice to the townspeople and others who came, in considerable numbers, to consult with him. When this was done they went into the courtyard, where all was ready for their departure.

The troop had, during the past week, been raised to two hundred men, many of the young cultivators coming eagerly forward, as soon as they heard that the Rajah was going to increase his troop, being anxious to take a share in the adventures that might be looked for, and to avenge the sufferings that had been inflicted on their friends by Hyder's marauders. They were a somewhat motley troop, but this mattered little, as uniformity was unknown among the forces of the native princes.

The majority were stout young fellows. All provided their own horses and arms, and although the former lacked the weight and bone of English cavalry horses, they were capable of performing long journeys, and of existing on rations on which an English horse would starve.

All were well armed, for any deficiency had been made up from the Rajah's store, and from this a large number of guns had, three days before, been distributed among such of the ryots as intended to take to the hills on the approach of the enemy. Ammunition had also been distributed among them. Every man in the troop carried a shield and tulwar, and on his back was slung a musket or spear; and there were few without pistols in their girdles.

They rode halfway to Conjeveram, and stopped for the night at a village -- the men sleeping in the open air, while the Rajah, his sons, and Dick, were entertained by the chief man of the place. The next afternoon they rode into Conjeveram, where, just at sunset, the boats also arrived.

The troop encamped outside the town, while the Rajah and his party occupied some rooms that had been secured beforehand for them. In the morning, the ladies proceeded in a native carriage; with the troop, an officer and ten men following, in charge of the bullock carts containing the baggage.

On reaching Madras, they encamped on the Maidan -- a large, open space used as a drill ground for the troops garrisoned there -- and the Rajah and his party established themselves in the house occupied by him on the occasion of his last visit. The next day, the Rajah went to the Government House, and had an interview with the deputy governor.

"I think," the latter said, after some conversation, "that your troop of cavalry will be of little use to the Nabob. If Tippoo comes down from the hills, he will not be able to take the field against him, and will need all his forces to defend Arcot, Vellore, and his smaller forts, and cavalry would be of no real use to him. Your troop would be of much greater utility to the battalions from Bengal, when they arrive. They will be here in three weeks or so, and as soon as they come, I will attach you to them. I will write to the Nabob, saying that you were about to join him, but that, in the interest of the general defence, I have thought it better, at present, to attach you to the Bengal contingent. You see, they will be entirely new to the country, and it will be a great advantage to them to have a troop like yours, many of whom are well acquainted with the roads and general geography of the country. Your speaking English, too, will add to your usefulness."

"I have a nephew with me who speaks English perfectly, and also Hindustani," the Rajah said. "He is a smart young fellow, and I have no doubt that the officer in command would be able to make him very useful. He is eager to be of service. His father, who was an Englishman, was wrecked some years ago on the west coast, and sent up a prisoner to Mysore. He was not one of those handed over at the time of the peace, but whether he has been murdered, or is still a prisoner in Tippoo's hands, we do not know. My sister came out with the boy, three or four months ago, to endeavour to obtain some news of him."

"I will make a note of it, Rajah. I have no doubt that he will be of great use to Colonel Cockerell."

In the last week in July, the Rajah moved with his troop to Conjeveram, and on the 1st of August the Bengal forces arrived there. They were joined, at once, by three regiments of Europeans, one of native cavalry, and a strong force of artillery, raising their numbers to nine thousand, five hundred men.

Colonel Kelly took command of the force, and begged the Rajah to advance with his horsemen, at once, to the foot of the ghauts, to break it up into half troops, and to capture or destroy any small parties of horse Tippoo might send down, by any of the passes, to reconnoitre the country and ascertain the movements and strength of the British forces. He was also to endeavour to obtain as much information as he could of what was going on in Mysore, and to ascertain whether Tippoo was still with his army, watching General Meadows in the west; or was moving, as if with the intention of taking advantage of the main force of the English being away south, to descend into the Carnatic.

The order was a very acceptable one to the Rajah. His troop made a good appearance enough, when in company with those of the Nabob of Arcot, but he could not but feel that they looked a motley body by the side of the trained native and European troops; and he was frequently angered by hearing the jeering comments of English soldiers to each other, when he rode past them with his troop; and had not a little astonished the speakers, more than once, by turning round on his horse, and abusing them hotly in their own language.

He was, therefore, glad to be off. For such work, his men were far better fitted than were even the native cavalry in the Company's service. They were stout, active fellows, accustomed to the hills, and speaking the dialect used by the shepherds and villagers among the ghauts.

Proceeding northward through Vellore, he there divided his force into four bodies. He himself, with fifty men, took up a position at the mouth of the pass of Amboor. Another fifty were sent to the pass of Moognee, to the west of Chittoor, under the command of Anwar, the captain of the troop. The rest were distributed among the minor passes.

Dick remained with his uncle, who established himself in a village, seven miles up the pass. He was well satisfied with the arrangement, for he was anxious to learn to go about among the hills as a spy, and was much more likely to get leave from his uncle to do so, than he would have been from any of the officers of the troop, who would not have ventured to allow the Rajah's nephew to run into danger.

In the second place, his especial friend among the officers, a youth named Surajah, son of Rajbullub, was with the detachment. Surajah had been especially picked out, by the Rajah, as Dick's companion. He generally joined him in his rides, and they had often gone on shooting excursions among the hills. He was about three years Dick's senior, but in point of height there was but little difference between them.

Every day half the troop, under an officer, rode up the pass until within a mile of the fort near the summit, garrisoned by Mysorean troops. They were able to obtain but little information, for the villages towards the upper end of the pass were all deserted and in ruins, the inhabitants never having ventured back since Hyder's invasion.

The Rajah was vexed at being able to learn nothing of what was passing on the plateau, and was therefore more disposed than he might otherwise have been to listen to Dick's proposal.

"Don't you think, Uncle," the latter said one evening, "that I might try to learn something by going up with Surajah alone? We could strike off into the hills, as if on a shooting expedition, just as we used to do from Tripataly, except that I should stain my face and hands. The people in the villages on the top of the ghauts are, every one says, simple and quiet. They have no love for Tippoo or Mysore, but are content to pay their taxes, and to work quietly in their fields. There will be little fear of our being interfered with by them."

"You might find a party of Tippoo's troops in one of the villages, Dick, and get into trouble."

"I don't see why we should, Uncle. Of course, we should not go up dressed as we are, but as shikarees, and when we went into a village, should begin by asking whether the people are troubled with any tigers in the neighbourhood. You see, I specially came out here to go into Mysore in disguise, and I should be getting a little practice in this way, besides obtaining news for you."

"I am certainly anxious to get news, Dick. So far, I have had nothing to send down, except that the reports, from all the passes, agree in saying that they have learned nothing of any movement on the part of Tippoo, and that no spies have come down the passes, or any armed party whatever. This is good, so far as it goes, but it only shows that the other passes are, like this, entirely deserted. Therefore, we really know nothing whatever. Even at this moment, Tippoo may have fifty thousand men gathered on the crest of the hills, ready to pour down tomorrow through one of the passes; and therefore, as I do not think you would be running any great danger, I consent to your going with Surajah on a scouting expedition, on foot, among the hills. As you say, you must, of course, disguise yourselves as peasants. You had better, in addition to your guns, each take a brace of pistols, and so armed, even if any of the villagers were inclined to be hostile, they would not care about interfering with you."

"Thank you, Uncle. When would you expect us back, if we start tomorrow morning?"

"That must be entirely in your hands, Dick. You would hardly climb the ghauts and light upon a village in one day, and it might be necessary to go farther, before you could obtain any news. It is a broken country, with much jungle for some distance beyond the hills, and the villages lying off the roads will have but little communication with each other, and might know nothing, whatever, of what was happening in the cultivated plains beyond. At any rate, you must not go into any villages on the roads leading to the heads of the passes; for there are forts everywhere, and you would be certain to find parties of troops stationed in them.

"Even before war broke out, I know that this was the case, as they were stationed there to prevent any captives, native or European, escaping from Mysore. You must, therefore, strictly avoid all the main roads, even though it may be necessary to proceed much farther before you can get news. I should think, if we say three days going and as many returning, it will be as little as we can count upon; and I shall not begin to feel at all uneasy, if you do not reappear for a week. It is of no use your returning without some information as to what is going on in Mysore; and it would be folly to throw away your work and trouble, when, in another day or two, you might get the news you want. I shall, therefore, leave it entirely to your discretion."

Greatly pleased at having succeeded beyond his expectations, Dick at once sought out Surajah. The latter was very gratified, when he heard that he was to accompany the young Sahib on such an expedition, and at once set about the necessary preparations. There was no difficulty in obtaining, in the village, the clothes required for their disguises; and one of the sheep intended for the following day's rations was killed, and a leg boiled.

"If we take, in addition to this, ten pounds of flour, a gourd of ghee, and a little pan for frying the cakes in, we shall be able to get on, without having to buy food, for four or five days; and of course, when we are once among the villages, we shall have no difficulty in getting more. You had better cut the meat off the bone, and divide it in two portions; and divide the flour, too; then we can each carry our share."

"I will willingly carry it all, Sahib."

"Not at all, Surajah. We will each take our fair share. You see, we shall have a gun, pistols, ammunition, and a tulwar; and that, with seven or eight pounds of food each, and our water bottles, will be quite enough to carry up the ghauts. The only thing we want now is some stain."

"I will get something that will do, and bring it with me in the morning, Sahib. It won't take you a minute to put on. I will come for you at the first gleam of daylight."

Dick returned to the cottage he occupied with his uncle, and told him what preparations they had made for their journey; and they sat talking over the details for another hour. The Rajah's last words, as they lay down for the night, were:

"Don't forget to take a blanket, each. You will want it for sleeping in the open, which you will probably have to do several times, although you may occasionally be able to find shelter in a village."

By the time the sun rose, the next morning, they were well upon their way. They had a good deal of toilsome climbing, but by nightfall had surmounted the most difficult portions of the ascent, and encamped, when it became dark, in a small wood. Here they lighted a fire, cooked some cakes of flour, and, with these and the cold meat, made a hearty meal. They had, during the day, halted twice; and had breakfasted and lunched off some bread, of which they had brought sufficient for the day's journey.

"I suppose there is no occasion to watch, Surajah?"

"I don't know, Sahib. I do not think it will be safe for us both to sleep. There are, as you know, many tigers among these hills; and though they would not approach us, as long as the fire is burning brightly, they might steal up and carry one of us off, when the fire gets low. I will, therefore, watch."

"I certainly should not let you do that, without taking my turn," Dick said; "and I feel so tired with the day's work, that I do not think I could keep awake for ten minutes. It would be better to sleep in a tree than that."

"You would not get much sleep in a tree, Sahib. I have done it once or twice, when I have been hunting in a tiger-infested neighbourhood; but I got scarcely any sleep, and was so stiff, in the morning, that I could hardly walk. I would rather sit up all night, and keep up a good fire, than do that."

Dick thought for a minute or two, and then got up and walked about under the trees, keeping his eyes fixed upon the branches overhead.

"This will do," he said at last. "Come here, Surajah. There! Do you see those two branches, coming out in the same direction? At one point, they are but five or six feet apart. We might fasten our blankets side by side, with the help of the straps of our water bottles and the slings of the guns; so as to make what are called, on board a ship, hammocks, and lie there perfectly safe and comfortable."

Surajah nodded.

"I have a coil of leather thong, Sahib. I thought that it might be useful, if we wanted to bind a prisoner, or for any other purpose, so I stuffed it into my waist sash."

"That is good. Let us lose no time, for I am quite ready for sleep. I will climb up first."

In ten minutes, the blankets were securely fastened side by side, between the branches. Surajah descended, threw another armful of wood on to the fire, placed their meat in the crutch of a bough, six feet above the ground, and then climbed the tree again. Thus, they were soon lying, side by side, in their blankets. These bagged rather inconveniently under their weight, but they were too tired to mind trifles, and were very soon fast asleep.

Dick did not wake until Surajah called him. It was already broad daylight. His companion had slipped down quietly, stirred up the embers of the fire, thrown on more wood, and cooked some chupatties before waking him.

"It is too bad, Surajah," Dick said, as he looked down; "you ought to have woke me. I will unfasten these blankets before I get down. It will save time after breakfast."

Half an hour later, they were again on their way, and shortly came upon a boy herding some goats. He looked doubtfully at them, but, seeing that they were not Mysorean soldiers, he did not attempt to fly.

"How far is it to the next village, lad?" Surajah asked; "and which is the way? We are shikarees. Are there any tigers about?"

"Plenty of them," the boy said. "I drive the goats to a strong, high stockade every evening; and would not come out, before the sun rose, for all the money they say the sultan has.

"Make for that tree, and close to it you will see a spring. Follow that down. It will take you to the village."

After walking for six hours, they came to the village. It was a place of some little size, but there were few people about. Women came to the doors to look at Surajah and Dick as they came along.

"Where are you from?" an old man asked, as he came out from his cottage.

"From down the mountain side. Tigers are getting scarce there, and we thought we would come over and see what we could do, here."

"Here there are many tigers," the old man said. "For the last twenty years, the wars have taken most of our young men away. Some are forced to go against their will; for when the order comes, to the head man of the village, that the sultan requires so many soldiers, he is forced to pick out those best fitted for service. Others go of their own free will, thinking soldiering easier work than tilling the fields, besides the chance of getting rich booty. So there are but few shikarees, and the tigers multiply and are a curse to us.

"We are but poor people, but if you choose to stay here for a time, we will pay something for every tiger you kill; and we will send round to the other villages, within ten miles, and doubtless every one of them will contribute, so that you might get enough to pay you for your exertions."

"We will think of it," Surajah replied. "We did not intend to stop in one village, but proposed to travel about in the jungle-covered district; and wherever we hear complaints of a tiger committing depredations, we will stop and do our best to kill the evil beast. We mean, first, to find out where they are most troublesome, and then we shall work back again. We hear that the sultan gives good prices, for those taken alive."

"I have heard so," the old man said, "but none have been caught alive here, or by anyone in the villages round. The sultan generally gets them from the royal forests, where none are allowed to shoot, save with his permission. Sometimes, when there is a lack of them there, his hunters come into these districts, and catch them in pitfalls, and have nets and ropes with which the tigers are bound and taken away."

A little crowd had, by this time, collected round them; and the women, when they heard that the strangers were shikarees, who had come up with the intention of killing tigers, brought them bowls of milk, cakes and other presents.

"I suppose, now that the sultan is away at war," Dick said, "his hunters do not come here for tigers?"

"We know nothing of his wars," a woman said. "They take our sons from us, and we do not see them again. We did hear a report that he had gone, with an army, to conquer Travancore. But why he should want to do it, none of us can make out. His dominions are as wide as the heart of man can require. It is strange that he cannot rest contented, but, like his father, should be always taking our sons away to fight. However, these things are beyond the understanding of poor people like us; but we can't help thinking that it would be better if he were to send his armies to destroy all the tigers. If he would do that, we should not grudge the sums we have to pay, when the tax gatherers come round."

After pausing for an hour in the village, they continued on their way. Two or three other small collections of huts were passed, but it was not until the evening of the next day that they issued from the jungle-covered country, onto the cultivated plain. At none of the places they had passed was there anything known, as to Tippoo or his army, but they were told that there were parties of troops, in all the villages along the edge of the plain, as well as in the passes.

"We must be careful now, Surajah," Dick said, as, after a long day's march, they sat down to rest, at a distance of half a mile from a large village. "Our tale, that we are shikarees, will not do here. Had that really been our object, we should have stopped at the first place we came to, and, at any rate, we should not have come beyond the jungle. We might still say that we are shikarees, but that tigers had become scarce on the other side of the hills, and, hearing a talk that Tippoo and the English are going to war with each other, we made up our minds to go to Seringapatam, and enlist in his army."

"That would do very well," Surajah agreed. "They would have no reason for doubting us, and even if the officer here were to suggest that we should enlist under him, we could do so, as there would be no difficulty in slipping away, and making off into the jungle again."

They waited until the sun set, and then walked on into the village. They had scarcely entered, when two armed men stopped them, and questioned them whence they came.

Surajah repeated the story they had agreed upon, and the men appeared quite satisfied.

"You will be just in time," one said. "We have news that the sultan has just moved, with his army, to Seringapatam. Officers came here, only yesterday, to buy up cattle and grain. These are to be retained here, until orders are received where they are to be sent, so I should say that he is coming this way, and will be going down the passes, as Hyder did.

"We shall be very glad, for I suppose we shall join, as he passes along. It has been dull work here, and we are looking forward to gaining our share of the loot. It would be just as well for you to join us here now, as to go on to Seringapatam."

"It would save us a long tramp," Surajah agreed. "We will think it over, and maybe we will have a talk with your officer, tomorrow morning."

They sauntered along with the men, talking as they went, and so escaped being questioned by other soldiers. Presently, they made the excuse that they wanted, to buy some flour and ghee before the shops were closed; and, with a friendly nod to the two soldiers, stopped before the stall of a peasant who had, on a little stand in front of him, a large jar of ghee. Having purchased some, they went a little farther, and laid in a fresh supply of flour.

"Things are very dear," Surajah remarked.

"There is very little left in the village," the man said. "All the flour was bought up yesterday, for the sultan's army, which, they say, is coming in this direction; and I have only got what you see here. It has been pounded, by my wife and some other women, since morning."

"That is good enough," Dick said, as they walked away. "Our work is done, Surajah, and it is not likely that we should learn anything more, if we were to stop here for a week. Let us turn down between these houses, and make our way round behind. We might be questioned again, by a fresh party of soldiers, if we were to go along the street."

They kept along on the outskirts of the village, regained the road by which they had come, and walked on until they reached the edge of the jungle. Going a short distance among the trees, they collected some sticks, lit a fire, and sat down to cook their meal.

At the last village or two, they had heard but little of tigers, and now agreed that they could safely lie down, and that it would not be necessary for them to rig up their blankets as hammocks, as they had done on the first two nights.



Chapter 6: A Perilous Adventure.


They retraced their steps, without adventure, until they reached the village they had first stopped at.

"There are soldiers here," Surajah exclaimed, as they entered.

"We can't help it, now," Dick said. "There is nothing for it, but to go on boldly. I suppose that Tippoo has sent troops into all these frontier villages, to prevent any chance of news of his movements being taken to the plains.

"Ah! There is the old chap who spoke to us last time. Let us stop at once, and talk with him."

"So you are back again," the peasant said, as they came up to him.

"Yes," Surajah replied. "We told you we should come back here, unless we got news of some tiger being marked down near one of the other villages. We have been as far as the edge of the jungle, and although we have heard of several, not one of them seems to be in the habit of coming back regularly to the same spot; so we thought we could not do better than return here, at once, and make it our headquarters.

"I see you have got some soldiers here."

"Yes," the old man said, discontentedly, "and a rough lot they are. They demand food, and instead of paying for it in money, their officer gives us bits of paper with some writing on them. He says that, when they go, we are to take them to him, and he will give us an order equal to the whole of them, for which we can receive money from the treasury at Seringapatam.

"A nice thing, that! None of us have ever been to Seringapatam, and should not know what to do when we got there. Moreover, there would be no saying whether one would ever come back again. It is terrible. Besides, we have only grain enough for ourselves, and shall have to send down to the plains to buy more; and where the money is to come from, nobody can tell."

"I think I could tell you how you had better proceed, if you will take us into your house," Surajah said. "This is not a place for talking. There are four or five soldiers there, watching us."

The old man entered the house, and closed the door behind them.

"How would you counsel us to proceed?" he asked, as soon as they had seated themselves on a divan, formed of a low bank of beaten earth, with a thick covering of straw.

"It is simple enough," Surajah said. "One of you would take the order, on the sultan's treasury, to a large village down in the plain. You would go to a trader, and say that you wished to purchase so much grain and other goods, and would pay for them with an order on the sultan's treasury. It would probably be accepted as readily as cash, for the trader would send it to a merchant, or banker, at Seringapatam to get it cashed for him, to pay for goods he had obtained there; and either to send him any balance there might be, or to retain it for further purchases. An order of that kind is better than money, for trading purposes, for there would be no fear of its being stolen on the way, as it could be hidden in the hair, or shoe, or anywhere among the clothes of the messenger."

"Wonderful!" the old peasant said. "Your words are a relief, indeed, to me, and will be to all the village, when they hear them."

"And now," Dick broke in, "let us talk about tigers. While you have been speaking, those soldiers have passed the door twice, and have been looking suspiciously at the house. If they take it into their heads to come here, and to ask who we are and what is our business, it would not do to tell them that we have been discussing the value of the orders on the sultan's treasury.

"Now, if our advice has been of any assistance to you in this matter, you, in turn, can render us aid in our business of killing tigers. We want you to find out, for us, when a tiger was last seen near the village; where its lair is supposed to be; and whether, according to its situation, we should have the best chance of killing it by digging a pitfall, on the path by which it usually comes from the jungle; or by getting a kid and tying it up, to attract the tiger to a spot where we shall be stationed in a tree."

"I will assuredly do that, and every one here will be glad to assist, when I tell them the advice I have received from you -- and would, indeed, do so in any case, for it will be a blessing to the village, if you can kill the tiger that so often carries off some of our sheep and goats."

At this moment, there was a loud knocking at the door. On the peasant opening it, a group of soldiers demanded to see the men who had entered.

"We are here," Surajah said, coming forward. "What do you want?"

"We want to know who you are, and where you come from."

"Any one in the village could have told you that," Surajah said. "We are shikarees, and have come here to destroy tigers. We were arranging, with this old man, to find us guides who can point out the tracks of the one which has, for some time, been preying on their animals."

"Yes, and our children," the old man put in; "for three of them were carried off, from the street here, within the last month."

The soldiers looked doubtful, but one of them said:

"This is for our officer to inquire about. The men are strangers to the village, and he will want to question them."

"We are quite ready to be questioned," Surajah said. "Our host, here, will bear me out in what I say, and there are others in the village who will tell you that we have been arranging, with them, to kill tigers in this neighbourhood; though as yet we have not settled what they will pay us for each beast we destroy."

Accompanied by the peasant, they went with the soldiers to the guard house, with which each of the frontier villages was provided. It consisted of a group of huts, surrounded by a thick wall of sunburnt bricks. They were taken into the largest hut, where the officer of the party was seated on a rough divan.

"Who have you here?" he asked irritably, for he had been awakened from a doze by their entry.

"They are two young fellows, who are strangers here. They say they are shikarees, who have come into the village to gain a reward for killing a tiger that has been troublesome."

"They were here three days ago, Sahib," the villager said, "and asked us many questions about the tigers, and were, when the soldiers came to the door, questioning me as to the tiger's place of retreat, and whether a pitfall, or a kid as a decoy, would be most suitable."

"Where do you come from?" the officer asked Surajah.

"We live in a little village, some distance down the ghauts. We heard that tigers were more abundant, in the jungle country up here, than they are below; and thought that we would, for a time, follow our calling here. We can get good prices for the skins, down below; and with that, and what we get from the villages for freeing them from the tigers, we hope, in a few months, to take back a good store of money."

"Your story is a doubtful one," the officer said, harshly. "You may be what you say, and you may be spies."

"If we had been spies," Surajah said, "we should not be here, but at Bangalore or Seringapatam. These villages are not the places where news is to be gained."

This was so self evident that the officer had nothing to say against it.

"At any rate," he said, after a pause, "there is no confirmation to your story, and, as I have orders to put all suspicious persons under arrest, I shall detain you."

"It is very hard -- " Surajah began; but the officer made an impatient gesture, while two of the soldiers put their hands on the shoulders of the prisoners, and led them from the hut.

"You need not look so downcast," one of them said good naturedly. "I don't suppose you will be kept here long; and will, no doubt, be released when the sultan has gone down the passes, with his army. A week or two here will do you no harm -- the tigers can wait for a bit.

"There, give us your weapons. I daresay you will get them back again, when we go on; as I hope we shall do, for there is nothing to eat and nothing to do in this miserable place."

The arms were taken into the officer's hut, and as there was a sentry at the gate, no further attention was paid to them.

"I will get you some provisions, and bring them in," the old man said. "It is hard, indeed, that men cannot go about their business without being interfered with."

"Thank you, but we have enough for two or three days. When that is gone, we will give you some money to buy more; for we have a few rupees with us, as we knew it might be some time before we should be able to kill a tiger."

As soon as the old man had left them, they seated themselves on a large faggot of wood that had been brought in by the villagers, for fuel.

"We cannot stay here, Surajah. It is most important that we should get back with the news, and I have no doubt that pig-headed brute in there will do as he says, and will hold us prisoners until Tippoo has gone down the passes. We must get off tonight, if possible. We are not likely to be looked after very sharply. I don't think that fellow really suspects us, but is simply keeping us to show his authority. There ought to be no difficulty in getting out. I suppose we shall be put into one of the soldiers' huts tonight, and if we crawl out when they are asleep, we have only to make our way up those narrow steps to the top of the wall, and then let ourselves down the other side. It is not above fifteen feet high, and even if we dropped, we should not be likely to hurt ourselves."

"There will, most likely, be a sentry at the gate," Surajah observed, "and there is a moon tonight."

"There ought to be no difficulty in pouncing on him suddenly, gagging him before he can give the alarm, and then tying him. We will walk round and see if there is any rope lying about. If not, I will tear my sash into strips. We can use yours to lower ourselves over the wall. I should like to get our weapons, if we could. The guns do not matter, but the pistols are good ones. And, if there is an alarm given, we may have to fight. Besides, it is not impossible that we may come across a tiger, as we go along. I vote that, when we have secured the sentry, we pay the officer a visit."

Surajah nodded. He was quite ready to agree to anything that Dick might suggest, and felt a strong desire to repossess himself of his arms, for it seemed to him that it would be a humiliation to go back without them.

"Of course," Dick went on, "if the sentry gives the alarm, before we can secure him, we must give up part of our plan; for, in that case, we should have to bolt. Once over the wall, we should be all right. They may fire away at us as we run, but there is no fear of their hitting us, half asleep as they will be, and not quite sure what it is all about. If we get a fair start of them, we need not have much fear of their catching us."

"Not as long as it is straight running, Sahib; but if they follow us far, they may come up within range of us as we are making our way down some of those nasty places, where we came up the face of the ghaut."

"If we once get well away from them, we will hide up somewhere, and then strike off on another line."

"We might do that," Surajah agreed; "but you know, the place where we came up was the only one that seemed to us climbable, and it would be certainly better to make for it again, if we can find our way."

"I quite agree with you there, Surajah. It would never do to go and find ourselves on the edge of a precipice that we could not get down, with the soldiers anywhere near us. Besides, it is of the greatest importance that we should take the news back as soon as possible, as every hour may be of importance. I only wish we could find out which pass Tippoo means to go by, but I don't suppose that will be known until he starts for it. Anyhow, our news will be very valuable, for at present he is supposed to be over on the other side, and he would have taken our troops entirely by surprise, if he had suddenly poured out onto the plain. So we must give up my idea of hiding up, for if we did so we should have to lie there all day, and it would mean the loss of twenty-four hours; for I would not go down those ghauts for any money, except in daylight. It is a very different thing going downhill to going up, and if we were to attempt it in the dark, we should break our necks for a certainty. If we can get away early, tonight, we shall be at the edge of that steep place by nine o'clock in the morning, and if we strike the right point, we might be back to the Rajah by nightfall."

"It will be difficult to find our way back in the dark," Surajah said.

"No doubt. Still, we can keep in the general direction, and even if we do not hit upon the stream tonight, we shall find it in the morning."

It was late in the afternoon when they reached the village, and it was now growing dark. Two soldiers came up to them, and bade them follow them into one of the huts, and there pointed to the farther corner as their place. They wrapped themselves in their blankets, and at once lay down.

"If they take it into their heads," Dick whispered to Surajah, "to put a sentry on guard at the door, it will upset all our plans. It would not be very difficult to cut our way through the mud wall behind us, but in the first place they have taken away our knives; and, even if we had them, it would be risky work trying it.

"The chances are that they will sit and talk all night. Of course, we might surprise the sentry, but it would be a great risk with those fellows close at hand, and we should have to run straight for the steps, and might get a dozen balls after us, before we were over the wall."

"I don't think there would be much chance of their hitting us," Surajah said. "Jumping up from their sleep in confusion, they would be a minute or so before they could find out what had happened, and we should be at the foot of the steps before they saw us, and then they would fire almost at random.

"But, in that case, we should lose our weapons," he added regretfully.

"We cannot help that. The arms are of no consequence at all, compared to our getting away -- unless, of course, any of them happen to overtake us."

For three or four hours, the soldiers, of whom there were ten in the hut, sat eating, talking, and smoking round the fire, which they kept burning on the earthen floor. One by one, however, they left it and lay down. When but three remained, one of them got up, with a grumble of discontent, took his musket, which was leaning against the wall, and went out of the hut.

"What a nuisance!" Dick whispered. "He is evidently going on sentry duty."

"Perhaps he has gone to the gate?" Surajah suggested.

"I am afraid not. I expect the other hut is furnishing the sentry there. Listen!"

During the pauses of the low conversation of the two men still sitting by the fire, they could hear a footfall outside.

"That settles the question," Dick said. "Now, the sooner those fellows go to sleep, the better."

"We had better wait for some time, after they do," Surajah replied. "One or two of the men, who lay down first, are sure to get up and go to the door and look out. They always do that, once or twice during the night. The sentry will soon get accustomed to the door being opened, and won't look round sharp."

"That is a good idea," Dick agreed. "The moon is at the back of the hut, so we shall be in the shadow. I will spring upon him, and will try and grip him by the throat, so that he can't holloa. You wrench the musket from his hands, and snatch his belt of cartridges. That will give us a weapon, anyhow. As soon as you have got it, I will give him one sharp squeeze, and throw him down. It will be some time before he gets breath enough to holloa."

In half an hour, the two men by the fire lay down. It was not long before, as Surajah predicted, one of the sleepers sat up and stretched himself; then he rose and walked to the door, opened it, and stood at the entrance; a moment later he was joined by another figure, and for a few minutes they stood, talking together. Then he came in again, shut the door, and lay down.

During the next hour, three of the others followed his example, the last of them leaving the door ajar behind him, when he came in.

"Now is our chance, Surajah. We must give him ten minutes to fall asleep again. Then we will move. Should one of them be lying awake, and notice us -- which is not likely, for it is too dark in here to see figures distinctly -- and ask where we are going, say, 'To the door, to get cool.' They won't imagine that we are thinking of escape, with one sentry at the door, and another at the gate."

"Don't you think, Sahib, that it would be safer to kill the sentries?"

"Safer or not, Surajah, we will not do it. At present, they have done us no harm. They are only acting as their officer ordered, and we have no grudge against them. When they take to shooting at us, we must shoot at them; but to kill this sentry would be nothing short of murder."

After waiting a few minutes longer, Dick said:

"We had better be off, now. If we were to wait longer, we should have another fellow getting up."

They rose quietly to their feet, made their way to the door, and opened it noiselessly. The sentry was standing, leaning on his long matchlock, a few feet away. Suddenly a voice behind exclaimed, "Who is that?"

The sentry was in the act of turning round, when Dick sprang upon him, and grasped him by the throat. No cry came from the man's lips, but the gun fell from his grasp, as he clutched convulsively at Dick's wrists, and went off as it fell.

"Pick it up," Dick shouted, "and run."

He released his grip from the man's throat, snatched the bandolier from his shoulder, and, tripping his feet from under him, threw him heavily to the ground, and then turned to run.

The whole had occupied but a few seconds, but as he started a soldier ran out from the hut, shouting loudly. He had a gun in his hand. Dick changed his mind, turned, threw himself upon him, wrenched the gun from his hold, and, as the man staggered back, struck him with his right hand under the chin.

The man fell back through the open door, as if shot. Dick seized the handle and closed it, and then ran, at full speed, towards the foot of the steps. They were but some twenty yards away.

"Up you go, Surajah. We have not a moment to lose!"

Dick sprang up the steps, Surajah following. As they reached the top of the wall, a shot was discharged at them by the sentry at the gate, who, ignorant of the cause of the sudden uproar, had been standing in readiness to fire. He was, however, too excited to take aim, and the bullet flew harmlessly over their heads. In another instant, they sprang over the parapet.

"Lower yourself by your arms, and then drop."

The wall, like many others of its sort, was thicker at the base than on the top, and the foot projected two feet beyond the upper line, so that it was a sharp slide, rather than an absolute fall. It was well that it was so, for although only some twelve feet high inside, it was eight feet higher on its outer face, as a dry ditch encircled it. Both came down in a heap on the sand that had crumbled from the face of the wall.

As soon as they picked themselves up, Dick exclaimed, "Keep along the foot of the wall, Surajah," and they dashed along until they reached the angle. As they turned the corner, they heard a burst of voices from the wall where they had slid down, and several shots were fired. Dick led the way along the ditch to the next angle, then left it and entered the village, and dashed along the street.

The sound of firing had roused many of the peasants. Doors were opening, and men coming out. Exclamations of surprise were heard, as the two figures rushed past, but no one thought of interfering with them. As they left the houses behind them, Surajah said:

"You are going the wrong way, Sahib. You are going right away from the ghauts."

"I know that well enough," Dick panted; "but I did it on purpose. We will turn and work round again. They will hear, from the villagers, that we have come this way, and will be following us down the road while we are making our way back to the ghauts."

They ran for another hundred yards, then quitted the path, and made across the fields. From the fort and village they could hear a great hubbub, and above it could make out the voice of the officer, shouting orders. They continued to run, for another quarter of a mile, and then turned.

"Now we can go quietly," Dick said, breaking into a walk. "This line will take us clear of the fort and village, and we have only to make straight for the ghauts. I think we have thrown them well off the scent, and unless the officer suspects that we have only gone the other way to deceive him, and that we are really making for the ghauts, we shall hear nothing more of them."

"It is capital," Surajah said. "I could not think what you were doing, when you turned round the corner of the fort and made for the village, instead of going the other way. But where did you get that gun from?"

Dick told him how it had come into his possession.

"It was not so much that I cared for the gun," he said, "as that I wanted to prevent the man from using it. If he had followed me closely, he could hardly have helped hitting one of us, as we went up the steps. By shutting the door, we gained a few moments, for they were all in confusion in the dim light inside, and would certainly not learn anything, either from the man I pitched in among them, or from the sentry outside.

"I don't suppose any of them had an idea of what had happened, until the sentry shouted to them that we had got over the wall. Then they rushed up, and fired at random from the top, thinking that we should be running straight from it."

They walked along for a short distance, and then Dick said:

"I have got my wind again, now. We will go on at a jog trot. I mistrust that officer. He had a crafty face, and as we said we belonged to a village down the ghauts, he may have a suspicion that we have been trying to throw him off our scent, and think we should be sure to double back and make for home."

They kept on their way, sometimes dropping into a walk, but generally going at an easy trot, until day broke.

"As soon as it gets a little lighter, Surajah, we will go up on to one of these rises, so as to have a good look down over the line we have come. If they are following us, we must go on at the top of our speed. If we see nothing of them, we can take it quietly. Of course, they can't have been following our steps, but it is quite likely that some of the villagers may know that the ghauts can be climbed at the point where we came up. You know we noticed signs of a path, two or three times, on the way up. In that case, if the officer really did think of pursuing us, he would take one of the villagers as guide."

Half an hour later, they ascended a sharp rise, and threw themselves down on its crest.

"I don't think that there is the least chance of their coming," Surajah said, carelessly. "When they had gone some distance, without overtaking us on the road, they may possibly have suspected that we had turned and made this way; but by the time they got back to the village, they would know, well enough, that there was no chance of overtaking us."

Dick made no answer. He had a sort of uneasy conviction that the officer would at once suspect their plan, and that pursuit would have commenced very shortly after they had re-passed the fort. For some minutes, no words were spoken. No sign of life was to be seen; but in so broken a country, covered in many places with jungle or wood, a considerable body of men might be coming up, unperceived.

Suddenly, Dick grasped Surajah's arm.

"There they are. You see that I was right. Look at that clump of bush, half a mile away, well to the left of the line we came by. They have just come out from there. There are ten or twelve of them."

"I see them," Surajah said. "They are running, too, but not very fast."

"We will crawl back, till we are out of their sight, and then make a run for it. They must have got a guide, and are, no doubt, taking a more direct line than we are, for we may be a good bit off the stream we followed as we came along. I have not seen anything I recognise, since it got light, though I am sure we have been going somewhere near the right direction. Now, we have got to run for it."

They dashed off, at a rate of speed much higher than that at which they had before been travelling; keeping, as much as possible, in ground covered from the sight of their pursuers; and bearing somewhat to the left, so as to place the latter directly behind them, and to strike the path Dick had no doubt their pursuers were keeping.

"It is no use running too fast," he said, a few minutes later. "There is a good long way to go yet -- another ten miles, I should think; and anyhow, I don't think we can get down that steep place, before they come to the edge of the cliff above. You see, we are not certain as to where it is. We might strike the cliffs a mile or two on either side of it, and I have no doubt they will go straight to the spot. I expect the man they have got as a guide has been in the habit of going down the ghauts, and knows his way.

"If it were not that we are in such a hurry to get to Uncle with the news about Tippoo, it would be much better to turn off, altogether, and stay in a wood for a day or two. They would not stop very long at the top of the ghauts, for they cannot be sure that we are going that way, at all, and when a few hours passed, and we didn't come, the officer would suppose that he was mistaken, and that we really kept on in the line on which we started."

They trotted along for some time in silence, and then Surajah said:

"Do you not think that it would be better for us to make for the pass to the left? It is twenty miles off, but we should be there by the evening, and we should surely find some way of getting into it, below where the fort stands."

Dick stopped running.

"Why not go the other way, and make for the pass we know?" he said. "It can't be more than fifteen miles, at the outside, and once below the fort we know our way, and should get down to the village twelve hours sooner than if we went round by the other pass."

"It would be the right plan, if we could do it," Surajah agreed; "but you know the rocks rise straight up on both sides of the fort, and the road passes up through a narrow cleft, with the fort standing at its mouth. That is why I proposed the other pass."

"I think we had better try it, nevertheless, Surajah. We should not be more than three hours in going straight there, and shall have ample time to follow the edge of the precipice for the last five miles. We may discover some break, where we can get down. If we should find it impossible to descend anywhere, we must sleep till sunset, then strike the road above the fort, go down at night, and manage to slip past the sentry."

"The only thing is, Sahib, that it seemed as if the fort lay right across the entrance to the gorge, and the road went through it."

"It did look like that, Surajah. Certainly the road went through a gateway. But there must be a break somewhere. We could see that, in the wet season, a lot of water comes down there, so there must be some sort of passage for it; and if the passage is big enough for the storm water to go through, it must be big enough for us."

Surajah agreed, and they turned off from the line that they had before been following; no longer hurrying, but walking at a leisurely pace. They were not pressed for time. There was no chance, whatever, of pursuit; and as they had been going, for some six hours, at the top of their speed, they were both feeling exhausted.

After proceeding for two miles, they came upon a small stream. Here they sat down, lighted a fire, mixed some flour and water -- for although the ghee had been taken from them, when they were disarmed, they had been allowed to retain their supply of flour, for their sustenance in prison -- and made some small cakes. These they cooked in the glowing embers. They could not be termed a success, for the outside was burned black, while the centre was a pasty mass. However, they sufficed to satisfy their hunger, and after an hour's rest, they again went forward.

It was not very long before they stood on the edge of the rock wall. They followed this along, but could nowhere find a spot where a descent seemed at all possible. After walking for an hour, they saw a road winding up a long valley below them.

"That is our road," Dick exclaimed. "That clump of houses, Surajah, must be the one where we generally turned. I know that, from below, these rocks looked as steep as walls, so there is no chance of our finding a way down anywhere, between this and the fort."

Surajah nodded. To him, also, the ascent of the ghauts had seemed impracticable.

"It is no use following this line any more," Dick went on. "We may as well strike across, until we come onto the edge of the pass, somewhere above the fort; find a place where we can descend easily, and then lie down and sleep, till it is time to make our attempt."

In another hour, they were looking down on the road, a mile or so above the fort. The slopes here were gradual, and could be descended without the least difficulty, even in the dark.

"There! Do you see, Surajah? The water course runs along by the side of the road. There is a little water in it now. You know we used to meet with it, down below, and water our horses at a pool close to that ruined village. When we start, we can follow the road until we get close to the fort, and then crawl along in the water course, and take our chances. If we should find it so blocked up that we can't get through, we must then see how we can get past the place in some other way. If the gate is only barred, no doubt we should be able to overpower the sentry, and get the gate open before any alarm is given. If it is locked, we must do the best we can. We may calculate upon taking the sentry by surprise, as we did in the prison, and on silencing him at once; then we should have time to break up some cartridges, and pour the powder into the keyhole, which is sure to be a big one, make a slow match, and blow the lock open. We could make the slow match before we start, if we had some water."

"Shall I go down to the stream, and get some?"

"You have nothing to carry it up in, Surajah; and besides, someone might come along the valley."

"We shall only want a little water. I will take off my sash, and dip it in the stream; that will give us plenty, when it is wrung out."

"At any rate, Surajah, we will do nothing until it is getting dusk. See! There are some peasants, with three bullocks, coming down the valley, and there are four armed horsemen riding behind them. We will go back to those bushes, a hundred yards behind us, and sleep there until sunset; then we will make our way down to that heap of boulders close to the stream, manufacture our slow match, and hide up there until it is time to start. We want a rest, badly. We did not sleep last night, and if we get through, we must push on tonight without a stop, so we must have a good sleep, now."

The sun was low when they woke. They watched it dip below the hills, and then, after waiting until it began to get dusk, started for the valley. No one was to be seen on the road, and they ran rapidly down the slope, until they reached the heap of boulders. Surajah tore off a strip of cotton, six inches long by an inch wide, from the bottom of his dress, went forward to the stream, and wetted it. When he came back, they squeezed the moisture from it, broke up a cartridge, rubbed the powder into the cotton, and then rolled it up longways.

"That will be dry enough, by the time we want to start," Dick said. "I hope we sha'n't have to use it, but if there is no other way, we must do so."

They remained where they were, until they thought that the garrison of the fort would be, for the most part, asleep. Then they crossed the stream, and walked along by the side of the road, taking care not to show themselves upon it, as their figures would be seen for a long distance, on its white, dusty surface. Presently, the sides of the valley approached more closely to each other; and, just where they narrowed, they could make out a number of dark objects, which were, they doubted not, the houses occupied by the garrison. They at once took to the bed of the stream, stooping low as they went, so that their bodies would be indistinguishable among the rocks.

They could hear the murmur of voices, as they passed through the village. Once beyond it, they entered the gorge. Here there was but room enough for the road and the stream, whose bed was several feet below the causeway. A few hundred yards farther, the gorge widened out a bit, and in the moonlight they could see the wall of the fort stretching before them, and a square building standing close to it.

"That is the guard house, no doubt," Dick said, in low tones. "It is too close to be pleasant, if we have to attack the sentry."

Very carefully, they picked their way among the rocks, until close to the wall; then Dick gave a low exclamation of disappointment. The stream ran through a culvert, some twelve feet wide and ten feet high, but this was closed by iron bars, crossing each other at intervals of only five or six inches, the lower ends of the perpendicular bars being fixed in a stone dam, extending across the bed of the stream. Dick waded across the pool formed by the dam, and felt the bars, but found them perfectly solid and strong.

"It is no good, Surajah," he said, when he returned. "There is no getting through there. There is nothing for it but the gate, unless we can find the steps up to the top of the wall, and get up unnoticed. Then we might tear up our sashes longways, knot them together, and slip down.

"The first thing to do is to have a look round. I will get up close to the wall. It is in shadow there."

Entering the pool again, he climbed up the steep bank, which was here faced with stones. He stopped when his eyes were above the level, and looked round. There was the gate, twelve feet away, and to his delight no sentry was to be seen. He was about to whisper Surajah to join him, when he heard voices. They came from above, and he at once understood that, instead of a man being posted behind the gate, two were on guard on the wall above it. He beckoned to Surajah to join him, and when he did so, whispered what he had discovered.

"If the gate is only barred, we are all right now, Surajah; except that we shall have to run the risk of being shot by those fellows on the wall. We shall be a pretty easy mark, on that white road by moonlight. Our only plan will be to keep close to the wall, when we are through the gate, get down into the bed of the stream again, and then crawl along among the rocks. The bottom will be in shadow, and we may get off without being noticed. The only fear is that we shall make a noise in opening the gate.

"Now, let us try it."

Keeping close to the wall, they crept to the gateway. This projected two feet beyond the gate itself, and standing against the latter they could not be seen, even in the unlikely event of one of the sentries looking down. The only risk was of anyone in the guard house coming out. This, however, could not be avoided, and they at once began to examine the fastenings of the gate, which consisted of two massive bars of wood, running across it. These, by their united strength, they removed one after another. But when they tried it, they found the gate still immovable.

"The beastly thing is locked," Dick said. "There is nothing to do, but to blow it open."

He broke off the ends of three cartridges, poured the powder in at the keyhole, and then inserted the slow match.

"Stand in the corner there, Surajah. I will go down to the stream again, to light the tinder. The noise is less likely to be heard there."

He stole back again, sat down at the edge of the water, placed his tinder box in his lap, took his turban off and put it over his hands, so as to deaden the sound, and then struck the steel sharply against the flint. The first blow was successful. The spark fell on the tinder, and at once began to extend.

He listened intently. The men on the wall were still talking, and the sound had evidently not reached their ears.



Chapter 7: Besieged.


Dick hastily clambered up the wall, ran to the gate, blew the tinder, and then applied it to the slow match. A moment later, this began to fizz.

"Round the corner of the wall, Surajah!" he exclaimed, running back himself.

A few anxious seconds passed, then came a sharp explosion. In an instant they ran up. The gate stood two or three inches open. It yielded to a push, and they ran out.

Loud shouts were heard from the men above, and a hubbub of cries from the guard house.

"Run, Surajah! We must risk it. Keep on the edge of the road, and dodge as you go. The chances are they will run down below, to see what has happened."

At the top of their speed, they dashed down the road. No shot was fired from the wall, Dick's conjecture that the first impulse of the sentries would be to run down below having been justified. They were a couple of hundred yards away, before two shots were fired from the gate. The bullets whistled by harmlessly.

"We are all right now," Dick cried. "They can scarcely see us, and we shall soon be out of sight altogether."

Five or six more shots were fired a few seconds later, as the men from the guard house reached the gate. On looking back, when they had gone another hundred yards, they saw a number of figures on the road.

"Not quite so fast, Surajah," Dick said. "It is going to be a long chase, now. We have got three hundred yards start, and they won't be able to load again, running at full speed."

For a time, their pursuers gained somewhat upon them; then, gradually, they began to straggle, as the effect of the speed at which they were running told upon them. When they reached the ruined village, there were four men running together, some three hundred yards behind. The rest were a considerable distance in the rear.

"Another mile or two, and they will all give up the chase except these four, Surajah, and if they turn out better runners than we do, we can make a stand. There are some more huts another two miles farther, and we will fight them there."

They were going slower now, for although the downward course of the road helped them a good deal, the run was telling on them. Not a word was spoken, until they reached the second village. When they came to the first house, they stopped simultaneously, and looked round. Their pursuers were not more than two hundred yards behind them.

"In here, Surajah," Dick said, as he ran into the ruined hut.

Its roof was gone, its door hung loose on its hinges. It had but one window, a small one, looking up the valley. Dick laid his gun on the sill, which was nearly level with his shoulder.

"I must wait until they get pretty close," he said, "for I am panting so that I can't keep the barrel steady, even with this rest."

"I will kneel down outside," Surajah said.

"Mind, I will fire first, Surajah. Don't you fire until they are within twenty yards of you. By that time I shall have loaded again."

Dick had more time than he had expected, for as soon as their pursuers saw them enter the hut, they slackened their pace considerably. They were within about eighty yards, when Dick held his breath and standing, for a moment, immovable, took a steady aim and fired.

One of the men stumbled in his run, took a step or two forward, and then fell on his face. The others paused for a moment, and then, with a fierce yell, ran forward.

The moment he had fired, Dick dropped the stock of his gun on to the ground, snatched a cartridge from the bandolier, bit off the end, and emptied the powder into the barrel, gave the gun a shake, so as to be sure that it ran into the touch hole, and then rammed down the bullet. As he was in the act of doing so, Surajah fired, and a loud yell told that his shot had been successful.

Dick sprang to the door as Surajah entered. Two shots at the same instant rang out; but, at even so short a distance, the bullets went wide. Dick stepped out, and in turn fired. One of the two men fell; the other threw down his musket, and fled up the road.

"Thank goodness that is over," Dick exclaimed. "I thought they had no chance with us, here. Now the first thing is to get our wind again."

They stood for two or three minutes, breathing heavily; then, as their breath came again, they prepared to move, when Dick exclaimed suddenly, "What is that noise?"

There was a dull, confused sound in the air, and then Surajah, pointing up the road, exclaimed, "Cavalry!"

Far away on the white road, a dark mass could be seen. At first, Dick instinctively turned to resume their flight, but then he said:

"It is of no use, Surajah. The sides of the valley are too steep to climb, and they will be up in five or six minutes. We must fight it out here. Run out to that man I shot, and bring in his gun, bandolier, pistols if he has any, and sword. I will take them from these two. It will make all the difference, having spare weapons."

Surajah, without a word, hurried up the road, while Dick ran over to the house opposite, which seemed to be larger than the one they had first entered. He looked round. It contained only one room, but this was twenty feet square. There were three small windows, one looking into the street, one looking up the valley, and one behind. The floor was littered with the beams of the roof. The door was still in its place. Having ascertained this, he ran back to the bodies of the two men, picked up the three guns, took off their bandoliers, and removed the pistols from their sashes; and with these, and one of their swords, returned to the house, just as Surajah came back.

"This is the best house to defend, Surajah. There are some beams with which we can block up the door."

Laying down the arms inside, they set to work with the beams, and barricaded the door so firmly that, short of its being splintered to pieces, no entry could be effected. This done, they re-charged the six guns, examined the pistols, and finding that they were loaded, placed three of them in each of their sashes, and hung the swords by their sides. Then they went to the window looking up the valley. The horsemen, some twenty in number, were but a short quarter of a mile away, and were coming along at a gallop.

"Don't fire, Surajah," Dick said. "They will have heard, from the man who has got away, that we are in the house opposite, and if they don't find us there, they will think that we have gone on, and will ride down the valley till they are sure they must be ahead of us. Then they will search the ground carefully, as they come back, and altogether we may gain an hour; and every moment is of use. It must be two o'clock now, and our troop generally gets here soon after seven."

As he spoke, the horsemen drew up in front of the opposite hut. There was a momentary pause, and then a voice said:

"It is empty."

Then followed the command:

"Ride on, men. They can't have got very far. We shall overtake them in ten minutes."

As soon as they started, Dick said:

"Take a ramrod, Surajah, and make some holes through the walls, to fire through. If we were to show ourselves at the windows, we might get shot."

The walls were built of mud and clay, and with the iron ramrods they had no difficulty in making four holes, an inch wide and two inches high, on each side of the house.

"Now we are ready for them," Dick said, when they had finished. "They have been gone half an hour, and it won't be long before they are back."

In a few minutes, they heard the clatter of horses' hoofs. It ceased some forty or fifty yards away, and by the sound of voices and orders, it was evident that the other houses were being searched. Voices were also heard at the back of the house, and they guessed that the ground was being closely examined, up to the foot of the rock walls which enclosed the valley.

"Now, Surajah, you can take a shot from the window of that side. The others will be here in a minute, and it is just as well to let them know where we are, before they get close up to our door."

Surajah went to the window at the back. Four horsemen were making their way, at a walk, along the level ground between the rocks and the huts. The nearest was but some forty yards away. Surajah fired, and the man at once fell from his horse. The others instantly galloped on at full speed up the valley, and from the window at the end, Surajah saw them gather on the road three or four hundred yards away; and then, after a short consultation, cross to the other side of the valley, with the intention, he had no doubt, of rejoining their comrades.

The sound of the gun had been followed by shouts and exclamations from the party in the village. Dick could hear a conference in low tones; then all was silent. He went to the loophole at the corner, laid his rifle in it, and waited, looking along the barrel. Two or three minutes later the hole was darkened, and he fired at once. There was a sound of a heavy fall, followed by cries of rage, and a moment later there was a rush of men against the door.

Surajah ran across. Two spare guns were pushed through the loopholes, one on each side of it. These had not been bored straight through the wall, but at angles that would enable them to fire at anyone attacking it. Looking along the barrels, each could see one of the group in front, and fired at the same moment. With a yell of rage and surprise, the assailants of the door sprang back and ran down the street.

"There are four less, anyhow," Dick said, as he and Surajah reloaded the empty guns. "Those loopholes will puzzle them, and I don't think they will care to come on again, for a bit."

There was a pause for some minutes, and then, from the huts opposite, and from various points higher up the valley and behind, a dropping fire was opened.

"Keep out of the line of the windows, whatever you do, Surajah; and it will be just as well to lie down for a bit, until we see whether any of their shots come through the wall. I think we are quite safe from the distant fire, but from the house opposite it is possible they may penetrate it. Anyhow, don't stand in the line of a loophole. A stray ball might find its way in."

For a few minutes, the enemy fired away unanswered, and then Dick, who had been seated on the ground with his back against the end wall, got up and went along that facing the street, carefully examining it.

"I don't think any of their balls have come through, Surajah. I should be able to see out into the moonlight, if they had done so. Now it is time for us to be doing something. I expect they are getting a little bolder, and will perhaps give us a chance.

"You take this loophole. It is exactly in a line with the opposite hut, and the fellows in there must come to their door to fire. I will take this slanting hole by the doorpost. I can see one of the windows of the next hut to that we were in. I have no doubt that they are firing from there also. Don't wait for them to shoot, but fire directly a figure shows itself."

In a very short time Surajah fired. Dick heard the clatter of a gun, as it fell to the ground.

"You have hit him, Surajah."

"Yes, but only wounded him. I think I hit him on the shoulder. He let his gun drop, and ran into the house."

"Take a spare gun at once. If there are others there, they will think that you are loading, and may show themselves again."

A moment later, Dick saw a gun thrust out through the window he was watching. Then the head and shoulders of a man appeared behind it. He fired, and the figure disappeared. Almost at the same instant, Surajah fired again.

"I had one that time, Sahib!"

It was now quiet for some little time. Then a horseman dashed suddenly past, and galloped up the valley at full speed.

"The end window, Surajah! Bring him down, if you can."

Surajah ran there and fired.

"I have missed him!" he said, in a tone of deep disappointment.

"It does not make much difference. If you had hit him, they could have sent another off close to the opposite side of the valley. There is no doubt as to what he has gone for. You see, they have lost six killed and one wounded, and they must know that they have not the slightest chance of taking this hut. I have no doubt that he has ridden back to bring down the infantry from the fort. From the number of huts round the gate, and the sound of talking, I should think there were fifty or sixty at least -- perhaps a hundred.

"If they send down fifty, we shall have sharp work. Our difficulty will be to prevent them from making a rush at all the windows together. If they were to get there, they could riddle us with balls."

"Could we block them up, Sahib?"

"That is just what I was thinking," Dick replied. "We might try, anyhow. It will be an hour and a half before they are down here. It must be past four now, and in another hour daylight will begin to break.

"There is any amount of the old thatch down on the floor. The best way would be to fill up the window holes with it first, then to put two or three bits of wood across, and a strong piece down behind it, and to keep that in its place by wedging one of the long beams against it. If they came up and tried to pull the thatch out, we could fire through it with our pistols; and we will make a loophole below each when we have got the work done."

It was not so difficult a business as they thought it would be. The windows were little more than a foot across and two feet high. It was but the work of a few minutes to fill these up with the masses of thatch. When this was done, they picked out thick pieces of wood for crossbars. Then they took a beam, eight feet long, made a hole with their tulwars in the clay floor close to the wall, put one end of the beam into it, and reared it upright against the window. Dick held it in its place, while Surajah hacked a deep notch in it -- a by no means difficult matter, for it was half rotten with exposure.

The notch was cut just opposite the middle of the window. The three crosspieces were then put into their place, and the upright pressed firmly against them. One end of a long beam was placed in the notch, the other in a slight hole made in the ground, thus forming a strut, which held the rest firmly in their positions.

"That is a good job done," Dick said, "but a very hot one. Now, Surajah, sharpen three or four pieces of wood, and drive them down into the ground at the foot of that strut; then it will be as firm as a rock."

They then proceeded, in the same way, with the other two windows.

"It is getting light fast," Dick said, as he wiped the perspiration from his face. "Take a look out up the valley. They ought to be coming by this time."

Surajah applied his eye to one of the loopholes.

"I can see them," he said. "They are half a mile away. There are two mounted men. I expect one is their officer, and the other the man who rode back to fetch them."

"Let us set to work at the loopholes under the windows, Surajah. It is most important to get them done. You make the one at the end, I will do that one looking into the street. Put it as close to the beam as you can."

They worked hard, and it was not long before the walls were pierced.

"Now, Surajah, you do the one at the back. The fellows will soon be within range, and I will give them a lesson to be careful. They will naturally break up, and go round behind the houses opposite, as they can find shelter nowhere else; and, for a bit at any rate, we shall get them all on one side of us, which is what we want."

Dick carried the six guns to the end of the hut, and then applied his eye to the loophole there. The enemy were coming along at a run, in a confused mass.

"I can't very well miss them," he muttered to himself, as he thrust his gun through a loophole, and fired. Without waiting to see the result, he thrust another gun out, aimed, and fired.

"Never mind the hole, Surajah," he said. "Come here and reload."

The four other shots were discharged in rapid succession. The Mysoreans at first opened an irregular fire on the hut. When the sixth shot was fired, they left the road in a body, and ran across the valley, leaving four of their number on the ground behind them.

As soon as the guns were reloaded, Surajah returned to his work. It was now broad daylight, and the sun was shining upon the hilltops. A quarter of an hour passed, without a movement from the enemy. Dick and his companion occupied the time in further strengthening the door with crossbeams, kept in their place by struts.

"If they break it to splinters," Dick said, when they had finished, "they will hardly be able to force their way in, for if they were to try to crawl in between those crossbeams, they would be completely at our mercy.

"Now, we must get ready for a rush. I expect they will come all together. There are the six guns, and three pistols each. Keep one of the latter in reserve. We ought not to waste a shot; and if they lose ten men, I should think they will give up the attack on the door.

"Stand clear of it, Surajah. They will probably fire into it before they charge -- keep down below the level of the loopholes."

Presently a volley of musketry was fired, and the door was riddled by bullets. Then a number of figures sprang from between the two opposite houses, and rushed at the door. Two of them carried a long, heavy beam.

Two shots flashed out in return, from the hut. One of the men carrying the beam fell, as did an officer who was leading them; but instantly another caught up the end of the timber, and in a moment a crowd were clustered round the door. Several caught hold of the beam, and swung it as though they meant to use it as a battering ram.

Two more puffs of smoke spurted out from the loopholes, and again two of the men fell. The others, however, swung it forward with a crash against the door. The end of the beam went right through the rotten woodwork. Dick and Surajah fired their last musket shots with as deadly effect as before. The next blow dashed the door from its hinges, and, split and shattered by the former shocks, it fell forward into the road, while a yell of triumph broke from the Mysoreans.

This died away, however, when they saw the three crossbars blocking their entrance. Again two pistol shots carried death among them.

"Load your guns, Surajah."

But before Surajah had time to do so, the Mysoreans made a rush at the door. The defenders stepped forward and fired between the crossbars, and then, drawing their tulwars, ran the two men in front through the body. As they dropped, those behind them drew back.

"The last pistols!" Dick shouted, and they fired two shots into the crowd.

This completed the consternation of the enemy. It seemed to them that the defenders possessed an unlimited supply of firearms. Already twelve shots had been fired, and not one had failed to take effect. With a cry of consternation they fled down the street, leaving the ground in front of the fatal door strewn with bodies.

The defenders instantly set about the work of recharging their firearms. They were not interrupted, but presently an irregular fire opened upon them, from the jungle that had taken the place of the garden between the opposite houses.

"We may as well lie down at full length," Dick said, setting the example. "There is no use in running risks. You keep that side, and listen attentively. It is likely enough that they will work round behind, next time, and try the windows. By the way they are firing, I fancy there are not more than five or six of them opposite."

Another half hour passed. Then Surajah exclaimed, "I can hear them on this side."

Dick got up, and crossed at once.

"I will take the loophole under this window. You go to the one at the end. I expect they will try both windows at once."

Dick placed the muzzle of his gun in the loophole, and, glancing along, saw that something dark barred his view. He fired at once. There was a loud cry and a fall, then a rush to the window, and a moment later a hole appeared in the thatch. Dick discharged two pistols through it, and as he did so Surajah fired.

The thatch was speedily pulled down, as the enemy had learned to avoid the loopholes. A yell of rage rose, as the fallen thatch showed them that the window was defended with crossbars, in the same way as the door. Immediately afterwards, Dick had a narrow escape from a shot fired through a loophole close to him.

"Stoop down," he cried, and, crouching below the level of the loopholes, made his way to the end of the hut. "Recharge the guns first, Surajah. They may fire away through the loopholes as long as they like. It is lucky we made them so high, except the three under the windows. We must be careful in keeping out of the line of those.

"You sit down where you can command the end window, and the one behind -- I will watch the front window and door. A bold fellow might put his musket through, and pick one of us off, and that is what we have to prevent. So keep your gun in readiness, and if you see a head appear, don't miss it."

The enemy now kept up a constant fire through the loopholes at the end and back of the house; but as these were shoulder high, and there was no altering the elevation of the guns, the shots flew harmlessly over the heads of the defenders. Several times, Dick went to one or other of the loopholes, pistol in hand, and, standing close beside it, waited until a shot was fired; and then, thrusting the barrel into the loophole, fired before another gun could be inserted, the discharge being generally followed by a sharp cry of pain.

After this had gone on for nearly an hour, the assailants evidently became discouraged. The shots came from the loopholes less frequently, and presently ceased altogether.

"I would give a good deal to know what they are up to," Dick said, after a long pause.

"Shall I look through the loophole?" Surajah asked.

"Certainly not. There will be a man standing at each of them, waiting in expectation of our taking a look out."

"But there are none in front," Surajah said.

"That is more than we can say. They have not been firing on that side, but they may have men there now. No, we will leave well alone, Surajah. The longer they delay, the better for us.

"Keep your eye on the top of the wall, as well as on the window. They may have made some ladders by this time, and may intend to try a shot."

"Perhaps they are gone?" Surajah suggested.

"It is quite possible. They must know that our troop comes up here early, and as they have four miles to walk back to the fort, and several wounded to carry with them, they certainly won't stay much longer -- if, as you say, they have not gone already."

It was indeed well that Surajah had not attempted to look out at one of the loopholes; for, at the time he asked the question, a dark figure was standing at each, looking along the barrel of his gun, in readiness to fire the moment the light was obscured.

A few minutes later Dick exclaimed:

"How stupid! We can easily test whether there is any one there, Surajah;" and, taking up a piece of thatch he pushed it suddenly across one of the loopholes.

No shot followed the action, and he went round the hut, and repeated the experiment at each of them.

"They have all gone," he said confidently. "Had they been outside, they would certainly have fired directly the light was obscured."

Standing a short distance back from the end window, he looked out between the crossbeams.

"Hurrah!" he shouted. "There they go up the road. They are a quarter of a mile away. They are not more than half as strong as they were when they came down. They are carrying eight or ten figures on their shoulders, on litters, or doors."

"I don't see the cavalry," Surajah said, as he joined him.

"No. It is likely enough that they may be in hiding among the huts opposite, and are waiting, in hopes that we may be foolish enough to take it for granted that they are all gone, and pull down the bars of the door. I expect they will stay until they see our troop coming up the valley."

They continued to look out from the window, from which they had now removed the bars. Half an hour later, Dick exclaimed:

"There they go, up that side of the valley. I have no doubt they see our troop, and that in a few minutes we shall hear them coming."

It was not long before they heard a trampling of horses, and a moment later the Rajah's voice exclaimed:

"Why, what is this? Here are a dozen dead bodies. They are Mysoreans, by their dress."

"All right, Uncle," Dick shouted, "we will be out as soon as we get these bars down. We have been standing a siege."

It did not take long to remove the bars. The Rajah and his men had dismounted, as soon as some of the latter had gone round the hut, and had brought back the report that there were five more dead on that side. As Dick and his companion stepped out, the Rajah exclaimed:

"What, are you alone?"

"Yes; there is no one with us, Uncle."

"Do you mean to say that you two have defended this place alone, and killed sixteen of the enemy, besides some I see lying farther up the road?"

"Yes, Uncle. You see, it was a pretty strong position, and we had time to block up the doors and windows, and to make loopholes to fire through."

"What think you of that, Anwar?" the Rajah exclaimed to the captain of the troop. "My nephew and Rajbullub's son have shown themselves brave fighters, have they not?"

"It is wonderful," the captain said; and exclamations of admiration broke from the men standing round.

"Tell us all about it, Dick," the Rajah went on.

"It is a long story, Uncle; but the real news is that Tippoo, with his army, has left the head of the western passes, and has gone to Seringapatam. He is going to march down one of the passes, this side, at once. Provisions have been collected for his army to consume on the march. No one knows yet which pass he will come down by; but it will not be far from here, for they are buying up cattle in the villages at the top of the ghauts."

"That is important, indeed, Dick, and we must ride off without delay; but first, I must have a look at this fortress of yours."

He entered the hut, the soldiers crowding in after him, and examined the defences at the windows, and the loopholes; while Dick explained how the bars had been arranged to defend the door.

"We began on the other side, Uncle. We had a fight with four men who came up with us there. Only one of them got away -- and he left his gun behind. It was lucky, for their guns and pistols were of immense use to us. We could not have held out with only our own weapons.

"About twenty of their cavalry came up a few minutes afterwards. We beat them off, and then they sent up to the fort for infantry, and about fifty men came down and attacked us, just at sunrise. They kept it up to within half an hour ago. Then the infantry marched back, knowing, of course, that your troop generally got here about seven.

"The horsemen stayed here till within a few minutes of your arrival. No doubt they thought that we should suppose they had all gone, and might venture out, and let them get a shot at us."

"Why, it must have been a veritable battle, Dick."

"There was a good deal of noise, Uncle, though not much danger. So long as we kept below the level of the loopholes and windows, and out of the line of the door, there was no chance of our being hit."

"They must have made a strong attack on the door," the Rajah said. "I see that the two lying next to it were both killed by sword thrusts."

"Yes, that was the most critical moment, Uncle. We had emptied nearly all our barrels, and if they could have broken down the bars, which I have no doubt they could have done, if they had stuck to it, they would have made very short work of us."

"Now let us be going," the Rajah said. "You can tell me the whole story, as we go along."

Two of the sowars were ordered to give up their horses to Dick and Surajah, and to mount behind comrades. Then they started down the valley, Dick riding between his uncle and the captain, while Surajah took his place with the two other officers of the troop. They rode so rapidly that Dick's story was scarcely concluded by the time they reached the village where the troops were quartered.

"Well, you have done marvelously well, Dick," his uncle said. "Surajah deserves the highest praise, too. Now I will write a note to the British officer with the Nabob, giving the news of Tippoo's movements, and will send it off by two of the troopers, at once. Where Colonel Maxwell's force is, I have no idea. It marched to join General Meadows, on the day we came up here.

"In the meantime you can have a wash, while breakfast is being cooked. I have no doubt that you are ready for it."

"I am indeed, Uncle. We had nothing, yesterday, but a few cakes made of flour and water; and have had nothing at all, since."

"All right, lad. I will be ready almost as soon as breakfast is."

After the meal was over, the Rajah lit his hookah, and said:

"You must go through the story again, this evening, Dick. You cut short some of the details, as you told it to me on the road, and I want to understand it all thoroughly. You had better turn in now for a long sleep. You must want it badly enough, lad, after the work of the two last nights."

Dick slept until his uncle roused him, at six o'clock.

"Dinner will be ready in ten minutes. It is just as well that you should get up, for two or three hours. After that, you will be good for another sleep till morning. We shall have to look out sharp now, and keep a couple of vedettes always at that village; as, for all we know, this may be the pass by which Tippoo is coming down."

Dick got up rather reluctantly, but he was not long in shaking off his drowsiness, and after dinner was able to go through the story again, with full details of his adventures.

"I don't know what I should have done without Surajah, Uncle. He is a capital fellow, and if ever I go up by myself, into Mysore, to look for my father, I hope that you will let me take him."

"That I will certainly do, Dick. Ever since I first heard of your plans, I have quite decided that you ought not to go alone. I daresay I should have chosen an older man to accompany you, but after what you and the lad have done together, I don't think you could do better than take him. Of course, such an affair would demand infinitely greater caution and care, though not greater courage, than you had occasion to use on this excursion. It is one thing to enter a village, to ask a few questions, make a purchase or two, and be off again; but it is a very different thing to be among people for weeks, or perhaps months, and to live as one of themselves. However, we may hope that this war will end in our army marching to Seringapatam, when we shall recover many of the prisoners in Tippoo's hands.

"I do not say all. We know how many hundreds remained in his power last time, in spite of his promise to deliver them all up; and maybe something of the same sort will occur next time. Numbers may be sent away, by him, to the hill fortresses dotted all over the country; and we should never be able to obtain news of them. However, we must hope for the best."

The next morning, the troopers arrived with a letter from the English resident at Arcot. The Rajah glanced through it, and handed it to Dick, with the remark:

"You will not get the honour you deserve, Dick."

The letter ran:

"Dear Rajah:

"Your news would be extremely valuable, were it correct; but unfortunately it is not so, and doubtless the reports brought down by your nephew were spread by Tippoo, for the purpose of deceiving us. Or, possibly, he may have intended to have come that way, but afterwards changed his mind. We have news that, just after Colonel Maxwell effected his junction with General Meadows, near Caveripatam, and was about to ascend the ghauts by the Tapour pass, Tippoo came down by that very route, slipped past them, and is marching on to Trichinopoly. That being the case, I see no further utility in your remaining with your troop in the passes, but think it were best that you should re-assemble them at once, and march here. There is no chance of Tippoo capturing Trichinopoly before Meadows, who is following him, can come up and force on a battle; so it is likely that the Mysore army may continue their march in this direction, in which case every fighting man will be of use, to defend this place until it is relieved by the general."

Dick uttered an exclamation of disgust, as he laid the letter down.

"It does not matter about my news turning out wrong," he said, "but it is very bad that General Meadows should have allowed Tippoo to pass him, as he may do frightful damage to the country, before he can be overtaken."

"He never can be overtaken, as long as he chooses to keep ahead. He is hampered with no baggage train. He lives on the plunder of the country he passes through; and the British army, with all its baggage and provision train, has no more chance of overtaking him than it has of flying."

Messengers were at once sent off, to call in the scattered portions of the troop. These were assembled in twenty-four hours, and at once started for Arcot, where they arrived after a two days' march. They there learned that Tippoo had appeared before Trichinopoly, and after pillaging and laying waste the sacred island of Seringham, had marched north.

Day after day, news arrived of the devastation he was committing on his march. At Thiagur, however, he met with a serious repulse. Great numbers of the inhabitants from the surrounding country had crowded into the town with their valuables, and Tippoo, expecting a rich booty, attacked the town; but although its fortifications were insignificant, the little garrison was commanded by Captain Flint, the officer who had so bravely defended Wandiwash in the previous war, and two assaults were repulsed with serious loss.

At Trinalee, thirty-five miles farther north, he was more successful, capturing the town, and putting the inhabitants to the sword. Here Tippoo changed his course, and marched for Pondicherry, capturing Permacoil by the way.

The news that Tippoo had changed his course, to the southeast, was received with great joy at Arcot. Although confident that this capital would be able to resist any sudden attack, the belief had been general that the whole territory would be laid waste, as it had been by Hyder; and hopes were now entertained that the British army would arrive in time to bar Tippoo's further progress.



Chapter 8: The Invasion Of Mysore.


For some time, there was a pause in the hostilities. Tippoo remained with his army near Pondicherry, carrying on negotiations with the French governor, and arranging for the despatch of an envoy to France, with a request that the Republic would furnish him with six thousand French troops. While he was thus wasting his time, General Meadows was slowly moving, with the army, towards an encampment formed at Vellout, some eighteen miles west of Madras.

On the 14th of December, a messenger arrived with the news that Lord Cornwallis had arrived from Calcutta, two days before, with considerable reinforcements, and that he was about to assume the supreme command of the army. The news caused unbounded satisfaction. By the extreme dilatoriness of his movements, and especially by the manner in which he had allowed Tippoo to pass him near Caveripatam, when he might easily have attacked him, while his army was still struggling through the pass, General Meadows had disgusted his troops. He had frittered away, without striking a single blow, the finest army that the British had, up to that time, ever put into the field in India; and had enabled Tippoo, unmolested, to spread destruction over a large extent of country.

The only countervailing success that had been gained, by the British, was a brilliant victory won by Colonel Hartley, who was in command of a Bombay force, consisting of a European regiment and two battalions of Sepoys. With these, he engaged Hossein Ali, who had been left by Tippoo in Malabar, with a force of 9000 men, when the sultan first retreated before General Meadows' advance. This force was defeated, with a loss of 1000 men killed and wounded, 900, including Hossein himself, taken prisoners on the field, and 1500 in the pursuit; the total British loss being only 52 men. A few days after this victory, General Abercrombie arrived from Madras with reinforcements, and the whole of Tippoo's fortified places in Malabar were captured, one after another, and the entire province conquered.

As soon as Lord Cornwallis reached the camp at Vellout, with a large train of draught animals that had been brought by sea from Calcutta, the Rajah and his troops received orders to join him. It was on the 29th of January, 1791, that the commander in chief arrived at Vellout, and the Rajah arrived there on the 4th of February. As he was the bearer of a letter from the Resident at Arcot, he was at once enabled to have an interview with Lord Cornwallis. On finding that he could speak English, the general received him with much courtesy.

"I am glad, indeed, to have a troop like yours with us, Rajah," he said. "There are few of my officers who know anything of this part of the country, and your local knowledge will be invaluable. Moreover, as I do not speak the language myself, it will be a great advantage to have someone with me through whom I can communicate freely with the people of the country. There is no doubt that such communications are much more effectual, when they come through one of their own princes, than through English officers. I shall therefore order that, on the march, a space be allotted for the encampment of your troop by the side of that occupied by my own escort; and hope that, when not employed on scouting or other duties, you will ride with my staff.

"Your mother, Rajah, was an English lady, I am told."

"She was, sir. My sister, who married an Englishman, is at present in Madras with my family, and her son is with me.

"I beg to recommend him to your lordship. He speaks my language perfectly, and having been brought up in his father's country, naturally speaks English as well as Hindustani; and will understand, far better than I can do, any orders that you may give. He has come out, with his mother, in the hopes of finding his father, who has, if alive, been a prisoner for several years in the hands of Tippoo.

"He is a fine young fellow. The other day, he made a most dangerous reconnaissance into Mysore, in order to ascertain Tippoo's movements. He had with him a young officer of mine, two or three years older than himself; and when I tell you that the two young fellows held a ruined hut, for hours, against the attack of some seventy of Tippoo's troops, and beat them off with a loss of upwards of twenty killed, I need hardly say that he has no lack of courage."

"You are right, indeed, Rajah. Let the lad ride beside you, with my staff. Some day he will, perhaps, shorten a long day's march by giving me details of this adventure of his."

On the 5th of February the army started on its march, and on the 11th reached Vellore. Tippoo had, for two months, been wasting his time at Pondicherry; but, upon hearing news that instead of, as he expected, the English general having marched south from Vellout to meet him, he had turned westward; and that Mysore, itself, was threatened with invasion, he hastily broke up his camp, and marched at full speed for the ghauts; and, reaching the table land, hurried to oppose the British army, as it endeavoured to ascend the pass going from Vellore through Amboor, by which he made sure he would come.

Lord Cornwallis encouraged him in the idea, by sending a battalion a considerable distance up the pass; while he started north and entered the easy pass of Mooglee, leading west from Chittoor to Moolwagle. He pushed rapidly up the pass, and gained the summit before Tippoo could reach the spot and oppose him. It took four days longer for the battering train, baggage, and provisions to reach the top of the pass. After a delay of a day or two, to rest the animals, which included sixty-seven elephants which had been brought from Bengal, the army set out for Bangalore, the second largest town in Mysore.

The Rajah's troops had been busily employed, from the time the army moved from Vellout. The men, on their tireless little horses, carried his messages to the various divisions and brigades, brought up news of the progress of the train, or rode on ahead with the officers of the quartermaster's department, whose duty it was to precede the army, to decide on the camping ground, and to mark off the spots to be occupied by the various corps. In this way, they saved the regular cavalry from much fatiguing duty.

Surajah and Dick were generally with the party that went on with the quartermasters, and, as soon as the camping ground was fixed upon, aided them in the purchase of forage and food from the natives, as it was most desirable that the forty days' provisions the army carried with it should remain intact, until the army had passed up the ghauts. Beyond that, it was expected that it would be harassed by the Mysore horse, who would render it impossible for the cavalry to go out to collect forage, or provisions, from the country through which it marched.

So well did the Rajah's troop perform its duties, that Lord Cornwallis ordered it to be taken on the strength of the army, and to receive the pay and rations of native cavalry in the service. On the day after leaving Vellore, the general sent an orderly to request the Rajah and his nephew to ride with him.

"I have not had an opportunity of hearing of your scouting expedition," he said to Dick, "and shall be glad if you will give me full details of it."

Dick related the adventure, from the time they had started.

"You were wonderfully lucky, in getting back safely," the general said, when he had finished. "At least, luck is not the proper word, for your safety was due to your quick wittedness and courage; and your escape with your companion from the guard house, the manner in which you got through the fort in the pass, and your defence of that hut, until the Rajah's troop arrived to your rescue, were all of them admirably managed."

He then proceeded to inquire further into the object for which Dick had come out to India.

"I heartily wish you success in your search," he said, "and sincerely hope we may obtain news of your father. I do not know what your intentions may be, afterwards, but should you wish to enter the army, I will at once nominate you to a commission, in one of our native cavalry regiments."

"I am deeply obliged to your Excellency," Dick replied, "but as, if we learn nothing of my father during the war, I am quite resolved to spend, if necessary, some years in Mysore in the search for him, I must therefore be free to devote my time to that."

"At any rate," the general said, "if at any time you should feel free to accept my offer, it will be open to you. In the meantime, I will appoint you one of the interpreters to the army, during the expedition, and will attach you to my own staff. It will give you a recognised position, and it is only right that, as you are doing good service, you should receive pay. You shall be put in orders this evening. You can, of course, continue to camp and live with the Rajah."

The change made very little difference in Dick's duties, and he continued at his former work, in the quartermasters' department, until the army was ready for its advance to Bangalore. To the general surprise, as the army moved forward, nothing was seen of Tippoo's cavalry, by which they had expected to be continually harassed. The sultan had, as soon as he perceived that Bangalore was threatened, hurried the whole army to that city, where he had sent his harem when he started from Seringapatam to attack Travancore; and instead of sending off a few hundred horsemen, to escort them to the capital, while with his army he opposed the advance of the British, he took his whole force with him, in order to remove his harem with all the pomp and ceremony with which their passage through the country was generally accompanied. Consequently, it was not until after taking, without resistance, the forts of Colar and Ooscotah, and arriving within ten miles of Bangalore, that the army encountered Tippoo's cavalry.

This was on the 4th of March. They made an attempt to reach the baggage trains, but were sharply repulsed, and on the following day the army took up its position before Bangalore. As they approached the town, three horsemen dashed out from a small grove, and rode furiously towards a little group, consisting of Lord Cornwallis, General Meadows, and the staff, who were reconnoitring at some little distance from the head of the column. It was evident that their intention was to cut down the general.

The Rajah, who was riding as usual with the staff, dashed forward with four or five other officers, and encountered the horsemen before they could reach him. The Rajah cut down one of them, another was killed by one of the staff, and the third knocked off his horse and captured.

It was learned that the enterprise was not a planned one, but was the result of a quarrel between the men, themselves. One had charged the others with cowardice, and in return they had challenged him to follow them where they dared go. All had prepared themselves for the enterprise by half intoxicating themselves with bhang, and thus made but a poor fight, when they found their object thwarted by the officers who threw themselves between them and their intended victim.

Bangalore was a fine town, situated on a plain so elevated that the climate was temperate, the soil fertile, and vegetation abundant. The town was of considerable extent, that portion lying within the fortifications being a mile and a quarter long, by half a mile broad. It was surrounded by a strong rampart, a thick hedge, and a deep, dry ditch. The wall, however, did not extend across the side facing the fort, whose guns were supposed to render it ample protection.

The fort was oval in shape, and about nine hundred yards across, at its greatest diameter. It was defended by a broad rampart, strengthened by thirty semicircular bastions and five outworks. The two gates, one at each end, were also protected by outworks. In the fort stood the splendid palace built by Tippoo. Here also were immense foundries of cannon, factories for muskets, the arsenal, and large magazines of grain and ammunition.

The position taken up by the army lay to the northeast of the petah, or town, and the next morning a reconnoitring party, escorted by Colonel Floyd, with the whole of the cavalry and a brigade of infantry, went out to examine the defences of the town and fort. Seeing a large body of laden elephants and camels, escorted by a strong body of horsemen, Colonel Floyd rode with the cavalry to attack them. The movement was a rash one, as the guns on the fort opened fire, and although at first he defeated the Mysore horse, a heavy fire was poured upon him, when entangled in broken ground. He himself was shot by a musket ball which, striking him in the face, passed through both jaws. It was at first believed that he was dead, but he was carried back to camp, and ultimately recovered. This rash attack cost the lives of seventy-one men, and of four times as many horses.

As Tippoo's army was lying at a distance of only six miles away, the general determined that it would be best, in the first place, to capture the town without delay; and to assault the fort on that side, as he could then do so without any fear of an attack by Tippoo; who would be able to harass him, constantly, were he to approach the fort from any other direction. Orders were therefore issued for the 36th Regiment, supported by the 26th Bengal Sepoys, and a party of artillery under Colonel Moorhouse, to prepare to storm the north gate of the town at daybreak the next morning.

As soon as dawn broke, the troops rushed forward against the gate. The outside work was speedily stormed, but as they issued from it, towards the gate itself, they were received with a very heavy fire from the walls, together with a storm of hand grenades. Colonel Moorhouse brought forward a six pounder, receiving two wounds as the piece was run up to the gate. The first time it was fired, it had no effect beyond making a small hole, and the next shot had no greater success. Colonel Moorhouse ordered a twelve-pounder to be brought up, but as he was aiding to put it into position, another ball struck him, and he fell dead.

While the artillerymen were pouring shot after shot into the gate, the roar of musketry was unceasing, the 36th keeping up an incessant fire upon the enemy upon the wall, in order to cover, as much as possible, the operations of the gunners. At last, the gate gave way. The troops poured in, cheering loudly, and the enemy at once fled.

Many, however, took up their positions in the houses, and kept up a galling fire, until their places of refuge were stormed by detachments of troops, scattered through the town. By nine o'clock all was over, and the town completely in the possession of the British.

Tippoo, furious at its having been so speedily captured, moved down early in the afternoon with a strong force of infantry; and, marching along by the side of the fort, endeavoured to force his way into the town through the open space at that end. He was aided by the guns of the fort, while his artillery kept up a heavy cannonade upon the British encampment.

When the sultan was seen marching towards the town, with the evident intention of endeavouring to retake it, the 76th Regiment was sent in to reinforce the garrison; and the three battalions opposed so steady a resistance to Tippoo's infantry that the latter were forced to fall back, after sustaining a loss of five hundred men. The troops began next morning to erect batteries.

The position was a singular one. A small army was undertaking the siege of a strong fortress, while an army vastly outnumbering it was watching them; and was able, at any moment, to throw large reinforcements into the fort through the Mysore gate, which was at the opposite end of the fort to that attacked, the efforts of the British being directed against the Delhi gate, which faced the town.

The advantage which had been gained, by the employment of the great train carrying the provisions for the troops, was now manifest; for, unless the army had been so provided, it would have been forced to retreat; as, in the face of Tippoo's army, with its great host of cavalry, it would have been impossible to gather provisions.

The first batteries erected by the engineers proved to be too far distant from the wall of the fort to effect any material damage, and others were commenced at a much shorter range. The work was performed with great difficulty, for the guns of the defenders were well served, and a storm of missiles were poured, night and day, into the town and against the batteries. The garrison, which consisted of eight thousand men, were frequently relieved by fresh troops from the sultan's army, and were thus able to maintain their fire with great vigour.

On the 17th, Tippoo cannonaded the British camp from a distance, but without doing great damage. In the meantime, the fire of our siege guns was steadily doing its work, in spite of the heavy fire kept up on them. The stone facing of the bastion next to the gateway was soon knocked away, but the earth banks behind, which were very thick and constructed of a tough red clay, crumbled but slowly. Still, the breach was day by day becoming more practicable, and Tippoo, alarmed at the progress that had been made, moved his army down towards the east side of the fort, and seemed to meditate an attack upon our batteries. He placed some heavy guns behind a bank surrounding a large tank, and opened some embrasures through which their fire would have taken our trenches, which were now pushed up close to the fort, in flank.

Lord Cornwallis at once directed a strong force to advance, as if with the intention of attacking the new work, and Tippoo ordered his troops to retire from it. It was evident, however, that he had determined to give battle in order to save the fort, and the English general therefore determined to storm the place that very night, the 21st of March. The preparations were made secretly, lest the news should be taken to Tippoo by one of the natives in the town, and it was not until late in the evening that orders were issued to the troops which were to take part in the assault.

The column was to be composed of the grenadier and light companies of all the European regiments, and these were to be followed and supported by several battalions of Sepoys. The force, commanded by Colonel Maxwell, at eleven o'clock issued from the town and advanced through the trenches. The besieged were vigilant, and the instant the leading company sprang from the trenches and, in the bright moonlight, ran forward to the breach, a number of blue lights were lighted all along the ramparts, and a heavy musketry fire was opened.

The scene was eagerly watched by the troops in the camp, every feature being distinctly visible. The storming party could be seen, rushing up the breach and mounting, by ladders, over the gateway, which was the central object of attack. The enemy gathered in masses at the top of the breach, but as soon as the stormers collected in sufficient strength, and charged them with the bayonet, they broke and dispersed.

The grenadiers moved along the ramparts to the right, clearing it of its defences as they went along. The light companies did the same along the ramparts to the left, while the Sepoys descended into the body of the fort. The whole of the defenders fled towards the Mysore gate at the other end of the fort, and when the three bodies of troops met there, they found the gate blocked by the masses of fugitives.

They charged them on all sides. The governor, a brave old soldier, and a great favourite of the sultan, died fighting gallantly to the last. Six hundred of the garrison fell, and three hundred, for the most part wounded, were taken prisoners. The British loss was only fifty officers and men, killed and wounded.

The body of the governor was found, next morning, among the slain; and Lord Cornwallis sent a message to Tippoo, with an offer to have the body carried to his camp for burial. Tippoo, however, replied that the proper place for a soldier to be buried was where he fell, and accordingly the brave old soldier was laid to rest, in the fort, by the Mohammedan troops in the Sepoy regiments; with all military honours.

While the assault was going on, Tippoo -- who, in spite of the precautions taken, had received news of the intention of the general, and had warned the garrison of the fort to be prepared -- despatched two heavy columns, as soon as the fire opened, to attack the British camp on its flank. The movement had been foreseen and prepared against, and the attacks were both repulsed with heavy loss.

The capture of the fort was effected but just in time, for the provisions were almost entirely consumed, and the scanty rations were eked out by digging up the roots of grasses and vegetables within the circuit of our pickets. The draught and carriage cattle were dying daily, by hundreds. The few remaining, intended for food, were in so emaciated a state that the flesh was scarcely eatable. And, worst of all, the supply of ammunition was almost exhausted.

The news of the fall of the fortress, considered by the natives to be almost impregnable, under the very eyes of the sultan himself and his great army, produced a widespread effect; greatly depressing the spirit of Tippoo's adherents, while it proportionately raised those of the British troops, and excited the hopes of the peoples conquered by Tippoo and his father. One result was that the polagars, or chiefs, of a tribe that had but recently fallen under the yoke of Mysore, were at once emboldened to bring in provisions to the town. As great stores were found in the magazines in the fort, the starving animals regained some of their condition during the ten days that the troops were occupied in repairing the breaches, burying the dead, and placing the fort in a condition to stand a siege, should Tippoo return during the absence of the army.

When this was done, and the stores of ammunition replenished from the magazines, the army started on its march north to Deonhully, where they were to effect a junction with the cavalry that the Nizam had agreed to furnish. As it marched, it passed within three miles of Tippoo's army, which was proceeding in a westerly direction. Tippoo could here have brought on a general engagement, had he wished it; but the capture of Bangalore had for the time cowed his spirit, and he continued his march, at a rate that soon placed him beyond the reach of the British.

At Deonhully a junction was effected with the Nizam's horse, ten thousand in number. These proved, however, of no real utility, being a mere undisciplined herd, who displayed no energy whatever, except in plundering the villagers. The united force now moved southeast, to guard a great convoy which was advancing up the pass of Amboor; and, when this had been met, returned to Bangalore.

During the operations of the siege, the Rajah's troop had remained inactive, and Dick's duties as interpreter had been nominal. At Bangalore, no English prisoners had been found, and he was heartily glad when he heard that it was the intention of Lord Cornwallis to march directly upon Seringapatam.

It was, indeed, a necessity for the English general to bring the campaign to a speedy termination. The war was entailing a tremendous strain upon the resources of the Company. The Nizam and Mahrattis were not to be depended upon in the slightest degree, and might at any moment change sides. The French revolution had broken out, and all Europe was alarmed, and many of the English regiments might, at any moment, be ordered to return home. Therefore, anything like a thorough conquest of Mysore was impossible, and there was only time to march to Seringapatam, to capture Tippoo's capital, and to dictate terms to him.

Immense exertions were made to restore the efficiency of the baggage train, and on the 3rd of May, the army marched from Bangalore.

Tippoo, devoured alike by rage and fear, had taken no efficient steps to meet the coming storm. His first thought was to prevent the English from discovering the brutal cruelty with which his white captives had been treated. He had, over and over again, given the most solemn assurances that he had no white prisoners in his hands; and he now endeavoured to prevent their obtaining evidence of his falsehood and cruelty, by murdering the whole of those who remained in his hands at Seringapatam. Having effected this massacre, he next ordered all the pictures that he had caused to be painted on the walls of his palace and other buildings, holding up the English to the contempt and hatred of his subjects, to be obliterated; and he also ordered the bridge over the northern loop of the Cauvery to be destroyed. He then set out with his army to bar the passage of the British to Seringapatam.

The weather was extremely bad when the British started. Rain storms had deluged the country, and rendered the roads well nigh impassable, and the movement was, in consequence, very slow. Tippoo had taken up a strong position on the direct road and, in order to avoid him, Lord Cornwallis took a more circuitous route, and Tippoo was obliged to fall back.

The whole country through which the English passed had been wasted. The villages were deserted, and not an inhabitant was to be met with. Suffering much from wet, and the immense difficulties of bringing on the transport, the army, on the 13th of May, arrived on the Cauvery, nine miles east of Seringapatam. Here it had been intended to cross the river, but the rains had so swollen the stream that it was found impossible to ford it. It was, therefore, determined to march to a point on the river, ten miles above Seringapatam, where it was hoped that a better ford could be found; and where a junction might be effected with General Abercrombie's Bombay army, which was moving up from the Malabar coast, and was but thirty or forty miles distant.

To effect this movement, it was necessary to pass within sight of the capital. Tippoo came out, and took up a strong position, on a rugged and almost inaccessible height. In front was a swamp stretching to the river, while batteries had been thrown up to sweep the approaches.

By a night march, accomplished in the midst of a tremendous thunder and rain storm, Lord Cornwallis turned Tippoo's position. The confusion occasioned by the storm, however, and the fact that several of the corps lost their way, prevented the full success hoped for from being attained, and gave Tippoo time to take up a fresh position.

Colonel Maxwell led five battalions up a rocky ledge, held by a strong body of the Mysore troops, carried it at the point of the bayonet, and captured some guns. Tippoo immediately began to fall back, but would have lost the greater portion of his artillery, had not the Nizam's horse moved forward across the line by which the British were advancing. Here they remained in an inert mass, powerless to follow Tippoo, and a complete barrier to the British advance. So unaccountable was their conduct, that it was generally believed in the army that it was the result of treachery; and it was with difficulty that the British troops could be restrained from firing into the horde of horsemen, who had, from the time they joined the force, been worse than useless.

As soon as the British could make their way through, or round, the obstacle to their advance, they pursued the retreating force of Tippoo, until it took refuge under the guns of the works round Seringapatam. Their loss had been 2000, that of the British 500.

But the success was of little benefit to the latter. The terrible state of the roads, and the want of food, had caused the death of great numbers of draught animals, and the rest were so debilitated as to be absolutely useless; and during the two days' marches, that were required to reach the point on the river previously determined upon, the battering train, and almost the whole of the carts, were dragged along by the troops.

The position of the army was bad in the extreme. Neither food nor forage were to be obtained from the country round. The troops were almost on famine rations, worn out by fatigue, and by the march through heavy rains, and nights spent on the sodden ground. Tippoo's horsemen hovered round them. The cavalry of the Nizam, which had been specially engaged to keep the foe at a distance, never once ventured to engage them. It was absolutely impossible to communicate with General Abercrombie, and after remaining but a couple of days in his new camp, Lord Cornwallis felt that the army could only be saved from destruction by immediate retreat.

No time was lost in carrying out the decision, when once arrived at. Some natives were paid heavily to endeavour to make their way to Abercrombie, with orders for him to retire down the ghauts again into Malabar. Then the whole of the battering train, and the heavy equipments, were destroyed; and on the 26th of May, the army started for its long march back to Bangalore.

It had made but six miles when a body of horsemen, some two thousand strong, were seen approaching. Preparations were instantly made to repel an attack, when a soldier rode in, and announced that the horsemen were the advance party of two Mahratta armies, close at hand. This was welcome news, indeed, for Lord Cornwallis had no idea that the Mahrattis were within two hundred miles of him, and had come to believe that they had no intention, whatever, of carrying out their engagements.

They had, it appeared, sent off a messenger, every day, to inform him of their movements; but so vigilant were Tippoo's cavalry, that not one of them ever reached the British. In a few hours, the junction was completed, and the sufferings of the army were at an end. Stores of every kind were abundant with the Mahrattis, and not only food, but clothing, and every necessary of life, could be purchased in the great bazaars, occupied by the Mahratta traders who accompanied the army.

Had the two Mahratta armies arrived a couple of days earlier, the destruction of the siege train would have been avoided, Seringapatam would have been besieged, Abercrombie's army of eight thousand men have joined, and the war brought at once to a conclusion. It was now, however, too late. The means for prosecuting the siege of so powerful a fortress were altogether wanting, and the united armies returned, by easy marches, to Bangalore.

On the march, the future plan of operations was decided upon. Lord Cornwallis sent orders for the sum of 1,500,000 rupees, that had been intended for China, to be at once despatched to Bangalore for the use of the army, and the allies. The larger of the Mahratta forces, under Purseram Bhow, with a detachment of Bombay troops that had accompanied it, were to march to the northwest, and reduce some of the forts and towns still held by the troops of Mysore. The other Mahratta force, consisting chiefly of cavalry, under Hurry Punt, were to remain at Bangalore.

The cause of the long delay, on the part of the Nizam and the Mahrattis, was now explained. The Nizam's troops had spent six months in the siege of the fortress of Capool, while an equal time had been occupied, by Purseram Bhow, in the siege of Durwar, a very strong place, garrisoned by ten thousand men.

Tippoo began negotiations immediately after his defeat near Seringapatam, and these were continued until July, when they were finally broken off. Some months were occupied in reducing a number of the hill forts, commanding the entrances to the various passes. Among these, two, deemed absolutely impregnable, Savandroog and Nundidroog, were captured, but the attack upon Kistnagherry was repulsed with considerable loss.

By the capture of these places, Lord Cornwallis obtained access to supplies from the Malabar and Carnatic coasts, and was thus free from the risk of any recurrence of the misfortunes that had marred his previous attempt to lay siege to Seringapatam; and, on the 5th of February, 1792, he again came within sight of Tippoo's capital.



Chapter 9: News Of The Captive.


During the nine months that had elapsed since the retreat from before Seringapatam, Dick had been occupied in following out the main object of his presence in Mysore. Finding that Purseram Bhow's army was the first that would be engaged in active service, he asked permission from the general to join it. This was at once granted, and Lord Cornwallis introduced him to the officer in command of the Bombay troops attached to that army, informing him of the object that he had in view.

"He will not be of much use as an interpreter," he said, "for as the country in which you are going to operate formed, until lately, a part of the Mahratta dominions, Mahratti will be principally spoken. He will, therefore, go simply as an officer of my staff, attached for the present to your command. He has asked me to allow him to take with him twenty men, belonging to the troop of his uncle, the Rajah of Tripataly. His object, in doing so, is that he will be able to traverse the country independently, and can either rejoin me here, or go to one of the other columns operating against the hill forts, if it should seem to him expedient to do so. Should you desire to make a reconnaissance at any time, while he is with you, you will find him useful as an escort, and will not be obliged to ask Purseram Bhow for a party of his cavalry."

Dick was sorry to leave his uncle, whose tent he had now shared for the last ten months. He found himself, however, very comfortable with the Bombay troops, being made a member of the mess, consisting of the officer in command and the four officers of his staff. Wishing to have some duties with which to occupy himself, he volunteered to act as an aide-de-camp; and although the work was little more than nominal, it gave him some employment. When not otherwise engaged, he generally rode with Surajah, whom his uncle had appointed to command the twenty troopers.

In the year that had elapsed since his arrival in India, Dick had grown considerably, and broadened out greatly, and was now a powerful young fellow of over seventeen. He had, since the troop joined the army of Lord Cornwallis, exchanged his civilian dress for the undress uniform of an officer, which he had purchased at the sale of the effects of a young lieutenant on the general's staff, who had died just as the army arrived before Bangalore. It was, indeed, necessary that he should do this, riding about, as he did, either on the staff of the general, or with the officers of the quartermasters' department. There would be no difficulty in renewing his uniform, for hardship, fever, and war had carried off a large number of officers, as well as men; and the effects were always sold by auction, on the day following the funeral.

Many hill fortresses were captured by the Mahrattis, but few offered any resistance; as their commanders knew well that there was no chance of their being relieved, while the men were, in most cases, delighted at the prospect of an escape from their enforced service, and of freedom to return to their homes. In a few of these forts, English captives were found. Some had been there for years, their very existence being apparently forgotten by the tyrant. Some had been fairly treated by the Mysore governor, and where this was the case, the latter was furnished by the British officers with papers, testifying to the kindness with which they had treated the prisoners, and recommending them to the officers of any of the allied forces they might encounter on their way home, or when established there.

Upon the other hand, some of the prisoners were found to have been all but starved, and treated with great brutality. In two cases, where the captives said that some of their companions had died from the effects of the ill treatment they had received, the governors were tried by court martial and shot, while some of the others they sentenced to be severely flogged.

Every captive released was closely scrutinised by Dick, and eagerly questioned. From one of them, he obtained news that his father had certainly been alive four years previously, for they had been in prison together, in a hill fort near Bangalore.

"I was a civilian and he a sailor," he said, "consequently neither of us were of any use in drilling Tippoo's battalions, and had been sent up there. Your father was well, then. The governor was a good fellow, and we had nothing much to complain of. Mr. Holland was a favourite of his, for, being a sailor, he was handy at all sorts of things. He could mend a piece of broken furniture, repair the lock of a musket, and make himself generally useful. He left there before I did, as the governor was transferred to some other fort -- I never heard where it was -- and he took your father with him. I don't know whether he had Tippoo's orders to do so, or whether he took him simply because he liked him.

"At any rate, he was the only prisoner who went with him. The rest of us remained there till a few months back, when the fort was abandoned. It was just after the capture of Bangalore, and the place could have offered no resistance, if a body of troops had been sent against it. At any rate, an order arrived one morning, and a few hours afterwards the place was entirely abandoned, and we and the garrison marched here."

"My father was quite well?"

"Quite well. He used to talk to me, at times, of trying to make his escape. Being a sailor, I have no doubt that he could have got down from the precipice on which the fort stood; but he knew that, if he did so, we should all suffer for it, and probably be all put to death, as soon as Tippoo heard that one of us had escaped -- for that was always done, in order to deter prisoners from trying to get away."

"Do you think that there is any chance of his being still alive?"

"That is more than I can possibly say. You see, we have not known much of what is passing outside our prison. Some of the guards were good natured enough, and would occasionally give us a scrap of news; but we heard most from the ill-tempered ones, who delighted in telling us anything they knew that would pain us.

"Three or four months ago, we heard that every white prisoner in Seringapatam had been put to death, by Tippoo's orders, and that doubtless there would be a similar clearance everywhere else. Then, again, we were told that the English had retreated, beaten, from before Seringapatam, and that the last of them would soon be down the ghauts. But whether the prisoners have been killed in other hill forts like this, I cannot say, although I suppose not, or we should not have escaped."

"Certainly no such orders can have been sent to the forts here, for we have found a few prisoners in several of them. Of course, it may be otherwise in the forts near the capital, which Tippoo might have thought were likely to fall into our hands; while he may not have considered it worth while to send the same orders to places so far away as this, where no British force was likely to come. Still, at any rate, it is a great satisfaction that my father was alive four years ago, and that he was in kind hands. That is all in favour of my finding him, still alive, in one of the places we shall take, for Lord Cornwallis intends to besiege some of the fortresses that command the passes, because he cannot undertake another siege of Seringapatam until he can obtain supplies, freely and regularly, from beyond the ghauts; as nothing whatever can be obtained from the country round, so completely is it wasted by Tippoo's cavalry. I have, therefore, great hopes that my father may be found in one of these forts."

"I hope, indeed, that you may find him. I am convinced that the governor would save his life, if he could do so; though, on the other hand, he would, I am sure, carry out any order he might receive from Tippoo. Of course, he may not be in charge of a fort now, and may have been appointed colonel of one of the regiments. However, it is always better to hope that things will come as you wish them, however unlikely it may seem that they will do so. We have been living on hope here, though the chances of our ever being released were small, indeed. Of course, we did not even know that Tippoo and the English were at war, until we heard that an English army was besieging Bangalore; and even then we all felt that, even if Tippoo were beaten and forced to make peace, it would make no difference to us. He kept back hundreds of prisoners when he was defeated before, and would certainly not surrender any he now holds, unless compelled to do so; and no one would be able to give information as to the existence of captives in these distant forts.

"And yet, in the teeth of all these improbabilities, we continued to hope, and the hopes have been realised."

The capture of forts by the Mahratta army was abruptly checked. Having, so far, met with such slight opposition, Purseram Bhow became over confident, and scattered his force over a wide extent of country, in order that they might more easily find food and forage. In this condition they were suddenly attacked by Tippoo, who took advantage of the English being detained at Bangalore, while the transport train was being reorganised, to strike a blow at the Mahrattis.

The stroke was a heavy one. Many of the detached parties were completely destroyed; and the Mahratta general, after gathering the rest to his standard, was forced to retreat, until strong reinforcements were sent him from Bangalore.

Learning, from them, that it was probable Lord Cornwallis would advance as soon as they rejoined him, Dick determined to go back to Bangalore, as it was unlikely that, after the severe check they had received, the Mahrattis would resume the offensive for a time.

Surajah and the men were glad to return to the troop, and as soon as the Mysorean force returned to Seringapatam, Dick, without waiting for the infantry to get in motion, rode rapidly across the country with his little party.

He accompanied the English army during their operations, obtaining permission to go with the columns engaged in the siege of the hill fortresses, and was present at the capture of all the most important strongholds. To his bitter disappointment, no English prisoners were found in any of them, and it was but too certain that all who might have been there had been massacred, by Tippoo's orders, on the first advance of the British against Seringapatam.

Great indeed was the satisfaction of the army when they at last came in sight of the city. The capital of Mysore stood on an island, in the river Cauvery. This was four miles in length, and two in breadth. The town stood in its centre, the fort at the northern end. The island was approached by two bridges, one close to the fort, the other at the south, both being defended by strong batteries. There were also three fords, two of these being at the north end of the island, and also defended by batteries; the third was near the centre of the island, a mile below the fort, and leading to the native town.

The fort was separated from the rest of the island by a deep ditch cut across it. It was defended by numerous batteries. There were two gardens on the island, full of large trees, one of them being the burial place of Hyder Ali. This was connected with the fort by two avenues of trees. The country round was flat, a considerable portion being almost level with the river, and devoted to the cultivation of rice, while at other points a forest extended, almost to the bank.

After obtaining a view, from some high ground, of the city and of Tippoo's army encamped beyond its walls, the British force took up its position six miles to the northwest of the city. No sooner had the army reached their camping ground than Lord Cornwallis, with his staff, reconnoitred the approaches.

A thick hedge, formed by a wide belt of thorny shrubs, interlaced and fastened together by cords, extended from the bank of the river, about a thousand yards above Seringapatam; and, making a wide sweep, came down to it again opposite the other end of the island.

It was within the shelter of this formidable obstacle that Tippoo's army was encamped. Within the enclosed space were seven or eight eminences, on which strong redoubts had been erected. Fearing that Tippoo might, as soon as he saw the position taken up by the assailants, sally out with his army, take the field, and, as before, cut all his communications, Lord Cornwallis determined to strike a blow at once.

At sunset, orders were accordingly issued for the forces to move, in three columns, at three o'clock; by which time the moon would be high enough to light up, thoroughly, the ground to be traversed. The centre column, consisting of 3,700 men, under Lord Cornwallis himself, was to burst through the hedge at the centre of the enemy's position, to drive the enemy before them, and, if possible, to cross the ford to the island with the fugitives.

This, however, was not to be done until the centre column was reinforced by that under General Meadows, which was to avoid a strong redoubt at the northwest extremity of the hedge, and, entering the fence at a point between the redoubt and the river, drive the enemy before it, until it joined the centre column. Colonel Meadows had 3,300 under his command. The left column, consisting of 1,700 men under Colonel Maxwell, was first to carry a redoubt on Carrygut Hill, just outside the fence; and, having captured this, to cut its way through the hedge, and to cross the river at once, with a portion of the centre column.

Unfortunately, owing to a misunderstanding as to the order, the officer guiding General Meadow's column, instead of taking it to a point between the northwestern redoubt and the river, led it directly at the fort. This was stoutly defended, and cost the British eighty men and eleven officers. Leaving a strong garrison here, the column advanced, but came upon another redoubt, of even greater strength and magnitude; and the general, fearing that the delay that would take place in capturing it would entirely disarrange the plan of the attack, thought he had better make his way out through the hedge, march round it to the point where the centre column had entered it, and so give Lord Cornwallis the support he must need, opposed as he was to the whole army of Tippoo.

In the meantime, Colonel Maxwell's force had stormed the work on Carrygut Hill, and had made its way through the hedge; suffering heavily, as it did so, from the fire of a strong body of the enemy, concealed in a water course. The head of the centre column, under General Knox, after cutting its way through the hedge, pushed on with levelled bayonets, thrust its way through the enemy's infantry, and, mingling with a mass of fugitives, crossed the main ford close under the guns of the fort, and took possession of a village, half way between the town and the fort.

Unfortunately, in the confusion but three companies had followed him. The rest of the regiment and three companies of Sepoys crossed lower down, and gained possession of a palace on the bank of the river. The officer in command, however, not knowing that any others had crossed, and receiving no orders, waited until day began to break. He then recrossed the river and joined Lord Cornwallis, a portion of whose column, having been reinforced by Maxwell's column, crossed the river nearly opposite the town.

As they were crossing, a battery of the enemy's artillery opened a heavy fire upon them; but Colonel Knox, with his three companies, charged it in the rear, drove out the defenders, and silenced the guns.

All this time Lord Cornwallis was with the reserve of the central column, eagerly waiting the arrival of General Meadows' division. This, in some unaccountable way, had missed the gap in the hedge by which the centre column had entered, and, marching on, halted at last at Carrygut Hill, where it was not discovered until daylight.

The Mysore army on its left was still unbroken, and had been joined by large numbers of troops from the centre. On discovering the smallness of the force under Lord Cornwallis, they attacked it in overwhelming numbers, led by Tippoo himself. The British infantry advanced to meet them with the bayonet, and drove them back with heavy loss. They rallied, and returned to the attack again and again, but were as often repulsed; continuing their attacks, however, until daylight, when Lord Cornwallis, discovering at last the position of General Meadows, joined him on Carrygut Hill.

When day broke, the commanders of the two armies were able to estimate the results of the night's operations. On the English side, the only positions gained were the works on Carrygut Hill, the redoubt at the northwest corner of the hedge, another redoubt captured by the centre column, and the positions occupied by the force under Colonels Stuart and Knox, at the eastern end of the island.

The sultan found that his army was much reduced in strength, no less than twenty-three thousand men being killed, wounded, or missing. Of these, the missing were vastly the most numerous, for ten thousand Chelahs, young Hindoos whom Tippoo had carried off in his raids, and forced to become soldiers, and, nominally, Mohammedans, had taken advantage of the confusion, and marched away with their arms to the Forest of Coorg.

Tippoo made several determined efforts to drive Colonel Stuart's force off the island, and to recapture the redoubts, but was repulsed with such heavy loss that he abandoned the attempt altogether, evacuated the other redoubts, and brought his whole army across on to the island.

Tippoo now attempted to negotiate. He had already done so a month before, but Lord Cornwallis had refused to accept his advances, saying that negotiation was useless, with one who disregarded treaties and violated articles of capitulation.

"Send hither," he wrote, "the garrison of Coimbatoor, and then we will listen to what you have to say."

Lord Cornwallis alluded to the small body of troops who, under Lieutenants Chalmers and Nash, had bravely defended that town when it had been attacked by one of Tippoo's generals. The gallant little garrison had surrendered at last, on the condition that they should be allowed to march freely away. This condition had been violated by Tippoo, and the garrison had been marched, as prisoners, to Seringapatam. The two officers had been kept in the fort, but most of the soldiers, and twenty-seven other European captives who had lately been brought in from the hill forts, were lodged in the village that Colonel Knox had first occupied, on crossing the river, and had all been released by him. Some of these had been in Tippoo's hands for many years, and their joy at their unexpected release was unspeakable.

Preparations were now made for the siege. General Abercrombie was ordered up, with a force of six thousand men, but before his arrival, Lieutenant Chalmers was sent in with a letter from Tippoo, asking for terms of capitulation. Negotiations were indeed entered into, but, doubting Tippoo's good faith, the preparations for the siege were continued; and upon the arrival of General Abercrombie's force, on the 15th of February, siege operations were commenced at the end of the island still in British possession.

A few days afterwards, the army was astounded at hearing that the conditions had been agreed upon, and that hostilities were to cease at once. So great was the indignation, indeed, that a spirit of insubordination, and almost mutiny, was evinced by many of the corps. They had suffered extreme hardships, had been engaged in most arduous marches, had been decimated by fever and bad food, and they could scarce believe their ears when they heard that they were to hold their hands, now that, after a year's campaigning, Seringapatam was at their mercy; and that the man who had butchered so many hundred English captives, who had wasted whole provinces and carried half a million people into captivity, who had been guilty of the grossest treachery, and whose word was absolutely worthless, was to escape personal punishment.

Still higher did the indignation rise, both among officers and men, when the conditions of the treaty became known, and it was discovered that no stipulation whatever had been made for the handing over of the English prisoners still in Mysore, previous to a cessation of hostilities. This condition, at least, should have been insisted upon, and carried out previous to any negotiations being entered upon.

The reasons that induced Lord Cornwallis to make this treaty, when Seringapatam lay at his mercy, have ever been a mystery. Tippoo had proved himself a monster unfitted to live, much less to rule, and the crimes he had committed against the English should have been punished by the public trial and execution of their author. To conclude peace with him, now, was to enable him to make fresh preparations for war, and to necessitate another expedition at enormous cost and great loss of life. Tippoo had already proved that he was not to be bound either by treaties or oaths. And, lastly, it would have been thought that, as a general, Lord Cornwallis would have wished his name to go down to posterity in connection with the conquest of Mysore, and the capture of Seringapatam, rather than with the memorable surrender of York Town, the greatest disaster that ever befell a British army.

The conditions were, in themselves, onerous, and had they been imposed upon any other than a brutal and faithless tyrant, might have been deemed sufficient. Tippoo was deprived of half his dominions, which were to be divided among the allies, each taking the portions adjacent to their territory. A sum of 3,300,000 pounds was to be paid for the expenses of the war. All prisoners of the allied powers were to be restored.

Two of Tippoo's sons were to be given up as hostages. Even after they had been handed over, there were considerable delays before Tippoo's signature was obtained, and it was not until Lord Cornwallis threatened to resume hostilities that, on the 18th of March, a treaty was finally sealed. Of the ceded territory the Mahrattis and the Nizam each took a third as their share, although the assistance they had rendered in the struggle had been but of comparatively slight utility. It may, indeed, be almost said that it was given to them as a reward for not accepting the offers Tippoo had made them, of joining with him against the British.

The British share included a large part of the Malabar coast, with the forts of Calicut and Cananore, and the territory of our ally, the Rajah of Coorg. These cessions gave us the passes leading into Mysore from the west. On the south we gained possession of the fort of Dindegul, and the districts surrounding it; while on the east we acquired the tract from Amboor to Caroor, and so obtained possession of several important fortresses, together with the chief passes by which Hyder had made his incursions into the Carnatic.

Dick felt deeply the absence of any proviso, in the treaty, that all prisoners should be restored previous to a cessation of hostilities; at the same time admitting the argument of his uncle that, although under such an agreement some prisoners might be released, there was no means of insuring that the stipulation would be faithfully carried out.

"You see, Dick, no one knows, or has indeed the faintest idea, what prisoners Tippoo still has in his hands. We do not know how many have been murdered during the years Tippoo has reigned. Men who have escaped have, from time to time, brought down news of murders in the places where they had been confined, but they have known little of what has happened elsewhere. Moreover, we have learned that certainly fifty or sixty were put to death, at Seringapatam, before we advanced upon it the first time. We know, too, that some were murdered in the hill forts that we have captured. But how many remain alive, at the present time, we have not the slightest idea. Tippoo might hand over a dozen, and take a solemn oath that there was not one remaining; and though we might feel perfectly certain that he was lying, we should be in no position to prove it.

"The stipulation ought to have been made, if only as a matter of honour, but it would have been of no real efficiency. Of course, if we had dethroned Tippoo and annexed all his territory, we should undoubtedly have got at all the prisoners, wherever they were hidden. But we could hardly have done that. It would have aroused the jealousy and fear of every native prince in India. It would have united the Nizam and the Mahrattis against us, and would even have been disapproved of in England, where public opinion is adverse to further acquisitions of territory, and where people are, of course, altogether ignorant of the monstrous cruelties perpetrated by Tippoo, not only upon English captives, but upon his neighbours everywhere.

"Naturally, I am prejudiced in favour of this treaty, for the handing over of the country from Amboor to Caroor, with all the passes and forts, will set us free at Tripataly from the danger of being again overrun and devastated by Mysore. My people will be able to go about their work peacefully and in security, free alike from fear of wholesale invasion, or incursions of robber bands from the ghauts. All my waste lands will be taken up. My revenue will be trebled.

"There is another thing. Now that the English possess territory beyond that of the Nabob of Arcot, and are gradually spreading their power north, there can be little doubt that, before long, the whole country of Arcot, Travancore, Tanjore, and other small native powers will be incorporated in their dominions. Arcot is powerless for defence, and while, during the last two wars, it has been nominally an ally of the English, the Nabob has been able to give them no real assistance whatever, and the burden of his territory has fallen on them. They took the first step when, at the beginning of the present war, they arranged with him to utilise all the resources and collect the revenues of his possessions, and to allow him an annual income for the maintenance of his state and family. This is clearly the first step towards taking the territory into their own hands, and managing its revenues, and the same will be done in other cases.

"Lord Cornwallis the other day, in thanking me for the services that you and I and the troop have rendered, promised me that an early arrangement should be made, by which I should rule Tripataly under the government of Madras, instead of under the Nabob. This, you see, will be virtually a step in rank, and I shall hold my land direct from the English, instead of from a prince who has become, in fact, a puppet in their hands."

A few days later, the army set off on its march from Mysore, and the same day the Rajah, after making his adieus to Lord Cornwallis, started with his troop for Tripataly, making his way by long marches, instead of following the slow progress of the army. After a couple of days at Tripataly, they went down to Madras, and brought back the Rajah's household.

The meeting between Dick and his mother was one of mixed feeling. It was twenty months since the former had left with his uncle, and he was now nearly eighteen. He had written whenever there was an opportunity of sending any letters; and although his position as interpreter on the staff of the general had relieved her from any great anxiety on his account, she was glad, indeed, to see him again.

Upon the other hand, the fact that, as the war went on, and fortress after fortress had been captured, no news came to her that her hopes had been realised; and that the war had now come to a termination, without the mystery that hung over her husband being in any way cleared up, had profoundly depressed Mrs. Holland, and it was with mingled tears of pleasure and sorrow that she fell on his neck on his return to Madras.

"You must not give way, Mother," Dick said, as she sobbed out her fears that all hope was at an end. "Remember that you have never doubted he was alive, and that you have always said you would know if any evil fate had befallen him; and I have always felt confident that you were right. There is nothing changed. I certainly have not succeeded in finding him, but we have found many prisoners in some of the little out-of-the-way forts. Now, some of them have been captives quite as long as he has; therefore there is no reason, whatever, why he should not also be alive. I have no thought of giving up the search as hopeless. I mean to carry out our old plans; and certainly I am much better fitted to do so than I was when I first landed here. I know a great deal about Mysore, and although I don't say I speak the dialect like a native, I have learnt a good deal of it, and can speak it quite as well as the natives of the ghauts and outlying provinces. Surajah, who is a great friend of mine, has told me that if I go he will go too, and that will be a tremendous help. Anyhow, as long as you continue to believe firmly that Father is still alive, I mean to continue the search for him."

"I do believe that he is alive, Dick, as firmly as ever. I have not lost hope in that respect. It is only that I doubt now whether he will ever be found."

"Well, that is my business, Mother. As long as you continue to believe that he is still alive, I shall continue to search for him. I have no other object in life, at present. It will be quite soon enough for me to think of taking up the commission I have been promised, when you tell me that your feeling that he is alive has been shaken."

Mrs. Holland was comforted by Dick's assurance and confident tone, and, putting the thought aside for a time, gave herself up to the pleasure of his return. They had found everything at Tripataly as they had left it, for the Mysore horsemen had not penetrated so far north, before Tippoo turned his course east to Pondicherry. The people had, months before, returned to their homes and avocations.

One evening the Rajah said, as they were all sitting together:

"I hear from my wife, Dick, that your mother has told her you still intend to carry out your original project."

"Yes, Uncle. I have quite made up my mind as to that. There are still plenty of places where he may be, and certainly I am a good deal more fitted for travelling about in disguise, in Mysore, than I was before."

The Rajah nodded.

"Yes. I think, Dick, you are as capable of taking care of yourself as anyone could be. I hear that Surajah is willing to go with you, and this will certainly be a great advantage. He has proved himself thoroughly intelligent and trustworthy, and I have promised him that someday he shall be captain of the troop. You are not thinking of starting just yet, I suppose?"

"No, Uncle. I thought of staying another month or two, before I go off again. Mother says she cannot let me go before that."

"I fancy it will take you longer than that, Dick, before you can pass as a native."

Dick looked surprised.

"Why, Uncle, I did pass as a native, eighteen months ago."

"Yes, you did, Dick; but for how long? You went into shops, bought things, chatted for a short time with natives, and so on; but that is not like living among them. You would be found out before you had been a single day in the company of a native."

Dick looked still more surprised.

"How, Uncle? What do I do that they would know me by."

"It is not what you do, Dick, but it is what you don't do. You can't sit on your heels -- squat, as you call it. That is the habitual attitude of every native. He squats while he cooks. He squats for hours by the fire, smoking and talking. He never stands for any length of time and, except upon a divan or something of that sort, he never sits down. Before you can go and live among the natives, and pass as one for any length of time, you must learn to squat as they do, for hours at a stretch; and I can tell you that it is not by any means an easy accomplishment to learn. I myself have quite lost the power. I used to be able to do it, as a boy, but from always sitting on divans or chairs in European fashion, I have got out of the way of it, and I don't think I could squat for a quarter of an hour, to save my life."

Dick's mother and cousins laughed heartily, but he said, seriously, "You are quite right, Uncle. I wonder I never thought of it before. It was stupid of me not to do so. Of course, when I have been talking with Surajah or other officers, by a camp fire, I have sat on the ground; but I see that it would never do, in native dress. I will begin at once."

"Wait a moment, Dick," the Rajah said. "There are other things which you will have to practise. You may have to move in several disguises, and must learn to comport yourself in accordance with them. You must remember that your motions are quicker and more energetic than are those of people here. Your walk is different; the swing of the arms, your carriage, are all different from theirs. You are unaccustomed to walk either barefooted or in native shoes. Now, all these things have to be practised before you can really pass muster. Therefore I propose that you shall at once accustom yourself to the attire, which you can do in our apartments of an evening. The ranee and the boys will be able to correct your first awkwardness, and to teach you much.

"After a week or two, you must stain your face, arms, and legs, and go out with Rajbullub in the evening. You must keep your eyes open, and watch everything that passes, and do as you see others do. When Rajbullub thinks that you can pass muster, you will take to going out with him in the daylight, and so you will come, in time, to reach a point that it will be safe for you to begin your attempt.

"Do not watch only the peasants. There is no saying that it may not be necessary to take to other disguises. Observe the traders, the soldiers, and even the fakirs. You will see that they walk each with a different mien. The trader is slow and sober. The man who wears a sword walks with a certain swagger. The fakir is everything by turns; he whines, and threatens; he sometimes mumbles his prayers, and sometimes shrieks at the top of his voice.

"When you are not riding or shooting, lad, do not spend your time in the garden, or with the women. Go into the town and keep your eyes open. Bear in mind that you are learning a lesson, and that your life depends upon your being perfect in every respect.

"As to your first disguise, I will speak to Rajbullub, and he will get it ready by tomorrow evening. The dress of the peasant of Mysore differs little from that here, save that he wears rather more clothing than is necessary in this warm climate."



Chapter 10: In Disguise.


On the following evening, Dick appeared in the room where the others were sitting, in the dress Rajbullub had got for him, and which was similar to that of other peasants. The boys had already been told that he was shortly going on a journey, and that it would be necessary for him to travel in disguise, but had been warned that it was a matter that was not to be spoken of, to anyone. The early respect, that Dick's strength and activity had inspired them with, had been much shaken when they discovered that he was unable either to ride or shoot; but their father's narrative of his adventures, when scouting with Surajah, had completely reinstated him in their high opinion.

When he entered, however, they burst out laughing. The two ladies could not help smiling, and Dick was not long before he joined in the laugh against himself. He had felt uncomfortable enough when he started, in an almost similar dress, with Surajah, although there was then no one to criticise his appearance. But now, in the presence of his mother and aunt, he felt strangely uncomfortable.

"Never mind, Dick," his uncle said, encouragingly. "The boys would feel just as uncomfortable as you do now, if they were dressed up in European fashion. Now, while we are talking, make your first attempt at sitting on your heels."

Dick squatted down until his knees nearly touched his chest, and a moment later lost his balance and toppled over, amid a roar of laughter. Next time, he balanced himself more carefully.

"That is right, Dick. You will get accustomed to it, in time. But you must see, already, that there is a good deal more to be done than you thought of, before you can pass as a native. Remember, you must not only be able to balance yourself while sitting still, but must be able to use your hands -- for cooking purposes, for example; for eating; or for doing anything there may be to do -- not only without losing your balance, but without showing that you are balancing yourself."

"It is much more difficult than I thought, Uncle. Of course, I have always seen the natives squatting like this, but it seemed so natural that it never struck me it was difficult at all. I say, it is beginning to hurt already. My shin bones are aching horribly."

"Yes; that is where the strain comes, my boy. But you have got to stick to it, until your muscles there, which have never been called into play in this way before, get accustomed to the work."

"I understand that, Uncle. It was just the same with my arms, when I began to climb. But I can't stand this any longer. I can no more get up than I can fly;" and Dick rolled over on to his side.

Again and again he tried, after a short rest between each trial. As he gave it up, and limped stiffly to the divan, he said:

"I feel as if some one had been kicking me on the shins, until he had nearly broken them, Mother. I have been kicked pretty badly several times, in fights by rough fellows at home in Shadwell, but it never hurt like this;" and he rubbed his aching legs ruefully.

"Well, Uncle, I am very much obliged to you for putting me up to practising this position. It seemed to me that it would be quite a simple thing, to walk along quietly, and to move my arms about as they do; but I never thought of this.

"I wonder, Mother, you never told me that, above all things, I should have to learn to squat on my heels for any time. It would not have been so difficult to learn it, five or six years ago, when I was not anything like so heavy as I am now."

"It never once occurred to me, Dick. I wish it had. I thought I had foreseen every difficulty, but it never once came into my mind that, in order to pass as a native, you must be able to sit like one."

"Ah, well, I shall learn in time, Mother," Dick replied cheerfully. "Every exercise is hard at first, but one soon gets accustomed to it."

Dick threw himself with his usual energy into his new work. Although of a morning, when he first woke, his shins caused him the most acute pain, he always spent half an hour in practice. Afterwards he would sit for some time, allowing the water from the tap at the side of the bath to flow upon the aching muscles. Then he would dress and, as soon as breakfast was over, go for a run in the garden. At first it was but a shamble, but gradually the terrible stiffness would wear off, and he would return to the house comparatively well.

Of an evening the practice was longer, and was kept up until the aching pain became unendurable. At the end of four or five days, he was scarcely able to walk at all, but after that time matters improved, and three weeks later he could preserve the attitude for half an hour at a time.

In other respects, his training had gone on uninterruptedly every day. He went out into the town, accompanied sometimes by Rajbullub, sometimes by Surajah, in the disguises of either a peasant, a soldier, or a trader; and learnt to walk, and carry himself, in accordance with his dress. Before putting on these disguises, he painted himself with a solution that could easily be washed off, on his return to the palace, where he now always wore a European dress.

"You cannot be too careful," the Rajah said. "There are, of course, Mohammedans here; and, for aught we know, some may act as agents or spies of Tippoo, just as the English have agents and spies in Mysore. Were one of them to send word that you had taken to Indian attire, and that it was believed that you were about to undertake some mission or other, it would add considerably to your difficulties and dangers. As it is, no one outside our own circle ever sees you about with me or the boys, except in your European dress, and Rajbullub tells me that, in no single instance while you have been in disguise, has any suspicion been excited, or question asked by the people of various classes with whom you and he converse in the streets."

Another month passed, and by this time Dick could, without any great fatigue, squat on his heels for an hour at a time. As the date for his departure drew near, his mother became more and more nervous and anxious.

"I shall never forgive myself, if you do not come back," she said one day, when they were alone. "I cannot but feel that I have been selfish, and that really, on the strength of a conviction which most people would laugh at as whimsical and absurd, I am risking the substance for a shadow, and am imperilling the life of my only boy, upon the faint chance that he may find my husband. I know that even your uncle, although he has always been most kind about it, and assisted in every way in his power, has but little belief in the success of your search; although, as he sees how bent I am upon it, he says nothing that might dash my hopes.

"If evil comes of it, Dick, I shall never forgive myself. I shall feel that I have sacrificed you to a sort of hallucination."

"I can only say, Mother," Dick replied, "that I came out here, and entered into your plans, only because I had the most implicit faith that you were right. I should now continue it on my own account, even if tomorrow you should be taken from me. Of course, I see plainly enough that the chances are greatly against my ever hearing anything of Father; but from what has taken place during the campaign, I have seen that there must be many British captives still hidden away among the hill forts, and it is quite possible he may be among them. I do not even say that it is probable, but the chances are not so very greatly against it; and even if I thought they were smaller -- much smaller than I believe them to be -- I should still consider it my duty to go up and try and find him. So, even if it should happen that I never come back again, you will not have yourself to blame, for it is not you that are sending me, but I who am going of my free will; and indeed, I feel it so much my duty that, even were you to turn round now and ask me to stay, I should still think it right to undertake this mission.

"But indeed, Mother, I see no great danger in it; in fact, scarcely any danger at all -- at any rate, unless I find Father. If I do so, there might certainly be risk in attempting to get him away; but this, if I am lucky enough in discovering him, will not weigh with me for an instant. If I do not find him, it seems to me that the risk is a mere nothing. Surajah and I will wander about, enlisting in the garrisons of forts. Then, if we find there are no prisoners there, we shall take an early opportunity of getting away. In some places, no doubt, I shall be able to learn from men of the garrison whether there are prisoners, without being forced to enter at all; for although in the great forts, like Savandroog and Outradroog, it is considered so important the defences should be kept secret, that none of the garrison are allowed to leave until they are discharged as too old for service, there is no occasion for the same precaution in the case of less important places. Thus, you see, we shall simply have to wander about, keeping our eyes and ears open, and finding out, either from the peasants or the soldiers themselves, whether there are any prisoners there."

"I wish I could go with you, Dick. I used to think that, when the work of searching for your father had begun, I could wait patiently for the result; but instead of that, I find myself even more anxious and more nervous than I was at Shadwell."

"I can quite understand, Mother, that it is very much more trying work, sitting here waiting, than it is to be actively engaged. The only thing is, that you must promise me not to trouble more than you can help; for if I think of you as sitting here fretting about me, I shall worry infinitely more than I otherwise should over any difficulties we may have to encounter. You must remember that I shall have Surajah with me. He is a capital companion, and will always be able to advise me upon native business. He is as plucky as a fellow can be, and I can trust him to do anything, just as I would myself."

The preparations for departure now began in earnest. There was some discussion as to the arms that were to be taken, but at last it was decided that, with safety, they could carry nothing beyond a matchlock, a pistol, and a sword each.

Great pains were taken in the selection of the matchlocks. In the armoury were several weapons of high finish, with silver mountings, that had belonged to the Rajah's father and grandfather. These were tried against each other, and the two that were proved to be the most accurate were chosen. Dick found, indeed, that at distances up to a hundred yards, they were quite equal to the English rifle he had brought out. The silver mountings were taken off, and then the pieces differed in no way, in appearance, from those in general use among the peasantry.

The pistols were chosen with equal care. The swords were of finely tempered steel, the blades being removed from their jewelled handles, for which were substituted rough handles of ordinary metal.

Ten gold pieces were sewn up underneath the iron bands encircling the leathern scabbard, as many under the bosses of their shields, and five pieces in the soles of each of their shoes. In their waist sashes, the ordinary receptacle of money, each carried a small bag with native silver coins.

At last all was ready and, an hour before daybreak, Dick took a cheerful farewell of his mother, and a hearty one of his uncle, and, with Surajah, passed through the town and struck up into the hills. Each carried a bag slung over his shoulder, well filled with provisions, a small water bottle, and, hung upon his matchlock, a change of clothing. In the folds of his turban, Dick had a packet of the powder used for making dye, so that he could, at any time, renew the brown shade, when it began to fade out.

For a time but few words were spoken. Dick knew that, although his mother had borne up bravely till the last, she would break down as soon as he left her; and the thought that he might never see her again weighed heavily upon him. Surajah, on the contrary, was filled with elation at the prospect of adventures and dangers, and he was silent simply because he felt that, for the present, his young lord was in no humour for speech.

As soon as the sun rose, Dick shook off his depression. They were now a considerable distance up the hillside. There was no path, for the people of Tripataly had no occasion to visit Mysore, and still less desire for a visit from the Mysoreans. Periodically, raids were made upon the villages and plains by marauders from the hills, but these were mostly by the passes through the ghauts, thirty or forty miles left or right from the little state which, nestling at the foot of the hills, for the most part escaped these visitations -- which, now that the British had become possessed of the territories and the hills, had, it was hoped, finally ceased. Nevertheless, the people were always prepared for such visits. Every cultivator had a pit in which he stored his harvest, except so much as was needed for his immediate wants. The pit was lined with mats, others were laid over the grain. Two feet of soil was then placed over the mats and, after the ground had been ploughed, there was no indication of the existence of the hiding place.

The town itself was surrounded by a wall, of sufficient strength to withstand the attacks of any parties of marauders; and the custom of keeping a man on a watch tower was still maintained. At the foot of the tower stood a heavy gun, whose discharge would at once warn the peasants for miles round of an enemy, calling those near to hasten to the shelter of the town, while the men of the villages at a distance could hurry, with their wives and families, to hiding places among the hills.

Dick and Surajah had no need of a path, for they were well acquainted with the ground, and had often wandered up, nearly to the crest of the hills, in pursuit of game. An hour before noon, they took their seats under a rock that shaded them from the sun's rays and, sitting down, partook of a hearty meal. There was no occasion for haste, and they prepared for rest until the heat of the day was passed.

"We are fairly off now, Surajah," Dick said, as he stretched himself out comfortably. "I have been thinking of this almost as long as I can remember, and can hardly believe that it has come to pass."

"I have thought of it but a short time, my lord."

"No, no, Surajah," Dick interrupted. "You know it was arranged that, from the first, you were to call me Purseram, for unless you get accustomed to it, you will be calling me 'my lord' in the hearing of others."

"I had forgotten," Surajah replied with a smile, and then went on. "It is but a short time since I was sure I was going with you, but I have ever hoped that the time would come when, instead of the dull work of drilling men and placing them on guard, I might have the opportunity of taking part in war and adventure, and indeed had thought of asking my lord, your uncle, to permit me to go away for a while in one of the Company's regiments, and there to learn my business. Since the English have become masters, and there is no longer war between rajah and rajah, as there used to be in olden times, this is the only way that a man of spirit can gain distinction. But this adventure is far better, for there will be much danger, and need for caution as well as courage."

Dick nodded.

"More for caution and coolness than for courage, I think, Surajah. It will only be in case we find my father, or if any grave suspicion falls on us, that there will be need for courage. Once well into Mysore, I see but little chance of suspicion falling upon us. We have agreed that we will first make for Seringapatam, avoiding as much as possible all places on the way where inquiries whence we come may be made of us. Once in the city, we shall be safe from such questions, and can travel thence where we will; and it will be hard if we do not, when there, manage to learn the places at which any prisoners there may be are most likely to be kept.

"Besides, my father is as likely to be there as anywhere, for Tippoo may, since our army marched away, have ordered all prisoners to be brought down from the hill forts to Seringapatam."

When the sun had lost its power, they proceeded on their way again. Their start had been timed so that, for the first week, they would have moonlight; and would, therefore, be able to travel at night until they arrived at Seringapatam. It was considered that it was only necessary to do this for the first two or three nights as, after that, the tale that they were coming from a village near the frontier, and were on their way to join Tippoo's army, would seem natural enough to any villagers who might question them.

They continued their course until nearly midnight, by which time they were both completely fatigued, and, choosing a spot sheltered by bushes, lay down to sleep. It took another two days before they were clear of the broken country, and the greater portion of this part of the journey they performed in daylight. Occasionally they saw, in the distance, the small forts which guarded every road to the plateau. To these they always gave a very wide berth, as although, according to the terms of peace, they should all have been evacuated, they might still be occupied by parties of Tippoo's troops.

Indeed, all the news that had arrived, since the army left, represented Tippoo as making every effort to strengthen his army and fortresses, and to prepare for a renewal of the war.

Several times they saw bears, which abounded among the ghauts, and once beheld two tigers crossing a nullah. They had, however, other matters to think of, and neither the flesh nor the skins of the bears would have been of any use to them. The work was severe, and they were glad when at last they reached the level country. In some of the upper valleys, opening on to this, they had seen small villages. Near one of these they had slept, and as in the morning they saw that the inhabitants were Hindoos, they fearlessly went out and talked with them, in order to gain some information as to the position of the forts, and to learn whether any bodies of Tippoo's troops were likely to be met with.

They found the people altogether ignorant on these matters. They were simple peasants. Their whole thoughts were given to tilling their land, and bringing in sufficient to live upon, and to satisfy the demands of the tax gatherers when they visited them. They had little communication with other villages, and knew nothing of what was passing outside their own. They evinced no curiosity whatever concerning their visitors, who bought from them some cakes of ground ragee, which formed the chief article of their food.

The country through which they passed, on emerging from the hills, was largely covered with bush and jungle, and was very thinly populated. It was an almost unbroken flat, save that here and there isolated masses of rock rose above it. These were extremely steep and inaccessible, and on their summits were the hill forts that formed so prominent a feature in the warfare of both Mysore and the Nizam's dominions to the north. These forts were, for the most part, considered absolutely impregnable, but the last war with the British had proved that they were not so, as several of the strongest had been captured, with comparatively slight loss.

Whenever they passed within a few miles of one of these hill fortresses, Dick looked at it with anxious eyes; for there, for aught he knew, his father might be languishing.

After two days' walking across the plain, they felt that there was no longer any necessity for concealment, except that it would be as well to avoid an encounter with any troops. Although, therefore, they avoided the principal roads, they kept along beaten paths, and did not hesitate to enter villages to buy food.

They no longer saw caste marks on the foreheads of the inhabitants. The Hindoos had been compelled by force to abandon their religion, all who refused to do so being put to death at once. Dick and Surajah found that their dialect differed much more from that of the country below the ghauts than they had expected and, although they had no difficulty in conversing with the peasants, they found that their idea that they would be able to pass as natives of one of these villages was an altogether erroneous one.

"This will never do, Surajah," Dick said, as they left one of the villages. "We shall have to alter our story somehow, for the first person we meet, in Seringapatam, will see that we are not natives of Mysore. We must give out that we come from some village far down on the ghauts -- one of those which have been handed over to the English by the new treaty. You know the country well enough there to be able to answer any questions that may be asked. We must say that, desiring to be soldiers, and hating the English raj, we have crossed the hills to take service of some sort in Mysore. This will be natural enough: and of course there are many Mohammedans down in the plains, especially among the villages on the ghauts."

"I think that would be best, Purseram."

"There is one comfort," Dick went on. "It is evident that Tippoo is hated by all the Hindoos. He has forced them to change their religion, and we need have no fear of being betrayed by any of them, except from pressure, or from a desire to win Tippoo's goodwill."

"Yes, that might be the case with those who are fairly well off, but would scarcely be so among the poorer classes. Besides, even they, were we living among them, would have no reason for suspecting our story. There seems no doubt, from what they say, that Tippoo is preparing for war again, and I think that we shall do well, as soon as we enter the city, to change our attire, or we might be forced into joining the army, which would be the last thing we want. What I should desire, above all things, is to get service of some kind in the Palace."

After six days' travel, they saw the walls of Seringapatam. Dick had made many inquiries, at the last halting place, as to the position of the fords on that side of the town; and learned that only those leading to the fort were guarded. The ford opposite the town was freely open to traffic, and could be crossed without question by country people, although a watch was kept to see that none of the very numerous prisoners escaped by it.

It was here, therefore, that they crossed the river, the water being little more than knee deep. No questions were asked by the guard as they passed, their appearance differing in no way from that of the peasants of the neighbourhood.

After a quarter of a mile's walk they entered the town. It was open, and undefended by a wall. The streets were wide, and laid out at right angles. The shops, however, were poor, for the slightest appearance of wealth sufficed to excite the cupidity of Tippoo or his agents, and the possessor would be exposed to exorbitant demands, which, if not complied with, would have entailed first torture and then death.

The streets, however, presented a busy appearance. They were thronged with soldiers. Battalions of recruits passed along, and it was evident that Tippoo was doing all in his power to raise the strength of his army to its former level. They wandered about for some time, and at last, in a small street, Dick went up to an old man whose face pleased him. He was standing at the door of his house.

"We desire to find a room where we can lodge for a time," he said. "Can you direct us where we can obtain one?"

"You are not soldiers?" the old man asked.

"No. We desire to earn our living, but have not yet decided whether to join the army."

"You are from the plains?" the native said sharply, in their own dialect.

"That is so," Dick replied.

"And yet you are Mohammedans?"

"Every one is Mohammedan here."

"Ah! Because it is the choice of 'death or Mohammed.' How comes it that two young men should voluntarily leave their homes to enter this tiger's den? You look honest youths. How come you here?"

"I trust that we are honest," Dick said. "We have assuredly not ventured here without a reason, and that reason is a good one; but this is not a city where one talks of such matters to a stranger in the street, even though his face tells one that he can be trusted with a secret."

The old man was silent for a minute; then he said:

"Come in, my sons. You can, as you say, trust me. I have a room that you can occupy."

They followed him into the house, and he led them into a small room at the back. It was poorly furnished, but was scrupulously clean. A pan of lighted charcoal stood in one corner, and over this a pot of rice was boiling.

"I bid you welcome," he said gravely.

And as the salutation was not one in use by the Mohammedans, Dick saw that his idea that the old man was a Hindoo, who had been forced to abjure his religion, was a correct one. The old man motioned to them to take their seats on the divan.

"I do not ask for your confidence," he said, "but if you choose to give it to me, it will be sacred, and it may be that, poor as I am, I am able to aid you. I will tell you at once that I am a native of Conjeveram and, of course, a Hindoo. I was settled as a trader at Mysore, the old capital. But when, four years ago, the tyrant destroyed that town, I, with over a hundred thousand of our religion, was forced to adopt Mohammedanism. I was of high caste and, like many others, would have preferred death to yielding, had it not been that I had a young daughter; and for her sake I lived, and moved here from Mysore.

"I gained nothing by my sin. I was one of the wealthiest traders in the whole city, and I had been here but a month when Tippoo's soldiers burst in one day. My daughter was carried off to the Tiger's harem, and I was threatened with torture, unless I divulged the hiding place of my money.

"It was useless to resist. My wealth was now worthless to me, and without hesitation I complied with their demands; and all I had was seized, save one small hoard, which was enough to keep me thus to the end of my days. My wants are few: a handful of rice or grain a day, and I am satisfied. I should have put an end to my life, were it not that, according to our religion, the suicide is accursed; and, moreover, I would fain live to see the vengeance that must some day fall upon the tyrant.

"After what I have said, it is for you to decide whether you think I can be trusted with your secret, for I am sure it is for no slight reason that you have come to this accursed city."

Dick felt that he could safely speak, and that he would find in this native a very valuable ally. He therefore told his story without concealment. Except that an exclamation of surprise broke from his lips, when Dick said that he was English, the old man listened without a remark until he had finished.

"Your tale is indeed a strange one," he said, when he had heard the story. "I had looked for something out of the ordinary, but assuredly for nothing so strange as this. Truly you English are a wonderful people. It is marvellous that one should come, all the way from beyond the black water, to seek for a father lost so many years ago. Methinks that a blessing will surely alight upon such filial piety, and that you will find your father yet alive.

"Were it not for that, I should deem your search a useless one. Thousands of Englishmen have been massacred during the last ten years. Hundreds have died of disease and suffering. Many have been poisoned. Many officers have also been murdered, some of them here, but more in the hill forts; for it was there they were generally sent, when their deaths were determined upon.

"Still, he may live. There are men who have been here as many years, and who yet survive."

"Then this is where the main body of the prisoners were kept?" Dick asked.

"Yes. All were brought here, native and English. Tens of thousands of boys and youths, swept up by Tippoo's armies from the Malabar coast and the Carnatic, were brought up here and formed into battalions, and these English prisoners were forced to drill them. It was but a poor drill. I have seen them drilling their recruits at Conjeveram, and the difference between the quick sharp order there, and the listless command here, was great indeed. Consequently, the Englishmen were punished by being heavily ironed, and kept at starvation point for the slackness with which they obeyed the tyrant's orders. Sometimes they were set to sweep the streets, sometimes they were beaten till they well nigh expired under the lash. Often would they have died of hunger, were it not that Tippoo's own troops took pity on them, and supplied them from their store.

"Some of the boys, drummer boys, or ship's boys, or little ship's officers, were kept in the Palace and trained as singers and dancers for Tippoo's amusement. Very many of the white prisoners were handed over to Tippoo by Admiral Sufferin. Though how a Christian could have brought himself to hand over Christians to this tiger, I cannot imagine.

"Others were captured in forays, and there were, till lately, many survivors of the force that surrendered in Hyder's time. There are certainly some in other towns, for it was the policy of Hyder, as it is of Tippoo, always to break up parties of prisoners. Many were sent to Bangalore, some to Burrampore, and very many to the fort of Chillembroom; but I heard that nearly all these died of famine and disease very quickly.

"While Tippoo at times considers himself strong enough to fight the English, and is said to aim at the conquest of all southern India, he has yet a fear of Englishmen, and he thus separates his captives, lest, if they were together, they should plot against him and bring about a rising. He knows that all the old Hindoo population are against him, and that even among the Mohammedans he is very unpopular. The Chelah battalions, who numbered twelve or fourteen thousand, made up entirely of those he has dragged from their homes in districts devastated by him, would assuredly have joined against him, were there a prospect of success, just as they seized the opportunity to desert six months ago, when the English attacked the camp across the river.

"Now, if you will tell me in what way I can best serve you, I will do so. In the first place, sturdy young peasants are wanted for the army, and assuredly you will not be here many days before you will find yourselves in the ranks, whether you like it or not; for Tippoo is in no way particular how he gets recruits."



Chapter 11: A Useful Friend.


"I agree with you that it would be a disadvantage to go as a soldier," Dick said, after a pause; "but what disguise would you recommend us to choose?"

"That I must think over. You both look too straight and active to be employed as the assistants of a trader, or I could have got some of my friends to take you in that capacity. The best disguise will be a gayer attire, such as would be worn by the retainers of some of the chiefs; and were it not that, if questioned, you could not say who was your employer, that is what I should recommend."

"I saw a number of men working at a battery they are erecting by the river side. Could we not take service there until something better presents itself?"

"I should not advise that," the native replied, "for the work is very hard, and the pay poor. Indeed, most of those employed on it are men driven in from the country round and forced to labour, getting only enough pay to furnish them with the poorest food. There would also be the disadvantage that, if you were so employed, you would have no opportunity of seeing any English captives who may have been brought here of late.

"All that I can at present do, myself, is to speak to some of my friends who have been here for a long time, and ask them whether they can remember an English captive being sent up here from Coorg, some eight years ago, and whether they ever heard what was his fate. I should say, of course, that I have received a message from friends at Conjeveram; that some of the man's relations have sent out to make inquiries concerning him, and asking me if I can find any news as to his fate. My friends may not know themselves, but they may be able to find out from others. Very many of our people were forced into the ranks of the army, and there is not a regiment which has not some men who, although regarded as Mohammedans, are still at heart, as we all are, as true to our faith as ever.

"It is from these that we are more likely to obtain information than in any other way. You will not be very long before you will be able to satisfy yourself as to whether or not he whom you seek is in this city; and if he should not be here, there remain but the two towns that I have named, and the hill forts. As to these, it will be well-nigh impossible to obtain an entrance, so jealously are they all guarded. None save the garrisons are allowed to enter. The paths, which are often so steep and difficult that men and provisions have to be slung up in baskets, are guarded night and day, and none are allowed to approach the foot of the rocks within musket shot -- lest, I suppose, they might find some spot where an ascent could be made. The garrisons are seldom changed. The soldiers are allowed to take their wives and families up with them, but once there, they are as much prisoners as those in the dungeons. That is one reason why captives once sent up there never come down again, for were they to do so they might, if by chance they escaped, be able to give information as to the approaches that would assist an assailing force.

"I do not say that all are killed, though undoubtedly most of them are put to death soon after they arrive; but it may be that some are retained in confinement, either from no orders being sent for their execution, or from their very existence being, in time, forgotten by the tyrant here. Some of these may languish in dungeons, others may have gained the goodwill of the commanders of the fort -- for even among the Mohammedans there are doubtless many good and merciful men.

"Now for the present. This house has but one storey in front, but there is a room over this, and that is at your service. Furniture it has none, but I will, this evening, get a couple of trusses of straw. It is but a loft, but you will not want to use it, save to sleep in. You need not fear interruption in this house. There is scarce a man here that is not, like myself, a Hindoo, for when we were brought here from Mysore, the piece of ground on which the street stands was assigned to us, and we were directed to build houses here. Few besides ourselves ever enter it, for those who still carry on trade have booths in the marketplace.

"There is one thing I will tell you at once. We, the persecuted, have means of recognising each other. Outward signs there are none, neither caste mark nor peculiarity of dress; but we know each other by signs. When we salute, we turn in the thumbs as we raise our hands to our turbans -- so. If we have no occasion to salute, as we move our hands, either to stroke our faces, or to touch the handles of our daggers, or in other way, we keep the thumb turned in. If the man be one of ourselves, he replies in the same way. Then, to prevent the possibility of error, the one asks the other a question -- on what subject it matters not, providing that before he speaks, he coughs slightly.

"You must remember that such communication is not made lightly. Were it to be so, it would soon attract notice. It is used when you want to know whether you can trust a man. It is as much as to say, 'Are you a friend? Can I have confidence in you? Will you help me?' -- and you can see that there are many occasions on which such knowledge may be most useful, even to the saving of life."

"I do indeed see it," Dick said, "and greatly are we indebted to you for telling us of it."

They remained talking with their host, whose name was, he told them, Pertaub, until darkness came on. They had shared his rice with him, and had requested him to lay in such provision as was necessary for them; and as soon as it became dark they went out, leaving their guns behind them.

Busy as the main streets were when they had before passed through them, they were very much more so now. The shops were all lighted up by lanterns or small lamps, and the streets were filled with troops, now dismissed from duty, and bent, some on amusement, some in purchasing small additions to their rations with the scanty pay allowed to them. In the open spaces, the soldiers were crowded round performers of various kinds. Here was a juggler throwing balls and knives into the air. There was a snake charmer -- a Hindoo, doubtless, but too old and too poor to be worth persecuting. A short distance off was an acrobat turning and twisting himself into strange postures.

Two sword players, with bucklers and blunted tulwars, played occasionally against each other, and offered to engage any of the bystanders. Occasionally the invitation would be accepted, but the sword players always proved too skilful for the rough soldiers, who retired discomfited, amid the jeers of their comrades.

More than one party of musicians played what seemed to Dick most discordant music, but which was appreciated by the soldiers, as was evident from the plaudits and the number of small coins thrown to the players. In the great open space, by the side of the market, the crowd was thickest. Here were large numbers of booths, gay with lamps. In one were arranged, on tables, trays of cheap trinkets, calicoes, cloths, blankets, shoes, and other articles of dress. In another were arms, matchlocks, pistols, tulwars, and daggers. On the ground were lines of baskets, filled with grain of many kinds, the vendors squatting patiently behind them. Some of the traders volubly accosted passers by. Others maintained a dignified silence, as if they considered the excellence of their wares needed no advertisement.

It was not new, but it was very amusing to Dick, and it was late before they returned to their lodging.

"I wish," he said, as they strolled back, "that I were a good juggler or musician. It seems to me that it would be an excellent disguise, and we could go everywhere without question, and get admittance into all sorts of places we could not get a chance of entering into in any other way."

"Yes, that would be a good thing," Surajah agreed; "but I am sure that I could not do anything, even if you could."

"No, I quite see that, and I am not thinking of trying; but it would have been a first-rate plan."

"You are very good at sword play," Surajah suggested, although somewhat doubtfully.

Dick laughed.

"The first really good swordsman that came along would make an exhibition of me. No; one would have to do something really well."

The subject was renewed, after they had seated themselves with Pertaub.

"It would be an excellent disguise," he agreed. "A good juggler could gain admission to the Palace, and might even enter forts where no others could set foot; for life there is dull, indeed, and anyone who could amuse the soldiers would be certain of a welcome, and even a governor might be willing to see his feats."

"Could one bribe a conjurer to let one pass as his assistant?"

"That would be impossible," the Hindoo said, "for an assistant would have opportunities for learning the tricks, and no money would induce a really good juggler to divulge his secrets, which have been passed down from father to son for centuries."

"If one had thought of it," Dick said, "one could have bought, in London, very many things which would have seemed almost magical to the people here. I am afraid that we must go on, on our old line. It is a pity, for the other would have been first rate."

"I have obtained for you, this evening, two suits of clothes such as we spoke of. In them you can pass as followers of some petty rajah, and are not likely to attract attention. I have inquired among some of my friends, and hear that the Rajah of Bohr left here today with his following. He is but a petty chief, and Bohr lies up north, close to the Nizam's frontier. Thus, if you should be asked in whose service you are, you will have a name to give, and there will be no fear of your being contradicted.

"If you are still further questioned by anyone with a right to ask, you can say that you were told to remain here, in order to see how fast the drilling of the troops went on, and to send the Rajah a report when it is time for him to return here to accompany Tippoo on his march. You will, of course, account for your dialect by keeping to your present story, that you came from a village on the ghauts, in order to enter the service of one of our rajahs; and that your father having, years ago, been a soldier in the pay of the Rajah of Bohr, you made your way there direct, instead of coming to the capital."

"That will do excellently, Pertaub. It was a fortunate moment, indeed, that brought us to your door."

"I have done nothing as yet, Sahib; but I hope that, in time, I may be able to be of use to you. It was fortunate for me as well as for you, perhaps, that you stopped at my door. Of late I have had nothing to think of, save my own grief and troubles, but now I have something to give an interest to my life, and already I feel that I need not merely drag it on, until I am relieved of its burden.

"And now, Sahibs, I am sure that rest must be needful for you, and would recommend that you seek your beds at once."

On the following morning, Pertaub brought up the garments that he had bought for them. Nothing could be more irregular than the dress of the armed retainers of an Indian rajah. All attire themselves according to their fancy. Some carry spears and shields, others matchlocks. Some wear turbans, others iron caps. The cut and colour of their garments are also varied in the extreme.

Dick's dress consisted of a steel cap, with a drooping plume of red horsehair, and a red tunic with a blue sash. Over it was worn a skirt of linked mail which, with leggings fitting tightly, completed the costume. Surajah had a red turban, a jerkin of quilted leather, with iron scales fastened on to protect the shoulders and chest. A scarlet kilt hung to his knees, and his legs were enclosed in putties, or swathes, of coarse cloth, wound round and round them. He wore a blue and gold girdle.

Dick laughed as he surveyed the appearance of himself and Surajah.

"We are a rum-looking couple," he said, "but I have seen plenty of men, just as gaudy, in the train of some of the rajahs who visited the camp when we were up here. I think that it is a much better disguise than the one we wore yesterday. I sha'n't be afraid that the first officer we meet will ask us to what regiment we belong. There were scores of fellows lounging about in the streets last night, dressed as we are."

Sticking their swords and pistols into their girdles, they sallied out, and were pleased to find that no one paid the slightest attention to them. They remained in the town until some battalions of recruits poured out from the fort, to drill on the grounds between it and the town. The first four that passed were, as Dick learnt from the remarks of some of the bystanders, composed entirely of boys -- some of them Christians, thirty thousand of whom had been carried off by Tippoo, in his raid on Travancore; and the young men were compelled to serve, after being obliged to become, nominally, Mohammedans. After the Chelah battalions came those of Tippoo's army.

"These fellows look as if they could fight," Dick said. "They are an irregular lot, and don't seem to have an idea of keeping line, or marching in step, but they are an active-looking set of fellows, and carry themselves well. As to the Chelahs, I should say they would be no good whatever, even if they could be relied on, which we know they cannot be. They look dejected and miserable, and I suppose hate it all as much as their officers do. I should back half a regiment of English to lick the twelve battalions. I wonder Tippoo, himself, does not see that troops like these must be utterly useless."

"I don't expect he thinks they would be of much use," Surajah agreed. "He only turned them into soldiers to gratify his hatred of them."

Leaving the troops, they walked on and entered the great fort, which enclosed an area of nearly two square miles. In this were Tippoo's palace, his storehouses -- containing grain sufficient for the garrison, for a siege of many months -- mosques, the residences of Tippoo's officials and officers, the arsenals, and the huts for the troops. There was also a street of shops, similar to those in the town.

Wandering about, unquestioned, they came presently upon a scene that filled Dick with indignation and fury. Two white officers, heavily ironed, were seated on the ground. Another, similarly ironed, lay stretched beside them. He was naked from the waist up. His back was covered with blood, and he had evidently been recently flogged, until he fell insensible. Half a dozen savage-looking men, evidently executioners of Tippoo's orders, were standing round, jeering at the prisoners and refusing their entreaties to bring some water for their comrade.

"You brutes!" one of the captives exclaimed, in English. "I would give all my hopes of liberty, for ten minutes face to face with you, with swords in our hands."

"They would not be of much use to us," the other said quietly. "It is four days since we had a mouthful of food, and they would make very short work of us."

"All the better," the other exclaimed. "Death would be a thousand-fold preferable to this misery."

Dick felt that, if he remained longer, he would be unable to contain himself; and turning hastily away, walked off, accompanied by Surajah.

"It is awful!" he exclaimed, with tears running down his cheeks; "and to be able to do nothing! What must Father have gone through! I think, Surajah, that if we were to come upon Tippoo I should go for him, even if he were surrounded by guards. Of course it would cost me my life. If I could kill him, I think I should not mind it. Such a villain is not fit to live; and at any rate, whoever came after him, the prisoners could not be worse off than they are now.

"Let us go back. I have had enough for this morning."

When they returned, Dick told Pertaub of the scene that he had witnessed.

"Many of them have been starved to death," the old man said. "Possibly one of their companions may have tried to escape. It is to prevent this that Tippoo's greatest cruelties are perpetrated. It is not so very difficult to get away, and take to the jungle. Some have succeeded, but most of them are retaken, for a watch is vigilantly kept up, at every village and every road leading on to the frontier; and if caught, they are hung or forced to take poison. But whether they are caught or not, Tippoo's vengeance falls upon their companions. These are flogged, ironed, and kept without rations for weeks -- living, if they do live, upon the charity of their guards.

"This is why there are so few attempts at escape. A man knows that, whether he himself gets off or not, he dooms his companions to torture, perhaps death. One case I remember, in which an English sailor, one out of nine, attempted to get away. He was captured and killed at once, and his eight companions were all hung. So you see, even if one of the captives sees a chance of escape, he does not take it, because of the consequences that would fall upon his companions."

"It is horrible," Dick said, "and I can quite understand why so few escape. The question for me, now, is whether there are any prisoners kept in dungeons here."

"Not here, I think. Tippoo's policy is to make all his captives useful, and though one might be ironed and confined for a time, I do not think that any are so kept, permanently, here. There were, of course, some confined to the fort by illness, and some in irons. It may need some little search, before you are quite sure that you have seen every one. However, I will try to find out how many there are there, and to get as many of the names as possible. Some of my friends, who keep shops in the fort, may be able to do this for me. This would shorten your task.

"But I cannot hold out any hopes that you will find him whom you seek in the city. It is among the hill forts you will find him, if he be alive. I have been turning the matter over, since you spoke to me last night, and the best plan I can think of is, that you should go as a travelling merchant, with Surajah as your assistant. You would want a good assortment of goods; fine muslins and silks, and a good selection of silver jewellery, from different parts of India. All these I could purchase for you here. If, by good luck, you could obtain a sight of the commander of one of these forts, you might possibly obtain permission from him to go up, and show your wares to the ladies of his establishment, and to those of other officers. The present of a handsome waist sash, or a silver-mounted dagger, might incline him favourably to your petition."

"I think that the idea is an excellent one," Dick said warmly. "If we cannot get in in that way, there seems to me to be no chance, save by taking a careful survey of the fortress, to discover where the rocks can be most easily climbed. There must surely be some spots, even among the steepest crags, where active fellows like Surajah and myself would be able to scale them. Of course, we should have to do it after dark; but once up there, one ought to be able to move about in the fort without difficulty, as we should, of course, be dressed as soldiers, and could take dark blankets to wrap round us. We ought then to be able to find where any prisoners who may be there are confined. There might be a sentry at the door, or, if there were no other way, one might pounce upon someone, force him by threats to tell us what prisoners there are, and where they are confined; and then bind and gag him, and stow him away where there would be no chance of his being discovered before daylight."

"There would be a terrible risk in such a matter," Pertaub said, shaking his head gravely.

"No doubt there would be risk, but we came here prepared to encounter danger, and if it were well managed, I don't see why we should be found out. Even if we were, we ought to be able to slip away, in the darkness, and make our way to the point where we went up. Once down on the plain, we could renew our disguise as traders, and, however hotly they scoured the country, pass without suspicion through them.

"I think that there will be more chance, in that way, than in going in as traders; for we should, in that case, have little chance of walking about, still less of questioning anyone. However, it is worth trying that first. We can always fall back upon the other, if it fails. We might, on our first visit, obtain indications that would be very useful to us on our second."



Chapter 12: A Tiger In A Zenana.


Another week passed, and by the end of that time, Dick was perfectly assured that his father was not at Seringapatam. It was then a question which of the hill forts to try first. Pertaub had already procured for them an assortment of goods and dresses, suitable for travelling merchants, and the purchase of these things had drawn heavily on their stock of money; although several of the traders, on receiving a hint from Pertaub of the purpose for which the goods were required, had given many articles without charge; while for the majority of the goods Dick gave an order on his mother, who had told him that he could draw up to five hundred pounds.

On the day before they were about to start, their plans were interrupted by the issue of a proclamation, saying that sports with wild beasts would take place on the following day; and they agreed that, as one day would make no difference, they would stop to see them, especially as Tippoo himself would be present. Hitherto, although they had several times seen him being carried in his palanquin, they had had no opportunity of observing him closely, as he was always surrounded by his guards.

The sports were held in a great square in the fort. A strong network was erected in a semicircle, of which the Palace formed the base. Behind the network, the spectators ranged themselves. Tippoo occupied a window in the Palace, looking down into the square. There were always a number of wild beasts in Seringapatam, available for these purposes, as a regular supply of tigers, leopards, and wild elephants was caught and sent in every month. Six of the largest tigers were always kept, in cages, in the courtyard in front of the Palace; and to these were thrown state criminals, or officials who had offended the tyrant, and were devoured by them.

In his younger days, Tippoo had been very fond of the chase, but he was now too fat and heavy, and seldom ventured on horseback.

Dick and Surajah, who had arrived early, had placed themselves at the corner, where the network touched the Palace. Some thirty yards in front of them, a balcony projected. It was enclosed by a thick lattice work. From behind this, the ladies of Tippoo's harem viewed the sports.

These began with a contest of fighting rams. The animals were placed some fifty yards apart. As soon as they saw each other, both showed extreme anger, uttering notes of defiance. Then they began to move towards each other, at first slowly, but increasing in speed until, when within a few yards of one another, each took a spring, meeting in mid air, forehead to forehead, with a crash that could be heard far away. Both fell back, and stood for a moment shaking their heads, as if half stupefied with the blow. Then they backed two steps, and hurled themselves at each other again. After this had been repeated once or twice, they locked forehead to forehead, and each strove to push the other back.

For some time the struggle continued on equal terms. Then the weaker began to give way, and was pushed back, step by step, until its strength failed altogether, and it was pushed over on to the ground, when the attendants at once interfered and separated them.

Some thirty pairs of rams fought, the affair being, to Dick, extremely monotonous. The natives, however, took great interest in the contests, wagering freely on the issues, shouting loudly to the combatants, and raising triumphant cries when one was adjudged victor.

Then elephants were brought in; but the struggle between these was even tamer than between the rams. They pushed each other with their foreheads until one gave way, when the other would follow it, beating it with its trunk, and occasionally shoving it.

When this sport was over, two parties of men entered the arena, amid a shout of satisfaction from the crowd. After prostrating themselves before Tippoo, they took up their ground facing each other. Each man had, on his right hand, four steel claws fixed to the knuckles. Approaching each other cautiously they threw, with their left hands, the garlands of flowers they wore round their necks, into the faces of their opponents, trying to take advantage of the moment to strike a blow, or to obtain a grip. Each blow laid open the flesh as by a tiger's claws. The great object was to gain a grip, no matter where, which would completely disable the opponent, and render him incapable of defending himself. When this was done, the combat between that pair came to an end.

After the ghetties, as these men were named, had retired, a buffalo was matched against a tiger. The latter was averse to the contest, but upon some firecrackers being thrown close behind him, he sprang at the buffalo, who had been watching him warily. As the tiger launched itself into the air, the buffalo lowered its head, received it on its sharp horns, and threw it a distance of ten yards away. No efforts could goad the wounded tiger to continue the fray, so it and the buffalo were taken out, and two others brought in.

The second tiger was a much more powerful beast than its predecessor, and was, indeed, larger than any of those in the cages of the Palace. It had been captured four days before, and was full of fight. It walked round the buffalo three or four times, and then, with the speed of lightning, sprang upon it, breaking its neck with a single blow from its powerful forepaw. Six buffaloes in succession were brought in, and were killed, one after the other, by the tiger.

Satisfied with what it had done, the tiger paid no attention to the seventh animal, but walked round and round the arena, looking for a means of escape. Then, drawing back, it made a short rush and sprang at the net, which was fourteen feet high. Strong as were the poles that supported the net, it nearly gave way under the impact. The tiger hung, ten feet above the ground, until some of the guards outside ran up, discharging their muskets into the air, when it recommenced its promenade round the foot of the net, roaring and snarling with anger.

As it neared the Palace, it stopped and uttered a roar of defiance at those at the windows. Then, apparently, something moving behind the lattice work caught its eye. It moved towards it, crouching, and then, with a tremendous spring, launched itself against it.

The balcony was ten feet from the ground, but the tiger's spring took it clear of this. The woodwork gave way like paper, and the tiger burst through. A shout of dismay arose from the multitude, but high above this sounded the screams of the women.

"Quick, Surajah!" Dick cried, and, drawing his keen dagger, he cut through the network and dashed through, followed by his companion. "Stand here," he cried, as they arrived below the balcony. "Steady! Put your hands against the wall."

Then he sprang on to Surajah's back, and thence to his shoulder. Drawing his pistols, he put one between his teeth, grasping the other in his right hand.

"Steady, Surajah," he said. "I am going to stand on your head."

He stepped on to his companion's turban, put his left arm on the balcony, and raised himself by it, until his arms were above its level. The tiger was standing with its paw upon a prostrate figure, growling savagely, but evidently confused and somewhat dismayed at the piercing screams from the women, most of whom had thrown themselves down on the cushions of the divan.

Dick stretched his right hand forward, took a steady aim, and fired. A sharp snarl showed that the shot had taken effect. He dropped the pistol, snatched the other from his mouth, waited for a moment until he could make out the tiger, fired again, and at once dropped to the ground, just as a great body flashed from the window above him.

He and Surajah had both had their matchlocks slung over their shoulders, and before the tiger could recover from its spring, they levelled and fired. The tiger rolled over, but regained its feet and made towards them. One of the bullets had, however, struck it on the shoulder and disabled the leg. Its movements were therefore comparatively slow, and they had time to leap aside. Surajah discharged his pistol into its ear, while Dick brought down his keen sword, with all his strength, upon its neck; and the tiger rolled over, dead.

A mighty shout rose from the crowd.

"We had better be off," Dick said, "or we shall have all sorts of questions to answer."

They slipped through the hole in the net again, but were so surrounded by people, cheering and applauding them, that they could not extricate themselves; and a minute later some soldiers ran up, pushed through the crowd to them, and surrounded them.

"The sultan requires your presence," they said; and as resistance was out of the question, Dick and Surajah at once accompanied them to the entrance of the Palace.

They were led through several large halls, until they entered the room where Tippoo was standing. He had just left the women's apartment, where he had hurried to ascertain what damage had been done by the tiger. Dick and his companion salaamed to the ground, in accordance with the custom of the country.

"You are brave fellows," the sultan said graciously, "and all the braver that you risked death, not only from the tiger, but for daring to look upon my women, unveiled."

"I saw nothing, your Highness," Dick said humbly, "save the tiger. That he was standing over a fallen figure I noticed. As soon as my eye fell on him I fired at once, and the second time as soon as the smoke cleared so that I could catch a glimpse of him."

"I pardon you that," Tippoo said; "and in faith you have rendered me good service, for had it not been for your interference, he might have worked havoc in my harem, and that before a single one of my officers or men had recovered his senses;" and he looked angrily round at the officers standing near him.

"How comes it that you were so quick in thought and execution?" he asked Surajah, as the elder of the two.

"My brother and myself have done much hunting among the hills, your Highness, and have learned that, in fighting a tiger, one needs to be quick as well as fearless."

"Whence come you?" Tippoo asked. "By your tongue, you are strangers."

Surajah gave the account that they had agreed upon, as to their birthplace, but he was quick-witted enough to see that it would not be safe to say they were in the service of the Rajah of Bhor, as inquiries might be made; and he therefore said:

"We came hither to take service either with your Royal Highness, or with one of your rajahs, but have as yet found no opportunity of doing so."

"It is well," Tippoo said. "Henceforth you are officers in my service. Apartments shall be assigned to you, in the Palace.

"Here is the first token of my satisfaction;" and he took out a heavy purse from his girdle, and handed it to Surajah. "You are free to go now. I will, later on, consider what duties shall be assigned to you. When you return, report yourselves to Fazli Ali, my chamberlain;" and he indicated a white-bearded official, among the group standing beside him.

Salaaming deeply again, they left the apartments. Not a word was spoken, until they were outside the precincts of the Palace.

"This makes a sudden change in our plans," Dick said. "Whether for better or worse, I cannot say yet."

"I was right in not saying we were in the service of the Rajah of Bhor, was I not? I thought that Tippoo would offer to take us into his service, and he might have caused a letter to be sent to the Rajah, saying that he had done so."

"Yes, you were quite right, Surajah. I had thought of that myself, and was on thorns when you were telling your story, and felt not a little relieved when you changed the tale. I think that it has turned out for the best. As officers of the Palace, we may be able to obtain some information as to what Christian captives there are, and the prisons where they are confined."

"Still more," Surajah said; "when we get to be known as being his officers, we might present ourselves boldly at any of the hill fortresses, as sent there with some orders."

"You are right," Dick said. "I had not thought of that. Indeed, we might even produce orders to inspect the prisoners, in order to render an account to Tippoo of their state and fitness for service; and might even show an order for my father to be handed over to us, if we should find him. This is splendid, and I am sure I cannot be too grateful to that tiger, for popping into the harem. He has done more for us, in a few minutes, than we could have achieved in a year.

"Well, Surajah, if my father is alive, I think now that we have every chance of rescuing him."

As they walked through the streets, many of those who had been present at the sports recognised them as the heroes in the stirring episode there, and, judging they would gain a high place in Tippoo's favour, came up to them and congratulated them on their bravery, and made offers of service. They replied civilly to all who accosted them, but were glad when they turned off to the quiet quarter where Pertaub lived. The Hindoo was surprised, indeed, when they told him what had happened, and that they were already officers in the Palace, and might consider themselves as standing high in Tippoo's favour.

"It is wonderful," he said, when they brought their story to a conclusion. "Surely Providence must have favoured your pious object. Such good fortune would never have occurred to you, had it not been that it was destined you should find your father still alive. But if good fortune befalls you, it is because you deserve it. That you should face a great tiger without hesitation, and slay him, shows how firm your courage is; and the quickness was still more to be admired. No doubt there are many others there who, to gain the favour of the sultan, would have risked their lives; but you alone of them were quick enough to carry it out."

"We were nearest to the spot, Pertaub. Had we been among the crowd farther back, we could have done nothing."

"Let praise be given where it is due," Surajah said. "I had nothing to do with the affair. I saw the tiger bound through the window, and heard screams, and stood frozen with horror. I did not even see my lord cut through the net. I knew nothing, until he seized me by the arm and pulled me after him; and it was not until he sprang upon my back, and then upon my shoulders, that I knew what he was going to do. I simply aided in despatching the tiger when he sprang, wounded, down into the courtyard."

"And yet you are a hunter and a soldier," Pertaub said. "This is how it is that the English have become lords of so wide a territory. They are quick. While we hesitate, and spend great time in making up our minds to do anything, they decide and act in a moment. They are always ready, we are always slow. They see the point where a blow has to be struck, they make straight to it and strike.

"The English sahib is very young, and yet to him comes, in a moment, what is the best thing to be done. He does not stop to think of the danger. While all others stand in consternation, he acts, and slays the tiger before one of them has so much as moved from his place.

"But indeed, as you say Tippoo himself told you, your danger was not only from the tiger. The tyrant must, indeed, have been alarmed for the safety of his harem, when he forgave you what, in the eyes of a Mohammedan, is the greatest offence you can commit.

"This will, of course, change all of your plans."

"For the present, at any rate. It may be that, later on, we shall still find occasion for our disguises, as possibly we may fall into disfavour, and have to assume them to make our escape. We may, as Tippoo's officers, manage to obtain entrance into one or two of the hill fortresses, but unless absolutely sent by him, that is the utmost we could hope for; for were we missing, messengers would be sent all over the country to order our arrest, and in that case we should have to take to some disguise.

"The first thing, now, is to procure our dresses. How much is there in that purse, Surajah? It seems pretty heavy."

Surajah poured the gold out on the table.

"There are fifty tomauns. That will be more than enough to clothe you handsomely," the Hindoo said.

"Much more than enough, I should think, Pertaub."

"Tippoo likes those round him to be well dressed. It is not only a proof of his generosity, but he likes to make a brave show on great occasions, and nothing pleases him more than to be told that neither the Nizam, nor any other Indian prince, can surpass him in the magnificence of his Court. Therefore, the better dressed you are, the more he will be satisfied, for it will seem to him that you appreciate the honour of being officers of the Palace, and that you have laid out his present to the best advantage, and have not a mind to hoard any of it.

"I will take the matter in hand for you. You will need two suits; one for Court ceremonies, and the other for ordinary wear in the Palace."

"I shall be very much obliged to you, Pertaub, for indeed I have no idea what ought to be got. Had we better present ourselves at the Palace this evening, or tomorrow morning?"

"This evening, certainly. Did he take it into his head to inquire whether you were in the Palace, and found that you were not, it might alter his humour towards you altogether. He is changeable in his moods. The favourite of one day may be in disgrace, and ordered to execution, the next. You will soon feel that it is as if you were in a real tiger's den, and that the animal may at any moment spring upon you.

"Take with you the clothes you now wear, and those in which you came, so that at any moment, if you see a storm gathering, you can slip on a disguise, and leave the Palace unobserved. In that case hasten here, and you can then dress yourselves as merchants."

"The worst of it is, Pertaub, that our faces will soon become known to so many in the Palace that they would be recognised, whatever our dress."

"A little paint, and some false hair, and a somewhat darker stain to your skin, would alter you so that those who know you best would pass you without suspicion. I trust that no such misfortune will befall, but I will keep everything in readiness to effect a transformation, should it be required.

"Now I will go out at once, to get the clothes."

In two hours he returned, followed by a boy carrying the goods he had purchased; and in a few minutes, Dick and his companion were arrayed in Court dresses. The turbans were pure white, and the tunic was of dark, rich stuff, thickly woven with gold thread. A short cloak or mantle, secured at the neck by a gold chain, three or four inches in length, hung from the back; but could, if necessary, be drawn round the shoulders. A baldric, embroidered with gold, crossed the chest, and from this hung a sword with an ivory handle.

The waist sash was of blue and gold in Dick's case, purple and gold in that of Surajah. Silver-mounted pistols and daggers were stuck into the sashes. The dresses were precisely alike, except that they differed in colour. The trousers were white.

Surajah was greatly delighted with his dress. Dick laughed.

"Of course, it comes naturally to you," he said, "but I feel as if I were dressed up for a masquerade."

The other suits were similar in style, but the tunics were of richly-figured damask, instead of cloth of gold.

Half an hour later they started for the Palace, a coolie carrying a box containing their second suits, and the simple dresses they had worn on their arrival. Dick could not help smiling, at the manner in which the people in the streets obsequiously made way for them.

"I shall be very glad," he said, as they traversed the space that divided the town from the fort, "when we have got over the next day or two, and have settled down a bit. It all seems so uncertain, and I have not the most remote idea of what our duties are likely to be. Hitherto, we have always had some definite plan of action, and had only ourselves to depend upon. Now, everything seems doubtful and uncertain. However, I suppose we shall soon settle down; and we have the satisfaction of knowing that, if things do not turn out well, we can go off to our good friend Pertaub, and get out of the place altogether."

On arriving at the Palace, they inquired for the chamberlain.

"He is expecting you, my lord," one of the attendants said, coming forward. "I will lead you first to the room that is prepared for you, and then take you to Fazli Ali."

The room was a commodious one, and the richness of the covering of the divan, and the handsome rugs spread on the floor, were satisfactory signs that the chamberlain considered them prime favourites of the sultan. Having seen the box placed in a corner, and paid the coolie, they followed the attendant along some spacious corridors and passages, until they entered a room where Fazli Ali was seated on a divan. The attendant let the curtains that covered the door drop behind them, as they entered.

They salaamed to the chamberlain, who looked at them approvingly, and motioned to them to take their seats on the divan beside him.

"I see," he said kindly, "that you possess good judgment, as well as courage and quickness. The former qualities have won you a place here, but judgment will be needed to keep it. You have laid out your money well, as the sultan loves to see all in the Palace well attired; and quiet also, and discreet in behaviour."

"Can you give us any idea what our duties will be?" Surajah asked, as Dick had requested him always to be the spokesman, if possible.

The chamberlain shook his head.

"That will be for the sultan himself to decide. For a time, probably, you will have little to do but to attend at the hours when he gives public audiences. You will, doubtless, occasionally carry his orders to officers in command of troops, at distant places, and will form part of his retinue when he goes beyond the Palace. When he sees that you are worthy of his favour, prompt in carrying out his orders, and in all respects trustworthy, he will in time assign special duties to you; but this will depend upon yourselves.

"As one who admires the courage and promptness that you showed today, and who wishes you well, I would warn you that it is best, when the sultan has had matters to trouble him, and may blame somewhat unjustly, not to seek to excuse yourselves. It is bad to thwart him, when he is roused. You can rely upon me to stand your friend and, when the storm has blown over, to represent the matter to him in a favourable light. The sultan desires to be just, and in his calm moments assuredly is so; but when there is a cloud before his eyes, there is no saying upon whom his displeasure may fall.

"At present, however, there is little chance of your falling into disgrace, for he is greatly impressed with the service you have rendered him, and especially by the promptness with which you carried it out. After you had gone he spoke very strongly about it, and said that he would he were possessed of a hundred officers, capable of such a deed. He would, in that case, have little fear of any of the foes of his kingdom.

"It is fortunate that you came here this afternoon. It is well-nigh certain that he will ask for you presently, and though he could hardly blame you, had you required until tomorrow to complete your preparations, your promptitude will gratify him; and he will, I am sure, be still more pleased at seeing that you have so well laid out his gift. He gave you no orders on the subject, and had you appeared in the dresses you wore this morning, he would, doubtless, have instructed me to provide you with more suitable attire. The fact that you have so laid out the money will show that you have an understanding of the honour of being appointed to the Palace, and a proper sense of fitness. The sultan himself dresses plainly and, save for a priceless gem in his turban, and another in his sword hilt, there is nothing in his attire to lead a stranger to guess at his rank. But while he does this himself, he expects that all others in the Palace should do justice to his generosity.

"And now, you had best return to your room, and remain there until sent for. If he does not think of it himself, I shall, if opportunity occurs, inform him that you have already arrived."

They had some difficulty in finding their way back to their room, and had, indeed, to ask directions of attendants they met before they discovered it. A native was squatting at the door. He rose and salaamed deeply, as they came up.

"Your slave is appointed to be your attendant, my lords," he said. "Your servant's name is Ibrahim."

"Good," Surajah said, as he passed him and entered the room. "Now, Ibrahim, tell us about the ways of the Palace, for of these we are altogether ignorant. In the first place, about food. Do we provide ourselves, or how is it?"

"All in the Palace are fed from the sultan's kitchen. At each meal, every officer has so many dishes, according to his rank. These vary from three to twelve. In the early morning, I shall bring you bread and fruit and sherbet; at ten o'clock is the first meal; and at seven there is supper. At one o'clock the kitchens are open, and I can fetch you a dish of pillau, kabobs, a chicken, or any other refreshment that you may desire. At present, I have no orders as to how many dishes your Excellencies will receive, at the two meals."

"We shall not be particular about that," Surajah said. "It is evident we shall fare well, at any rate."

"I am told to inform you, my lords, that the sultan has ordered two horses to be placed at your service. A ghorrawalla has been appointed to take charge of them. His name is Serfojee. If you ask for him at the stable, you will be directed to him, and he will show you the horses.

"In an hour supper will be served, but this evening I shall only be able to bring you three dishes each. Such is always the rule, until the sultan's pleasure has been declared."

Ibrahim then proceeded to light two lamps, hanging from the ceiling, for it was now getting dusk; and then, finding that his masters had no further need of his services, he retired.

"So far, so good, Surajah. We are certainly in clover, as far as comfort is concerned, and the only drawback to the situation is Tippoo's uncertain temper. However, we must try our best to satisfy him. We have every reason to stand well with him, and if he sees that we are really anxious to please him, we ought to be able to avoid falling into disgrace, even when he is in his worst moods."

Their attendant presently brought up the six portions of food, and they enjoyed their meal heartily. Each had an ample portion of a pillau of rice and chicken, a plate of stew, which Dick thought was composed of game of some kind, and a confection in which honey was the predominating flavour. With this they drank water, deliciously cooled by being hung up in porous jars.

Surajah ate his food with the dexterity of long habit, but Dick had not yet learned to make his bread fulfil the functions of spoon and fork, for at his uncle's table European methods of eating were adopted.

Half an hour after they had finished, an officer presented himself at the door, and said that he was ordered to conduct them to the sultan. Tippoo had supped in the harem, and was now seated on a divan, in a room of no great size, but richly hung with heavy silken curtains, and carpeted with the richest rugs. Two or three of his chief officers were seated beside him. Seven or eight others were standing on either side of the room. A heavy glass chandelier, of European manufacture, hung from the richly carved ceiling, and the fifty candles in it lighted up the room.

The chamberlain met them at the door, and advanced with them towards Tippoo.

"Great Sultan," he said, "these are the young men whom it has pleased your Highness to appoint officers in the Palace."

The two lads salaamed until their turbans touched the ground.

"Truly they are comely youths," Tippoo said, "and one would scarcely deem them capable of performing such a feat as that they accomplished this morning.

"Well, my slayers of tigers, you have found everything fitly provided?"

"Far more so than our deeds merit, your Highness," Surajah replied. "We have found everything that heart could desire, and only hope for an opportunity to show ourselves worthy of your favours."

"You have done that beforehand," Tippoo said graciously, "and I am glad to see, by your attire, that you are conscious that, as my officers, it is fitting you should make a worthy appearance. It shows that you have been well brought up, and are not ignorant of what is right and proper.

"At present, you will receive orders from Fazli Ali, and will act as assistant chamberlains, until I decide in what way your services can be made most useful.

"Now, follow me. There are others who wish to see you."

Rising, Tippoo led the way through a door with double hangings, into a room considerably larger than that which they had just left. The chandeliers, at the end of the room where they stood, were all lighted, while the other end was in comparative darkness.

Leaving them standing alone, Tippoo walked towards the other end, and clapped his hands. Immediately, a number of closely veiled figures entered, completely filling the end of the room.

"These are the young men," Tippoo said to them. "It is the one on the right to whom it is chiefly due that the tiger did not commit havoc among you. It was he who climbed up the balcony, and fired twice at the beast. You owe your lives to him and his companion, for among all my officers and guards there was not one who was quick-witted enough to move as much as a finger."

There was a faint murmur of surprise, among the veiled figures, at the youth of their preserver.

"Hold your heads fully up," Tippoo went on, for Dick and his companion, after making a deep salaam, had stood with bent heads and with eyes fixed upon the ground.

Then two of the attendants, girls of thirteen or fourteen years old, came forward from behind the others, each bearing a casket.

"These are presented to you, with my permission, by the ladies whose lives you saved," Tippoo said; "and should you at any time have a favour to ask, or even should you fall under my displeasure, you can rely upon their good offices in your behalf."

There was another low murmur from the other end of the hall. Then Tippoo clapped his hands, and the women moved out, as noiselessly as they had entered.

"You can retire now," Tippoo said, as he moved towards the door into the other room. "Be faithful, be discreet, and your fortune is assured."

He pointed to another door, and then rejoined his councillors.

Dick and his companion stood in an attitude of deep respect, until the hanging had fallen behind the sultan, and then went out by the door he had pointed to, and made their way back to their own room.

"Truly, Surajah, fortune is favouring us mightily. This morning, we walked the streets in fear of being questioned and arrested. This evening we are officers of the Palace, favoured by Tippoo, and under the protection of the harem.

"I wonder what the ladies have given us."

They opened the caskets, which were of considerable size. As they examined the contents, exclamations of surprise broke from them. Each contained some thirty or forty little parcels, done up in paper; and on these being opened, they were found to contain trinkets and jewels of all kinds. Some were very costly and valuable. All were handsome.

It was evident that every one of the ladies who had been in the room, when the tiger burst in, had contributed a token of her gratitude. Many of the more valuable gems had been evidently taken from their settings, as if the donors did not care that jewels they had worn should be exposed to view. One parcel contained twenty superb pearls, another a magnificent diamond and ten rubies, and so on, down to the more humble gifts -- although these were valuable -- of those of lower rank.

Dick's presents were much more costly than those of his companion, and as soon as this was seen to be the case, Dick proposed that they should all be put together, and divided equally. This, however, Surajah would not hear of.

"The whole thing is due to you," he said. "It would never have occurred to me to interfere at all. I had no part in the matter, beyond aiding to kill a wounded tiger, and it was no more than I have done, many times, among our hills, and thought nothing of. These jewels are vastly more than I deserve, for my share in the affair. I do not know much about the value of gems, but they must be worth a large sum, and nothing will induce me to take any of those that you have so well earned."

"I wonder whether Tippoo knows what they have given us," Dick said, after in vain trying to alter his companion's decision.

"I don't suppose he troubled himself about it," Surajah replied. "No doubt he was asked for permission for each to make a present to us. The jewels in the harem must be of enormous value, as, for the last fifteen years, Tippoo has been gathering spoil from all southern India, having swept the land right up to the gates of Madras. They say that his treasures are fabulous, and no doubt the ladies of his harem have shared largely in the spoils. The question is, what had we best do with these caskets? We know that, in the course of our adventures, it may very well happen that we shall be closely searched, and it would never do to risk having such valuables found upon us."

"No; I should say that we had best bury them somewhere. Some of these merchants here may be honest enough for us to leave the jewels in their care, without anxiety; but as they themselves may, at any moment, be seized and compelled to give up their last penny, these things would be no safer with them than with us.

"As to Pertaub, I have absolute faith in him, but he himself is liable to be seized at any moment. However, I should say we had better consult him. If we were to bury them, say, under the floor of his house, we might leave them there for a time. If we saw any chance of this place being, someday, captured by our people, we could wait till then for their recovery. But the war may not be renewed for years. Possibly Pertaub may be able to arrange to send them down, only entrusting a portion at a time to a messenger, so that, if he got into trouble, we should only lose what he had upon him.

"We will put the caskets into our box, and lock it up for the present, and take them down to Pertaub tomorrow evening, after it gets dark. It will be as well to get them off our minds, as soon as possible, for although just at present we are in high favour, there is no saying how long it may last, or when it may be necessary for us to move."



Chapter 13: Officers Of The Palace.


The next morning, just as they had finished their early breakfast, they were sent for by Fazli Ali.

"You had better accompany me on my rounds," he said. "I shall not commit any special duties to you, until I see whether the sultan intends that you shall remain with me, or whether, as is far more likely, he assigns other work to you. Were you placed in separate charges in the Palace, I should have to fill your places if you left. Therefore I propose that, at present, you shall assist me in general supervision.

"We will first go to the kitchens. These give me more trouble than any other part of my duties. In the first place, one has to see that the contractors do their work properly, that the number of carcases sent in is correct, the flesh of good quality, and that the list of game is correct. Then one has to check the amount of rice and other grain sent in from the storehouses, the issue of spices, and other articles of that kind. These matters do not require doing every day. The kitchen officers are responsible for them, but once or twice a week I take care to be present, to see that all is right. Then I ascertain that everything is in good and proper order in the kitchen, listen to complaints, and decide disputes.

"When we have done there, we will see that the requisitions from the harem are properly complied with, and that the sweetmeats, perfumes, silks, and muslins, as required, are furnished.

"The payment of salaries does not come into my department. That is one of the functions of the treasurer of the Palace, who also discharges all accounts, upon my signature that they are correct.

"Then I take a general tour of the Palace, to see that the attendants have done their duties, and that everything is clean and in order. As a rule, I have finished everything before the morning meal is served. The details of making up the accounts are, of course, done by clerks.

"After that, my duties depend entirely upon the sultan. If there is any state ceremonial in the Palace, I summon those whose duty it is to attend, and see that everything is properly arranged and in order. If not, I am generally at his Highness's disposal.

"Unless you receive any instructions from me, you will be free to occupy yourselves as you like. You will, of course, take part in all public ceremonials. You will be among the officers who accompany the sultan, when he goes out, and will be liable to be summoned to attend him at all times. Therefore, although free to go into the town, or ride beyond the island, it is well that you should never be long absent; and that, if you wish to be away for more than two hours at a time, you should first let me know, as I may be able to tell you if the sultan is likely to require you. He has fixed your pay at four hundred rupees a month."

Dick, as he accompanied the chamberlain on his tour through the Palace, was struck with the order and method that prevailed in every department, and the chamberlain told him that Tippoo, himself, inquired closely into details, and that, large as was the daily expenditure, no waste of any kind was allowed.

The splendour of some of the apartments was surprising, especially the throne room. The throne itself was of extraordinary magnificence. It was of gold, thickly inlaid with gems. On the apex stood a jewelled peacock, covered entirely with diamonds, emeralds, and rubies, with pendants of pearls. In front of it stood a golden tiger's head, which served as a footstool. On either side were standards of purple silk, having a sun with gold rays in the centre. The spear heads were of gold, set with jewels.

When the work of inspection was finished, they went back to their room, where their attendant soon afterwards, with an air of great exultation, brought their meal, which consisted of nine dishes each, a proof of the high favour with which Tippoo regarded them. After this meal was eaten they went down to the stables, and were pleased, indeed, with the mounts provided for them. They were fine animals, with handsome saddles and trappings, and Dick and Surajah at once mounted, and rode through the town to the other extremity of the island. As they wore scarves that had been furnished them by Fazli Ali, showing that they were officers of the Palace, they were everywhere greeted with deep salaams.

"I hope," Dick said, as they returned from their ride, "that Tippoo will not be long before he finds us some other duties. There is nothing very interesting in counting carcases, or seeing rice measured."

"That is true enough," Surajah agreed. "But we must not be impatient. Fortune has befriended us marvellously, and I have great faith that it will continue to do so. We must be content to wait."

"Yes, I know that, Surajah, but I think it is all the more difficult to do so, because we have done so much in a short time. It seems as if one ought to go on at the same rate."

That evening they went down, as they had arranged, with ordinary wraps round their gay attire, to Pertaub's, taking with them the caskets of gems. The Hindoo received them warmly.

"I saw you ride through the streets this morning, although you did not notice me. Truly, you made a good appearance, and were well mounted. I have heard from one of our people, who is a servant in the Palace, that you stand in high favour."

"We have brought you down these two caskets of gems," Dick said. "They were given us by the ladies of the harem, and many of the stones, Surajah thinks, are very valuable. We don't know what to do with them, and wanted to know whether you could arrange to send them down to Tripataly for us."

"I would not undertake to do so, if they are valuable," Pertaub said. "The prospects of fresh troubles are stronger every day, and the roads are so closely watched, especially those through the passes, that it would be running a terrible risk to trust valuables to anyone."

"In that case, Pertaub, we thought you might bury them in the ground under your house. But first, look at some of the stones, and tell us what you think of them."

The Hindoo opened Surajah's casket, and undid many of the little parcels.

"Assuredly they are valuable," he said. "Some of them much more so than others; but if all are like these that I have opened, they must be worth at least fifty thousand rupees."

"Now look at this casket, Pertaub."

The Hindoo uttered an exclamation of surprise, as he opened some of the packets, and, taking out some of the larger gems, he examined them by the light of his lamp.

"I could not place a value on these," he said at last. "The ladies must, indeed, have felt that they owed their lives to you. The gems are a fortune. Doubtless they are the spoils of a score of districts, and Tippoo must have distributed them lavishly among his wives, or they could never have made such rich presents. I would bury them, Sahib, for surely they could not be entrusted even to the most faithful messengers, in times like these. But though, if you like, I will hide them here, I think it would be far safer for you to take them across the river, and bury them in a wood, marking well the trees, that you may know the place again; for although methinks Tippoo's agents believe that they have squeezed the last rupee from me, one can never tell -- I might again be tortured, and none can say that they are brave enough to bear the agonies that Tippoo's executioners inflict.

"I will bury them for tonight; but I pray you give me notice the first time you cross the river. I will be at the other side of the ford, with the jewels hidden in a sack on an ass. This I will drive forward, when I see you crossing the ford. You will follow me, till I enter a wood. I will have the tools, and when you join me, you can go on a short distance and bury them. I do not wish to see where you hide them, but will move about, to make sure that none come near you when so engaged.

"You had best take out a few small stones, which you will find as good as money, and much more easily concealed, for in every town or large village you will find a jeweller, who will give you silver for them."

"I think that will be a very good plan, Pertaub, and will certainly carry it out."

A month passed, without any change in their work. They rode, with other officers, behind Tippoo's palanquin when he went out, which he did almost every day, to inspect the progress of the fortifications; and were among the brilliant circle behind his throne, when he gave orders.

By this time, they had come to know most of the other Court officials, and were able to inquire cautiously about the prisons. They could learn nothing, however, of any English prisoners in Seringapatam, save those they had seen in the hut in the fort.

Six weeks after their appointment as Palace officers, Dick and Surajah were sent for by Tippoo.

"I am about to employ you," the sultan said, when they appeared before him, "on a mission. You are strangers here, and are unconnected with any of my officers; and I can, therefore, place greater reliance on your reports, than upon those of men who have other interests than my own to serve. I desire you to go and inspect the hill forts, to see how the repairs of the fortifications injured by the English are progressing, and to make sure that the cannon are in good order, and the supply of ammunition plentiful. You have shown that you are quick sighted and sharp. Look round the defences, and if you see aught that can be done to strengthen them, confer with the governors, learn their opinions on the subject, and if they agree with you, they will be authorised to take men from the country round to strengthen the fortifications, and I will forward, at once, such guns and stores as may be required.

"After the inspection of each fort, you will despatch a mounted messenger to me with your report; and you will state which fort you will next visit, in order that I may despatch there any order that I may have to give you.

"Do your duty well, and I shall know how to reward you. In order that your authority may be increased, you are both named colonels in the army. Fazli will furnish you with a written copy of the orders I have given you, and with authority, under my seal, to enter and inspect all fortresses, and to consult with the governors as to everything considered, by them, as necessary for their better defence.

"The last time the English came, they captured Nundidroog, and other hill fortresses that we had regarded as impregnable, simply because the governors were overconfident, and the defences had been neglected. This must not occur again, and if there is failure in the defences, I shall hold you responsible. Therefore, take care that you do not neglect, not only to see that the repairs are being well carried out, but to recommend additions to the fortifications, wherever it seems to you that there is even a possibility of an enemy making his way up.

"You will take with you twenty troopers as an escort, but these are not to enter any of the fortresses with you, for treachery is always possible; and no one, save the garrisons, must be acquainted with the defences of the hill forts."

Surajah expressed his thanks to the sultan for entrusting them with the mission, and assured him that their inspection of the forts should be careful and complete, and that they would start in an hour's time.

When they reached their own room, Dick threw up his turban in delight.

"Was there ever such a stroke of good fortune?" he exclaimed. "The tiger business was as nothing to this. Tippoo has given us the mission, of all others, that will enable us to carry out our search. Our work is as good as done.

"That is to say," he added, more gravely, "we are at least pretty sure to find my father out, if he is alive. Besides, we may get information that will be of great use, if the war is renewed.

"Now we had better, in the first place, go and see Fazli and get our instructions. We will order our horses to be in readiness to start, as soon as we have had our meal -- we may not get another chance of eating today.

"I should like to take Ibrahim with us. He is a capital servant, and a strong, active fellow. I believe he is fond of us, and we shall want someone who can cook for us, and buy things, and so on. I will speak to Fazli about it."

The chamberlain looked up, as they entered the room where he was engaged in dictating to a clerk.

"I congratulate you on your mission," he said. "It will involve a great deal of hard work, but as you have told me how you longed for some duty outside the Palace, you will not mind that. Tippoo consulted me before sending for you. I told him you were diligent in the service, and I felt sure you would do your best in the present matter; and that, as you were accustomed, in the pursuit of game, to ascend mountains and scale precipices, you were far more likely to find the weak spots in the forts than an old officer, who would be likely to take everything for granted.

"There is no doubt that many of the garrisons are very far from being efficient. They have been stationed in the forts for many years. Discipline, both among officers and men, is sure to have become lax, and there will be much that young men, going freshly into the matter, will see needs amendment. That the walls are often weak, and the cannon so old as to be almost useless, I am well aware; for sometimes newly-appointed governors have sent in strong protests, and urgent requests that they might be furnished with new cannon, and that walls and defences might be renewed. But what with the wars, the removal of the capital, and the building and fortification of this place, these matters have been neglected; and it is only now that the sultan sees the necessity of putting the fortifications of all these places in good repair.

"I have had the papers prepared and signed. Your escort has been ordered. Is there anything else you can think of?"

"We should like to take our Palace attendant with us," Surajah said. "He is a good man and, starting so suddenly, we should have a difficulty in hiring servants we could rely on."

"I have thought of that," the chamberlain replied, "and have ordered a horse to be got in readiness for him, together with a spare animal to carry food and necessaries for your journey. You will need them on your marches, and may even be glad of them in some of the smaller forts, where the fare will be very rough."

When they returned to their room, they found Ibrahim awaiting them. He was evidently delighted at the prospect of accompanying them.

"My lords," he said, "I have the pack horse saddled in the stable, with two great sacks and ropes. Is it your pleasure that I should go down, at once, to the market and buy flour and rice, spices, and other things necessary?"

"Certainly, Ibrahim. But it will not be necessary to buy much meat. It will not keep, and we ought always to be able to buy a sheep or a fowl from villagers. Get some thick, wadded sleeping rugs, some cooking pots, and whatever you think is necessary. Do not waste any time, for we shall start immediately after our meal."

As soon as the man had left, Dick said to Surajah:

"I will hurry down to the town and see Pertaub. You had best remain here, in case Tippoo should send for us to give us final instructions. You can say, should he ask, that I have gone down to the town to get a supply of powder and ball for our pistols, writing materials, and other things that we may require; which will be true enough. It is most lucky that we buried our jewels in the forest, ten days ago, for we should not have had time to do it, now."

Dick returned in time for the meal, which was brought up by another servant.

"Pertaub was delighted to hear of our good fortune," he said, on his return. "He will keep our disguises by him, and if we have occasion for them, will either bring them himself with the merchandise, or will send them by a trusty messenger, to any place we may mention, directly he hears from us. I do not think there is any chance of our wanting them, but it is as well to prepare for any contingency that may occur."

Half an hour later they started, at the head of an escort of twenty troopers; Ibrahim riding in the rear, leading the pack horse, which carried a change of clothes, and thick cloths to keep out the night dews, as well as the stock of provisions. Ibrahim had also purchased two very large, dark blankets, that could be used for a temporary shelter. Surajah now felt quite at home, for he was engaged in the same sort of duty he performed at Tripataly; and more than one pair of dark eyes glanced admiringly at the two young officers, as they rode down to the ford.

They had been furnished, by Fazli, with a list of the forts they were to visit, and the order in which they were to take them; the first on the list being Savandroog, fifty miles northeast of the city. After a ride of twenty miles, they halted at a village. To the surprise of the troopers, Surajah gave orders that nothing was to be taken by force, as he was prepared to pay for all provisions required.

As soon as the villagers understood this, ample supplies were brought in. Rice, grain, and fowls were purchased for the soldiers, and forage for the horses, and after seeing that all were well provided for, the two officers went to a room that had been placed at their service, in the principal house in the village.

Ibrahim justified his assertion that he was a good cook, by turning out an excellent curry. By the time they had finished this it was getting dark, and after again visiting the troopers, and seeing that their own horses were fed and well groomed, they retired to bed.

An early start was made, and at ten o'clock they approached Savandroog. It was one of the most formidable of the hill forts of Mysore, and stood upon the summit of an enormous mass of granite, covering a base of eight miles in circuit, and rising in ragged precipices to the height of 2,500 feet. The summit of the rock was divided by a deep chasm into two peaks, each of which was crowned with strong works, and capable of separate defence. The lower part of the hill was, wherever ascent seemed possible, protected by walls, one behind the other. The natives had regarded the fort as absolutely impregnable, until it was stormed by the troops under Lord Cornwallis.

Dick looked with intense interest at the great rock, with its numerous fortifications. The damages committed by the British guns could not be seen at this distance, and it seemed to him well-nigh impossible that the place could have been captured. They rode on, until they neared an entrance in the wall that encircled the fort, at the side at which, alone, access was considered possible.

They were challenged as they approached. Ordering the troopers to remain behind, Dick and Surajah rode forward.

"We are the bearers," Surajah cried out, as they reined in their horses within twenty yards of the gate, "of an order from the sultan for our admittance, and of a letter to Mirzah Mohammed Bukshy, the governor."

"I will send up word to him," an officer on the wall replied. "I can admit no one, until I have received his orders to do so."

"How long will it be before we receive an answer?"

"An hour and a half, at the earliest. I regret that your Excellencies will be inconvenienced, but my orders are absolute."

"I do not blame you," Surajah replied. "It is necessary that you should always be vigilant;" and they retired under the shade of a tree, a hundred and fifty yards from the gate.

Ibrahim spread out the rugs, and then proceeded to light the fire, and to prepare a pillau of rice and fowl, while Dick and his companion regarded the rock with fixed attention, and conversed together as to the possibility of ascending at any of the points so steep as to be left undefended by walls. They concluded, at last, that it would be next to impossible to climb the rock anywhere on the side that faced them, save by scaling several walls.

They had just finished their luncheon when the gate opened, and an officer and four soldiers issued out. They at once rose, and went to meet them.

"I have the governor's order to admit you, on the production of the sultan's pass."

Surajah produced the document. The officer at once recognised the seal, and carried it to his forehead, salaaming deeply.

"Your troopers can enter at the gate, but cannot proceed farther than the second wall."

"Can we ride up, or must we walk?" Dick asked.

"You can ride," he replied. "The road is steep, but nowhere so steep that horses cannot mount it."

After the party had entered the gate, it was at once closed and bolted. The troopers dismounted, and were led to a small barrack; while Surajah and Dick, accompanied by the officer, and four soldiers on foot, rode on.

The road was a better one than Dick had expected. It was just wide enough for a cart to proceed up it, and was cut out of the solid rock. It turned and zigzagged continually, and at each angle was a small fort, whose guns swept the approach. They passed under a score of gateways, each defended by guns; and after upwards of an hour's climbing, at a quick pace, they approached one of the forts on its summit. The governor met them at the gate.

"You will pardon my not descending to meet you below," he said, "but I am not so young as I used to be, and the journey up and down fatigues me much."

Dick and Surajah dismounted, and the former presented the two documents. The governor, after reading the pass, bowed, and led the way into the interior of the fort; and they were soon seated on a divan in his quarters, when he read the circular letter.

"I am glad indeed," he said, when he had finished, "that the sultan is pleased to take into consideration the many demands I have made for cannon and ammunition. A large number of the pieces are past service, and they would be as dangerous to those who fired them as to those at whom they were aimed; while I have scarcely powder enough to furnish three rounds for each. As to the defences, I have done my best to strengthen them. Idleness is bad for all men, most of all for soldiers, and I have kept them well employed at repairing the effects of the English fire. Still, there is much to do yet before they are finished, and there are points where fortifications might be added with advantage. These I will gladly point out to you. They have been beyond our means here, for, as you will perceive, it will need blasting in many places to scarp the rock, and to render inaccessible several points at which active men can now climb up. For this work, powder is required. And I would submit that, for such hard work, it will be needful to supply extra rations to the troops, for the present scale scarcely suffices to keep the men efficient, especially as most of them have their wives and families dependent on them."

"I have no doubt that the sultan will accede to any reasonable requests, your Excellency. He is anxious that the walls of the forts should be placed in the best possible condition for defence. No one doubts that we shall, ere long, be again at war with England, and although the sultan relies much upon large reinforcements that have been promised by France, with whom he has entered into an alliance, they have not yet arrived, and he may have to bear the brunt of the attack of the English by himself."

"I have heard of this," the governor said, "and regret that we shall again have the Feringhees upon us. As for the Mahrattis or the Nizam, I heed them not -- they are dust, whom the sultan could sweep from his path; but these English are terrible soldiers. I have fought against them under Hyder, and in the last war they again showed their valour; and the strangest thing is that they make the natives under them fight as bravely as they do themselves.

"As to forts, nothing is safe from them. Were all the troops of the Nizam and the Mahrattis combined to besiege us, I should feel perfectly safe; while were there but five hundred Englishmen, I should tremble for the safety of the fortress. You have come up the hill, and have seen for yourselves how strong it is; and yet they took the place without the loss of a single man. I was not here, for I was in command of Kistnagherry at that time, and succeeded in holding it against their assaults. When the war was over, and Kistnagherry was ceded to them, I was appointed to this fortress, which seems to me to be even stronger than that was.

"The commander was a brave man, the garrison was strong, there was no suspicion of treachery; and though, at last, the troops were seized with a panic, as they might well be when they saw that they were unable to arrest the advance of the enemy, the defence up to that time had been stout. The English brought up guns, where it was thought no guns could be taken. They knocked the defences to pieces; and, after winning their way to the top, in one day captured this fort, and that on the hill yonder. It seems miraculous."

Coffee was brought in, and pipes, for although Tippoo was violently opposed to smoking, and no one would venture upon the use of tobacco in the Palace or fort, old officers like the governor, in distant commands, did not relinquish tobacco.

"It is necessary here," the governor said, as he filled his pipe. "The country round is terribly unhealthy, and the air is full of fever. I do not discourage its use among the men, for they would die off like flies, did they not smoke to keep out the bad air. The climate is, indeed, the best protection to the fort, for an army that sat down for any length of time before it, would speedily melt away."

He opened a box that stood on the divan beside him.

"I have copies here," he said, taking some papers out, "of the memorials that I have sent in to the sultan, as to the guns. This is the last. It was sent in two months ago. You see I asked for forty-nine heavy pieces. Of these, thirty are to replace guns that are honeycombed, or split. The other eleven are for new works. I asked for thirty-two lighter ones, or howitzers, and a hundred wall guns. Of course I could do with less; but to place the fort in a perfect state of defence, that is the number that I and my artillery officer think are requisite.

"Of powder, we have not more than a ton and a half, and if the siege were to be a long one we might require ten times as much. We have not more than eight rounds of shot for each gun, and we ought to have at least fifty for the heavy pieces, and twenty for those defending the path up the hill."

Dick made a note of the figures, in a pocket book he had bought for the purpose.

"As for provisions," the governor went on, "we ought to have large stores of rice and grain. The magazines are nearly empty, and as we have eight hundred men in garrison, and perhaps twice as many women and children, we should require a large store were we blockaded for any time."

"Are the troops in good condition?" Surajah asked.

The governor shook his head.

"Many of them are past the term of service; but until I get reinforcements to supply their places, I shall not venture to discharge them. Many others are wasted by fever, and, I must say, from insufficient rations, which not only weakens their bodies, but lowers their spirits. As long as there was no fear of attack, this mattered little; but if the English are coming again, we shall want well-fed and contented men to oppose them.

"I see, by the stars on your turbans, that you are both colonels as well as officers of the Palace. You are fortunate in obtaining that rank so young."

"It was due to the sultan's favour," Surajah said. "The other day, at the sports, a tiger burst into the sultan's zenana, and we were lucky enough to kill it -- that is, my friend did most of the killing. I only gave the brute the final coup."

"Ah, it was you who performed that deed!" the governor said, warmly. "I heard the news, from one of my officers who was on leave, and returned yesterday. Truly it was a gallant action, and one quickly done. No wonder that you obtained the sultan's favour, and your rank as colonel.

"I was a sportsman, in my young days. But I think I should have been more frightened at the thought of taking a peep into the sultan's zenana, than I should have been of fighting the tiger."

"I did not think anything about it," Dick said, "until it was all over. I heard some women scream, and, being quite close, went to their assistance, without a thought whether they might be the ladies of the zenana, or servants of the Palace. But indeed, I saw nothing save the tiger, and only vaguely observed that there were women there at all."

"It was well that the sultan took the view he did of the matter," the governor said. "I have known men put to death, for deeds that were but trifles in comparison to looking into the zenana.

"Now, Colonel, I will send for my artillery officer and the horses, and we will ride round the fortifications on the brow of the hill, inspect the two forts closely, and will point out to you the spots where it appears to us the defences ought to be strengthened."



Chapter 14: A Surprise.


Dick was much pleased with the governor. He was evidently an outspoken old soldier and, though rough, his bearded face had an honest and kindly expression, and he thought to himself, "If my father fell into his hands, I don't think he would be treated with any unnecessary hardship, though no doubt the sultan's orders would be obeyed."

When a soldier came in, to say that the horses were at the door, they went out. An officer was standing beside them, and the governor presented him as his chief artillery officer.

"You have not brought your horse," he said.

"No, your Excellency. The distance is not great, and we should need to dismount so many times, to get a view from the walls, that it would not be worthwhile to ride."

"In that case, we may as well walk, also," Dick said.

"I would rather do so, too," the governor said. "I proposed riding, because I thought you might be tired. As Bakir Meeram says, the distance is not great. The walls themselves, with the exception of those of the two forts, are not more than half a mile in extent; for in most places the rocks go sheer down, and there defences are, of course, unnecessary. We will inspect this fort, first."

They went the round of the walls, Dick and his companion listening to the suggestions of the two officers. The principal one was that a wall should be raised, inside the gate.

"The English, last time, got in here by rushing in at the tail of the fugitives from below. They were in before the gates could be closed, and took our men so completely by surprise that they were seized with a panic. Were we to raise a semicircular wall behind the gateway, such a thing could not occur again," the governor said. "Of course, there would be a gate in the inner wall, but not immediately behind the outer gateway as, if so placed, it might be destroyed by the cannon shots that battered the outer gate in. I should, therefore, put it at one end of the inner wall. This gate would be generally open, but in case of a siege I should have it blocked up with stones piled behind it, placing a number of ladders by which men, running in, could get on to the walls, and, however closely they were pursued, could make a stand there until the ladders were pulled up."

"That would be an excellent idea," Surajah said gravely, "and I will certainly lay it before the sultan. I suppose you would propose the same for the other fort?"

"Just the same."

"The only thing that I would observe," Dick said, "is that, if an enemy once got a footing on the top here, you could not hope to make a long defence of these forts."

"That is so," the governor agreed. "The strength of the defence is not here, but on the upward road, and if the English once gained the top the forts must fall; but at least it shall not be said, as long as I am governor, that Savandroog fell almost bloodlessly. In these forts we can at least die bravely, and sell our lives to the last. It is for that reason I desire that they shall be so defended that they cannot be carried, as they were before, by a sudden rush."

The other fort was then visited, and a tour made round the walls. The suggestions offered by the governor and the officers were all noted down and approved.

Then they made what was, to Dick, the most important part of the inspection; namely, an examination of the undefended portion of the rock. The result showed him that the builders of the defences had not acted unwisely in trusting solely to nature. At many points the rock fell away in precipices, hundreds of feet deep. At other points, although the descent was less steep, it was, as far as he could see from above, altogether unclimbable; but this he thought he would be able to judge better, from below.

"Do you have sentries round here at night?" he asked the governor.

"No. It would not be necessary, even if an enemy were encamped below. If you will ride round the foot of the hill when you leave, you will see for yourself that, save from the side you came up, the place is absolutely inaccessible."

The view from the top of the hill was superb. Away to the northeast, the governor pointed out the pagodas of Bangalore, twenty-two miles away; the distance, in the clear air, seeming comparatively trifling.

"Are there many troops there?" Dick asked.

"There are about five battalions of the regular troops, and three Chelah battalions. These can hardly be counted as troops. They have never been of the slightest use. In the last war they ran like sheep. It is a fancy of the sultan's. But, indeed, he can hardly expect men to fight who have been forced into the ranks, and made to accept Mohammedanism against their will. Naturally they regard an invader, not as an enemy, but as a deliverer.

"Of course the sultan's idea was, that since the native troops, drilled and led by Englishmen, fought so well; the Chelahs, who were also drilled and led by Englishmen, would do the same. But the Company's troops are willing soldiers, and it is the English leading, more than the English drill, that makes them fight. If the Chelahs were divided among the hill fortresses they might do good service; and I could, as far as fighting goes, do with a battalion of them here; for, mixed up with my men, they would have to do their duty. But, of course, they will never be placed in the hill forts, for one would never be safe from treachery. Even if all the lower walls were in the hands of my own men, some of the Chelahs would be sure to manage to desert, and give information as to all the defences."

A considerable portion of the upper plateau of the rock was occupied by the huts of the troops, for the forts were much too small to contain them and their families. On their way back, they passed through these. Dick looked anxiously about for white faces, but could see none, nor any building that seemed to him likely to be used as a prison.

When they returned to the governor's quarters, they found that a room had been placed at their disposal, and they presently sat down to dinner with him.

"I suppose you have no English prisoners here?" Dick said carelessly, when the meal was over.

The governor paused a moment, before he replied.

"I don't want any of them here," he said shortly. "Batches are sent up, sometimes, from Bangalore; but it is only for execution. I am a loyal subject of the sultan, but I would that this work could be done elsewhere. Almost all the executions take place in the hill forts; in order, I suppose, that they may be done secretly. I obey orders, but I never see them carried out. I never even see the captives. They have done no harm, or, at most, one of their number has tried to escape, for which they are not to be blamed. I always have them shot, whether that is the mode of execution ordered or not. It is a soldier's death, and the one I should choose myself, and so that they are dead it can matter little to the sultan how they die. If they were all shot, as soon as they were taken, I should not think so much of it; but after being held captive for years, and compelled to work, it seems to me that their lives should be spared. As far as giving up my own life is concerned, I would willingly do it at the orders of the sultan, but these executions make me ill. I lose my appetite for weeks afterwards. Let us talk of something else."

And the governor puffed furiously away at the hookah he had just lighted. Then the conversation turned to the forts again.

"No, I do not find the life dull," he said, in answer to a remark of Dick's. "I did so at first, but one soon becomes accustomed to it. I have my wife and two daughters, and there are ten officers, so that I can have company when I choose. All the officers are married, and that gives society. Up here, we do not observe strictly the rules of the plains, and although the ladies, of course, wear veils when they go beyond the house, they put them aside indoors, and the families mix freely with each other, so that we get on very well. You see, there are very few changes ever made, and as many of the ladies are, like my wife, no longer young, we treat them as comrades."

In the morning Dick and Surajah mounted their horses, took a hearty farewell of the governor, and rode down to the gate. A soldier had been sent down, half an hour before, and they found their escort in readiness to move. They had decided that, before going to the next fort, they would ride round the foot of the hill of Savandroog. This they did, going at a foot pace, and scanning the cliffs and slopes as they passed. Sometimes they reined up their horses and rode a little farther back, so as to have a view to the very summit.

When they completed the round, they agreed that there were but two spots where it seemed to them that an ascent was barely possible, and they were very doubtful whether the difficulties, when examined more closely, would not prove to be absolutely insurmountable.

"That is not a satisfactory outlook," Dick said, "but fortunately there is, now, no motive for climbing the precipice. Certainly those places would be of no use to a party wanting to make an attack. In the first place, though you and I might get up, with soft shoes on, I am sure that English soldiers, with muskets and ammunition pouches, could never do it, especially at night; and in the daytime, even if a body of troops strong enough to be of any use could get up, those who first arrived at the top would be killed before the others could come to their assistance, and a few stones rolled down would sweep all behind them to the bottom.

"I don't like turning my back on the place," he went on, as they turned their horses' heads to the south; for Savandroog was the farthest north of the forts they were to visit. "It seems to me that, even now, my father may be there."

"How can that be, Dick?" Surajah said in surprise. "Nothing could be more straightforward than the governor seemed to be. I thought that he was even rash, in speaking as frankly as he did to us."

"I think he saw there was no fear of our repeating what he said, Surajah. He is a frank, outspoken old soldier, and has evidently been so disgusted at the treatment of the prisoners that he could not mince his words; and yet, you know, he did not absolutely say that he had no prisoners."

"No; I noticed that he did not reply directly to your question."

"On the contrary, he distinctly hesitated before he spoke. Now, why should he have done that? He might just as well have said, 'No, I have no prisoners. They are only sent up here for execution.' That would have been his natural answer. Instead of that he hesitated, and then began, 'I don't want any of them here; batches are sent up sometimes from Bangalore.' Now, why did he shirk the question? If it had been any other subject, I might not have noticed that he had not really answered it, but of course, as it was so important a one, I was listening most anxiously for his reply, and noticed his hesitation at once, and that he gave no direct answer at all.

"Now, think it over, Surajah. Why should he have hesitated, and why should he have turned the question off without answering it, unless there had been some reason? And if so, what could the reason be?"

Surajah had no suggestion to make, and they rode on for some distance in silence.

"It is quite evident," Dick went on, after a long pause, "that he is a kind-hearted man, and that he objects altogether to Tippoo's cruelty to the prisoners. Therefore, if he had any captives, his reason for not answering was most likely a kindly one."

"Yes, I should think so."

"You see, he would consider that we should report, to the sultan, all particulars we had gathered about the fortress. His remarks about the execution of the prisoners, and the worthlessness of the Chelah battalions, and so on, was a private conversation, and was only a matter of opinion. But, supposing he had had some prisoners, and had said so, we might, for anything he knew, have had orders to inspect them, and to report about them, as well as about the garrisons and defences."

"Yes, he might have thought that," Surajah agreed; "but after all, why should he mind that?"

Dick did not answer for some time. He was trying to think it out. Presently, he reined in his horse suddenly.

"This might be the reason," he said, excitedly. This governor may be the very one who we heard had taken my father with him, when he was moved from that fort up in the north. He was in command at Kistnagherry before he came here, after the war, and he may have gone to Kistnagherry from that fort in the north. You see there have been executions, but they have been those of fresh batches sent up, and the governor would not include the captive he had brought with him. In time, his very existence may have been forgotten, and he may still be living there. That would account for the governor's objection to answering the question, as he would be sure that, did Tippoo hear there was a prisoner there, he would send orders for him to be executed at once.

"This may be all fancy, Surajah, but I cannot think of any other reason why he should have shirked my question."

He took up the reins again, and the horse at once started forward. They rode for some little time in silence, Dick thinking the matter over, again and again, and becoming more and more convinced he was right; except that, as he admitted to himself, the prisoner whom the governor wished to shield might not be his father.

He was roused, at last, by Surajah asking the question, "Is there anything that you would like us to do?"

"Not now," Dick replied. "We could not go back again. We must visit the other forts on our list, and see what we can find out there. When we have quite assured ourselves that my father is not in any of them, we can think this over again; but at present we must put it aside. However, I sha'n't rest until I get to the bottom of it."

During the next ten days, they inspected the forts of Navandroog, Sundradroog, Outradroog, and Chitteldroog. Few of these were as extensive, and none so strong, as Savandroog. They did the official part of their business, and assured themselves that no English captives were contained in any of them. The governors all said that prisoners were never kept there many days, and that it was only when Tippoo wished to get rid of them that they were sent there. None of the governors made any objection to answering Dick's questions on the subject, generally adding an expression of satisfaction that prisoners were never left long under their charge.

"It entails a lot of trouble," the governor of Outradroog said. "They have to be watched incessantly, and one never feels certain they may not slip away. Look at this place. You would think that no one could make his escape; and yet, some ten years ago, fourteen of them got away from here. They slid down a precipice, where no one would have thought a human being could have got down alive. They were all of them retaken, except one, and executed the following day; but the sultan was so furious that, although it was no fault of the governor, who had sentries placed everywhere, he sent for him to Seringapatam, and threw him to the tigers, declaring that there must have been treachery at work. You may be sure that I have no desire to hold English prisoners, after that; and when they have been sent here have been glad, indeed, when orders came for their execution.

"A good many were ordered to be starved to death. But I never waited for that. It took too long. Do what I could, the guards would smuggle in pieces of bread, and they lingered on for weeks; so that it was more merciful to finish with them at once, besides making me feel comfortable at the knowledge that there was no chance of their making their escape. There were sentries at their doors, as well as on the walls, when the fourteen I have told you about escaped; but they dug a passage out at the back of their hut, chose a very dark night, and it was only when the sound of some stones, that they dislodged as they scrambled down the precipice, gave the alarm to the sentries, that their escape was discovered.

"No, I do not want any prisoners up here, and when they do come, there is no sleep for me until I get the order to execute them. But they do not often come now. Most of the prisoners who were not given up have been killed since, and there are not many of them left."

Upon finishing their round, they returned to Seringapatam, where Dick drew up a full report of the result of their investigations. The sultan himself went through it with them, questioned them closely, cut off a good many of the items, and gave orders that the other demands should be complied with, and the guns and ammunition sent off at once to the various forts, from the great arsenal at the capital.

Dick was depressed at the result of their journey. His hopes had fallen lower and lower, as, at each fort they visited, he heard the same story -- that all prisoners sent up to the mountain fortresses had, in a short time, been put to death. It was possible, of course, that his father might still be at one of the towns where new levies had been drilled; but he had not, from the first, thought it likely that a merchant sailor would be put to this work; and had it not been that he clung to the belief that there was a prisoner at Savandroog, and that that prisoner was his father, he would have begun to despair.

It was true that there were still many hill forts scattered about the country, unvisited, but there seemed no reason why any of the prisoners should have been allowed to survive in these forts, when they had all been put to death in those they had visited, among which were the places that had been most used as prisons.

"I would give it up," he said to Surajah, "were it not that, in the first place, it would almost break my mother's heart. Her conviction that my father is still alive has never been shaken. It has supported her all these years, and I believe that, were I to return and tell her that it was no longer possible to hope, her faith would still be unshaken. She would still think of him as pining in some dungeon, and would consider that I had given up the search from faint heartedness. That is my chief reason. But I own that I am almost as much influenced by my own conviction that he is in Savandroog. I quite admit that I can give no reason whatever why, if there is a prisoner there, it should be my father, and yet I cannot get it out of my mind that it is he. I suppose it is because I have the conviction that I believe in it. Why should I have that impression so strongly, if it were not a true one? I tell myself that it is absurd, that I have no real grounds to go upon, and yet that does not shake my faith in the slightest. It is perhaps because we have been so fortunate. Altogether everything has turned out so favourably, that I can't help thinking he is alive, and that I shall find him.

"What do you think, Surajah? Ought we to give it up?"

"Why should we?" Surajah replied stoutly. "I think you are right, and that we are destined to find your father. There is no hurry. We have not been anything like so long a time as we expected to be, and Fortune has, as you say, befriended us wonderfully. We are well off here. We have positions of honour. For myself, I could wish for nothing better."

"Well, at any rate we will wait for a time," Dick said. "We may be sent to Savandroog again, and if so, I will not leave the place until I find out from the governor whether he has still a prisoner; and if so, manage to obtain a sight of him."

The next day, Dick was informed by the chamberlain that the officer who was in charge of the wild beasts had fallen into disgrace, and that the sultan had appointed him to the charge. Dick was well pleased, in some respects. The work would suit him much better than examining stores, and seeing that the servants of the Palace did their duty; but, on the other hand, it lessened his chance of being sent to Savandroog again. However, there was no choice in the matter, and Surajah cheered him by saying:

"You must not mind, Dick. Has not everything turned out for the best? And you may be sure that this will turn out so, also."

It was, indeed, but two days later that Dick congratulated himself upon the change, for Surajah was sent by Tippoo with an order for the execution of four English prisoners. Dick knew nothing of the matter until Surajah, on his return, told him that he had been obliged to stop and see the orders carried out, by poison being forced down the unfortunate officers' throats.

"It was horrible," he said, with tears in his eyes.

"Horrible!" Dick repeated. "Thank God I have been put to other work, for I feel that I could not have done it. And yet, to have refused to carry out the tyrant's orders would have meant death to us both, while it would not have saved the lives of these poor fellows. Anyhow, I would not have done it. As soon as I had received the order I would have come to you, and we would have mounted and ridden off together, and taken our chance."

"Let us talk of something else," Surajah said. "Are the beasts all in good health?"

"As well as they can be, when they are fed so badly, and so miserably cooped up. I made a great row this morning, and have kept the men at work all day in cleaning out the places. They were all in a horrible state, and before I could get the work done, I had to threaten to report the whole of them to Tippoo, and they knew what would come of that. I told Fazli, last night, that the beasts must have more flesh, and got an order from him that all the bones from the kitchens should be given to them."

That evening when Dick, on his way to the apartments of one of the officers, was going along a corridor that skirted the portion of the Palace occupied by the zenana; a figure came out suddenly from behind the drapery of a door, dropped on her knees beside him, and, seizing his hand, pressed it to her forehead. It was, to all appearance, an Indian girl in the dress of one of the attendants of the zenana.

"What is it, child?" he said. "You must have mistaken me for someone else."

"No, Bahador," she said, "it is yourself I wanted to thank. One of the other attendants saw you go along this corridor, some time ago, and ever since I have watched here of an evening, whenever I could get away unobserved, in hopes of seeing you. It was I, my lord, whom the tiger was standing over when you came to our rescue. I was not greatly hurt, for I was pushed down when the tiger burst in, and, save that it seized me with one of its paws, and tore my shoulder, I was unhurt. Ever since I have been hoping that the time would come when I could thank you for saving my life."

"I am glad to have done so, child. But you had best retire into the zenana. It would not be good for you, or me, were I found talking to you."

The girl rose to her feet submissively, and he now saw her face, which, in the dim light that burnt in the corridor, he had not hitherto noticed.

"Why," he exclaimed, with a start, "you are English!"

"Yes, Sahib. I was brought here eight years ago. I am fourteen now. There were other English girls here then, but they were all older than me, and have been given away to officers of the sultan. I am afraid I shall be, too, ere long. I have dreaded it so much! But oh, Sahib, you are a favourite of the sultan. If he would but give me to you, I should not mind so much."

Dick was about to reply, when he heard a distant footfall.

"Go in," he exclaimed. "Someone is coming. I will speak to you again, in a day or two."

When he returned to his room, he told Surajah what had happened.

"It will, at any rate, give me a fresh interest here," he said. "It is terrible to think that a young English girl should be in Tippoo's power, and that he can give her, whenever he likes, to one of his creatures. Of course, according to our English notions, she is still but a young girl, but as your people out here marry when the girls are but of the age of this child, it is different altogether."

"She does not suspect that you are English?"

"No. As I told you, I had only just discovered that she was so, when I heard a footstep in the distance. But I shall see her again, tomorrow or next day."

"You will be running a great risk," Surajah said gravely.

"Not much risk, I think," Dick replied. "She is only a little slave girl, and as the tiger was standing over her when I fired, no doubt I did save her life, and it would be natural enough that she would, on meeting me, speak to me and express her thanks."

"That would be a good excuse," Surajah agreed. "But a suspicious tyrant, like Tippoo, might well insist that this was only a pretence, and that the girl was really giving you a letter or message from one of the inmates of the zenana."

Dick was silent for a time.

"I will be very careful," he said. "I must certainly see her again, and it seems to me, at present, that whatever risk there may be, I must try to save this poor girl from the fate that awaits her. I cannot conceal from myself that, however much I may refuse to admit it, the hopes of my finding and saving my father are faint indeed; and although this girl is nothing to me, I should feel that my mission had not been an entire failure, if we could take her home with us and restore her to her friends.

"No, I don't think," he went on, in answer to a grave shake of Surajah's head, "that it would add to our danger in getting away. We know that, if we try to escape and are caught, our lives will be forfeited in any case; and if she were disguised as a boy, we could travel with her without attracting any more observation than we should alone. She would not be missed for hours after she had left, and there would be no reason, whatever, for connecting her departure with ours. I don't say, Surajah, that I have made up my mind about it -- of course it has all come fresh to me, and I have not had time to think it over in any way. Still, it does seem to me that when the time for our leaving comes, whether we ride off openly as Tippoo's officers, or whether we go off in disguise, there ought to be no very great difficulty in taking her away with us. You see that yourself, don't you?"

"I can't give any opinion about it, at present," Surajah replied. "I do think that it will add to our difficulties, however we may go, but I don't say it cannot be managed."

"I should think not, Surajah, and it would be worth doing, however great the difficulties might be. Just think of the grief that her parents must feel, at her loss, and the joy when she is restored to them. You see, it would be no great loss of time, if we were obliged to take her down to Tripataly first, and then come back again to renew our search. It would take but a week, going and returning, and now that the passes are all open to us, the difficulties would be nothing to what they were when we went back after our scouting expedition. Besides, at that time they were more vigilant, all along the frontier, than they will be now, because there was war between the two countries, and Tippoo was anxious that no news of his movements should be taken down. There is no talk of war now, for though Tippoo makes no disguise of his fury at his losses, especially at Coorg being taken from him, and is evidently bent upon fighting again, it will take a very long time to get his army into an efficient state, to repair his fortresses, to complete all the new works of defence he is getting up here, and to restore the confidence of his soldiers.

"I should think it will be fully four or five years before he is ready to fight again. At any rate, if we once get well away from here with the girl, we ought to have no difficulty in getting across the frontier. It would mean but a fortnight lost in the search for my father, and, anyhow, we are not making any progress that way as long as we stop here. The only drawback would be, so far as I can see, that we should lose the benefit of our official positions, but unless we happen to be sent off with orders to other hill forts, that position will only hamper our movements. Besides, we should still have our badges of office, and Tippoo's official orders to the governors. Possibly, the news that we had disappeared might reach the governors of some of the forts in this neighbourhood, but it would not be likely to travel very far. His officers so frequently fall into disgrace, and are either killed or thrown to the tigers, that the fact of our being missing would scarce excite a remark, and those who heard of it would suppose that we had either been secretly made away with, or that, having learned that Tippoo was displeased with us, we had fled."

Surajah nodded. His confidence in his leader was complete, and he was always ready to follow unquestioningly.

"There is one thing, Surajah," Dick concluded. "This state of things cannot last much longer, anyhow, for next time it might be me he ordered to see to the execution of an English prisoner, and that would mean that I should, as soon as I received the command, make a bolt for it. So you see our stay here, in any case, may not last many days. I would rather run any risks than carry out such an order."

Two evenings later, Dick went down the corridor at the same hour as that on which he had before met the English girl. She came out from behind the hangings at once, when he passed.

"I knew you would come, Bahador!" she said joyfully. "I could see that you were as kind as you were brave, and would have pity upon a poor little white slave!"

"I have much that I want to say to you, child. This is not a good place for speaking. Someone might come along at any moment. How long can you be away, without fear of your absence being noticed?"

"Not long now," she said. "In the morning I am sent out on messages, and could meet you anywhere."

"Very well. I will remain in my room all the morning, tomorrow, and if you do not come then, I will stay in next day."

"I will come," the girl said unhesitatingly.

He then gave her full instructions how to find his room, and made her repeat them to him, in order to be sure that she had them correctly.

"Do you know my companion by sight?" he asked.

"Oh, yes. I have seen him often."

"Well, either he or I will be standing at my door. It is as well that you should look carefully round, before you enter, so as to be sure there is no one in the corridor, and that you can slip in unobserved. You may be sure that I am asking you to come for no idle freak, but because I have something very important to say to you.

"I fancy I hear footsteps. Good night."

Dick was sure that he and Surajah would both be at liberty next day, for Tippoo had that morning started for Bangalore, where a large number of men were at work, repairing the fortifications and removing all signs of the British occupation from the fort and palace. He was likely to be away for at least a fortnight. As soon as Ibrahim had swept the room, after their early breakfast, Dick gave him a number of small commissions to be executed in the town, and told him that he should not require him again until it was time to bring up their meal from the kitchen. Then he and Surajah, by turns, watched at the door.

An hour later Surajah, who was upon the watch, said:

"The girl is coming."

There was no one else in sight, and when Surajah beckoned to her, she hurried on, and, passing through the curtains at the door, entered the room. It had been arranged that Surajah should remain on watch, so that should, by any chance, one of the officials of their acquaintance come along, he might go out and talk with him in the corridor, and, on some excuse or other, prevent his entering the room, if he showed any intention of doing so.

"Now, in the first place," Dick said, as he led the girl to the divan and seated her there, "what is your name?"

"My name is Goorla."

"No; I mean your proper name?"

"My name used to be Annie -- Annie Mansfield, Bahador."

"And my name is Dick Holland," he said, in English.

She gave a start of surprise.

"Yes, Annie, I am a countryman of yours."

She looked at him almost incredulously, and then an expression of aversion succeeded that of confidence in her face. She sprang from the divan, and drew herself up indignantly.

"Please let me go," she said haughtily. "You have saved my life, but if you had saved it twenty times, I could not like a man who is a deserter!"

Dick had at first been speechless with astonishment at the girl's change of manner, and at her reception of the news he had thought would have been very pleasant to her. As her last words threw a light upon the matter, he burst into a merry laugh.

"I am no deserter, Annie. Save my friend at the door and yourself, there is no one here who knows that I am English. Sit down again, and I will tell you how I come to be here.

"My father was the captain of an English ship. She was wrecked on the west coast, and he was seized and brought up here a prisoner, eight years ago. My mother, who is a daughter of the late Rajah of Tripataly, who married an English lady, taught me to speak Hindustani, so that when I got old enough I could come out here and try to find out if my father was still alive, and if so, to help him to escape. I had only just come up here, with my friend, who is an officer of the Rajah's, when that affair with the tiger took place. Then, as you know, Tippoo made us both officers in the Palace. Of course, while we are here we can do nothing towards finding out about my father, and we should not have remained here much longer anyway, and may have to leave at any moment. Since you met me, and I found that there was an English girl captive here, it has of course changed my plans, and I feel that I could not go away and leave you to the fate you told me of, and that if possible, I must take you away with me. That is, of course, if you are willing to go with us, and prepared to run a certain amount of risk.

"Do not take on so," he continued, as the girl threw herself on her knees, and, clinging to him, burst into a passion of tears. "Do not cry like that;" and, stooping down, he lifted her, and placed her in a corner of the divan. "There," he said, patting her on the shoulder, as she sobbed almost convulsively; "try and compose yourself. We may be disturbed at any moment, and may not have an opportunity of talking again, so we must make our arrangements, in readiness to leave suddenly. I may find it necessary to go at an hour's notice. You may, as you said, be given by Tippoo to one of his favourites at any time. Fortunately he has gone away for a fortnight, so we have, at any rate, that time before us to make our plans. Still, it is better that we should arrange, now, as much as we can."



Chapter 15: Escape.


Annie Mansfield was not long before she mastered her emotions. She had learned to do so in a bitter school. Beaten for the slightest fault, or at the mere caprice of one of her many mistresses, she had learned to suffer pain without a tear; to assume a submissive attitude under the greatest provocation; to receive, without attempting to defend herself, punishment for faults she had not committed; and to preserve an appearance of cheerfulness, when her heart seemed breaking at the hopelessness of any deliverance from her fate. For the last six months she had been specially unhappy, for when Seringapatam had been besieged she had hoped that, when it was captured, her countrymen would search the Palace and see that, this time, no English captive remained behind. Her disappointment, then, when she heard that peace had been made, and that the English army was to march away, without even an attempt to see that the condition for the release of captives was faithfully carried out, had for a time completely crushed her, and all hope had forsaken her.

Thus, then, while she had been, for a moment, overwhelmed at finding that her preserver from the tiger was a countryman in disguise, and that he was willing to make an attempt to rescue her; yet in a few minutes she stifled her sobs, hastily thrust back the hair that had fallen over her face, uncoiled herself from her crouching position in the angle of the divan, and rose to her feet.

"I can hardly believe it to be true," she said, in a low voice. "Oh, Sahib, do you really mean what you say? And are you willing to run the risk of taking me away with you?"

"Of course I am," Dick said heartily. "You don't suppose that an Englishman would be so base as to leave a young countrywoman in the hands of these wretches? I do not think that there is much risk in it. Of course, you will have to disguise yourself, and there may be some hardships to go through, but once away from here we are not likely to be interfered with. You see, my friend and I are officers of the Palace, and no one would venture to question us, as we should be supposed to be travelling upon the sultan's business. There is peace at present, and although Tippoo may intend, some day or other, to fight again, everything is settling down quietly. Traders go about the country unquestioned. There is plenty of traffic on the roads from one town to another; and so long as your disguise is good enough to prevent your being recognised as a white, there is no greater danger in travelling, in Mysore, than there would be down in the Carnatic."

Annie stood before him, with her fingers playing nervously with each other. Long trained in habits of implicit obedience, and to stand in an attitude of deep respect before her numerous mistresses, she was in ignorance whether she ought to speak or not. She had been but a child of six, when she had been carried off. Her remembrance of English manners had quite died out, and the habit of silent submission had become habitual to her. Dick was puzzled by her silence.

"Of course, Annie," he said, at last, "I don't want you to go with me, if you would rather stay here, or if you are afraid of the risk of travelling."

She looked up with frightened eyes.

"Oh, Sahib, it is not that; I would go, even if I felt sure I should be found out and cut to pieces. Anything would be better than this. I am not afraid at all.

"But forgive me, Sahib. I don't know how to thank you. I don't know what is proper to say. It is all so strange and so wonderful."

"Oh, that is all right, Annie," Dick said cheerfully. "Of course, you will feel it a little strange, just at starting.

"Well, in the first place, you must call me Dick, instead of calling me sahib; and in the next place, you must talk to me freely, as a friend, and not stand as if I were your master. While we are on this journey together, consider me as a sort of big brother. When we get down the ghauts I shall hand you over to the care of my mother, who is living at present at Tripataly with her brother, the Rajah.

"Now sit down again, and let us make our arrangements. When we have done that we can talk, if there is time. Now, how am I to let you know if I have to go away suddenly? Do you always get out at this time of a morning?"

"Not always, but very often. I always go down at twelve o'clock, with some of the other slave girls, to fetch the food and sweetmeats for the ladies of the harem."

"Well, you must always manage, even if you are not sent out, to look out through that doorway where you met me, at eight o'clock in the morning. If we have anything particular to say to you, Surajah -- that is my friend, you know -- will be there. Which way do you go out from the harem to fetch the food?"

"Not from that door, but from the one nearest to the kitchen. You go right down that corridor, and then take the first turning to the right. There is a flight of stairs at its end. We come out at the door just at its head. At the foot of the stairs there is a long passage, and at the end of that is a large room, with tables, on which the dishes are placed in readiness for us to bring back."

"Well, if it is necessary to speak to you at once, one of us will meet you in the passage between the bottom of the stairs and the room where the food is. If you see one of us, you will know that the matter is urgent, and as soon as you can possibly slip away, you must come here. In the evening you had better again look out from the door where you first met me.

"Now, as to the disguise, it will be better for you to go as a boy. It would be strange to see a girl riding behind two of the officers of the Palace. You won't mind that, will you?"

"Not at all, Sahib."

"Not at all, Dick," he corrected. "Well, I will have a dress ready for you here. You will find it in that corner, and there will be a bottle of stain on the table. It will be only necessary for you to colour your neck, hands, and feet, but you must cut off your hair, behind, to a level with your ears, so that none of it will show below the turban. You must do that, of course, before you stain your neck, and must stain the skin where you have cut off your hair, also. I am giving you these instructions now, because when the time comes there may not be a minute to spare, though, of course, I hope there will be no desperate hurry."

"I understand," she said, "and will look out for you, three times a day."

"Of course," he went on, "if you are suddenly told that you are to be given to any one, you must slip out at once, and come here. You will find everything ready for you to disguise yourself, and you must do that at once, and wait here till one of us comes. Even if you are missed, it will be some time before any search is made, and it would be thought much more likely that you had gone down into the town, than that you were hiding in the Palace, so there would be no chance of their looking for you here before we return. Anyhow, we shall be able to have another talk before Tippoo comes back. We shall be here every morning until nine, and if you are able to get away again, come and see us.

"It will be better, perhaps, for you not to wait any longer, now. I suppose you have been charged with some message or other, and it would not do for you to be too long gone."

The girl stood up at once.

"I have to go down to the Pettah, to get some sewing silk to match this;" and she drew out a small fragment of yellow silk.

"Very well, then. You had better go and do it, or they may think that you are too long away.

"Goodbye, Annie. I hope that in another week, or ten days at the latest, I shall have you out of this;" and he held out his hand to her.

She took it timidly, and would have raised it to her forehead, but Dick said, laughing:

"That is not the way, Annie. English girls don't treat their friends as if they were lords and masters. They just shake hands with them, as if it were two men, or two girls."

"I shall know better, in time," she said, with a faint smile, though her eyes were full of tears. "I want to do something, though I don't know what. You saved my life from the tiger, and now you are going to save me again. I should like to throw myself down, and kiss your feet."

"You would make me horribly uncomfortable, if you did anything of the sort, Annie. I can understand that you feel strange and out of your element, at present, but you will soon get over that, when you come to know me better.

"There, goodbye, lassie. I hope to see you again, tomorrow or next day, and then you will be able to tell me more about yourself.

"Is the coast clear, Surajah?"

Surajah looked out through the curtains.

"There is no one in sight," he said, a moment later.

The girl passed silently out, and went down the corridor. Surajah returned from his post by the door.

"The poor girl is shy and awkward, as yet," Dick said, "but I think she will be plucky enough, when the time comes. You heard what we said. The first thing will be to get her disguise ready for her. What do you think? Had we better take Ibrahim with us? I think he is to be trusted."

"I am sure he is," Surajah agreed. "He is a Hindoo of Coorg, and was carried away as a slave, six years ago. In the first place, he will be delighted at the prospect of getting away; and in the next, I am sure that he is very fond of you. But there is no occasion to tell him that you are English."

"No, it will be time enough to do that when we get over the ghauts. It will be better that he should get the disguise. In the first place, he will know exactly what is wanted; and in the next, it would look rum for either of us to be buying such a thing. Of course, we could ask Pertaub to get it for us, but if we take Ibrahim with us he may as well buy it.

"We shall want a couple more horses. These, of course, we can buy ourselves, and saddles and things. When we have got them, we had better leave them at some place on the other side of the river. Pertaub would help us, there. He is sure to know someone who will look after them for a few days. Then Ibrahim and the girl can start together, go over there and saddle them, so as to be in readiness to mount, directly we come along. We will stop at the wood and dig up the caskets. There is nothing like taking them away with us, when there is a chance, and it is not likely that we shall come back to Seringapatam again -- it would be like putting our heads into a tiger's den."

When Ibrahim brought in the dishes for their meal, Dick said:

"Go down and get your own food, Ibrahim, and when you have done come back here again. I want to have a talk with you."

They had just finished their meal, when Ibrahim returned.

"Ibrahim, would you be glad of a chance of getting away from here, and returning to your own country?"

"I would have given anything to do so, my lord," Ibrahim said, "before I was ordered to attend upon you. But I am happy now. You are kind to me, and I should not like to leave your service."

"But if I were going too, Ibrahim?"

"Then, my lord, I would go with you anywhere, if you would take me."

"Well, Ibrahim, we feel sure that we can trust you, and so I may tell you that I think it likely we shall, very shortly, go away. You know what the sultan is. One day he gives you honours and rewards, the next he disgraces you, and perhaps sends you into the ranks of the army, perhaps has you thrown to the tigers. We do not care to live under such conditions, and we mean, in a few days, to slip away and go to our friends down the ghauts. You can come with us, if you like."

"I would go with you to the end of the world, my lord," Ibrahim exclaimed earnestly. "To go with you and be a free man, and not a slave, would be almost too great happiness."

"Very well, then, that is settled. Now, Ibrahim, we are not going alone. We are going to take with us a young white slave in the harem, and restore her to her friends. I want you to get a disguise for her. Let it be a dress like your own -- long white trousers to the ankle, a shirt and tunic with waist belt, also the stuff for a turban. That you must wind in proper folds, as she would not be able to do it herself. I also want a bottle of stain for the skin."

"I will get them, my lord. How tall is she?"

"About half a head shorter than you are. She is about the size of an average Hindoo woman."

"Shall I get the things at once, my lord?"

"Yes, you had better get them today. We may leave at any time, and it is as well to have them in readiness. We shall buy two horses, one for each of you, and have them taken across the river. You can ride, I suppose?"

"Yes; I used to ride when I was a boy, before Tippoo came down and killed my father and mother, and brought me up here. Will my lord want me to take the horses across?"

"I will tell you that in the morning, Ibrahim. We are going down into the town, now, to inquire about them, but we shall not buy any until tomorrow, as we shall have to make arrangements for them to be kept for us, until we want them."

They did not go out until it was dark, and then took their way to Pertaub's house. The old Hindoo was in.

"I am glad to see you, Sahibs," he said to Dick, as they entered. "I have always fears that ill may, in some way, befall you."

"We are going to leave, Pertaub. Surajah had, two days ago, to go up to see four English prisoners put to death at one of the hill forts. Next time I may be ordered on such a duty. I could not carry it out, and you know that refusal would probably mean death. Moreover, we are convinced that we have no means, here, of finding out what captives may still be in Tippoo's hands, and have therefore determined to leave. We are going to take with us our servant, Ibrahim, who is a slave from Coorg; and will, we know, be faithful to us; and also a young English girl who has, for eight years, been a slave in Tippoo's harem. She will go with us in the disguise of a boy. This Ibrahim is getting for us. We are going to buy a couple of horses for them, and shall make straight down the ghauts, where I shall leave the girl in my mother's care."

"It is a good action," the Hindoo said gravely.

"Now, in the first place, Pertaub, would you like to go with us? Riding as we shall do, as two of the officers of the Palace, it is not likely that any questions whatever will be asked, and certainly we shall have no difficulty until it comes to crossing the frontier."

"No, Sahib. I thank you, but I am too old, now, for any fresh change. I have friends here, and have none below the ghauts. Nothing save the rescue of my daughter from the harem would induce me to move now, and of that there is little chance. She will, by this time, have become reconciled to her fate, and would probably not care to escape, were an opportunity offered to her. Besides, with only me to protect her, what would she do elsewhere? A few months, and she might be left alone in the world."

"As to that," Dick said, "I could promise her the protection of my aunt, the wife of the Rajah of Tripataly. After the kindness that you have shown to us she would, I am sure, gladly take her into her service. And there would be no difficulty about a dowry for her. I would see to that."

The old man shook his head.

"There could be no question of marriage," he said; "but should I ever hear from her that she is unhappy, and I can arrange to fly with her, I will assuredly avail myself of your offer, and take her to Tripataly; rejoiced indeed that, at my death, there will be a shelter open to her.

"And now, can I aid you in any way, Sahib? One of my friends, a merchant, could get the horses for you without difficulty. He has often occasion to buy them, for the purposes of his trade."

"Thank you, Pertaub. I had intended to buy them myself, but doubtless it will be safer for somebody else to do so. What I was going to ask you was to let me know of some place, on the other side of the river, where the horses could be kept until I want them."

"That I can do, Sahib. I have a friend, a cultivator. His house stands by itself on this side of the first village -- the one half a mile beyond the ford. It is the only house this side of the village, so you cannot mistake it. It lies about a hundred yards back from the road. I will go over and arrange with him that, when two horses arrive, they shall be placed in his stalls, and remain there until one arrives who will say to him, after greeting, the word 'Madras'. To him he is to deliver the horses at once, whether he comes by night or day."

"That would do admirably, Pertaub. Of course, I shall also want saddles and bridles. How much do you think it will come to, altogether? I do not want showy horses, but they must be animals capable of performing a long journey, and of travelling at a fair rate of speed -- the faster the better. We are likely to get seven or eight hours start, at least; but must, of course, travel fast. As long as all goes well, I shall keep the main roads, but if there is a breakdown, or an unforeseen accident occurs, I may have to leave the road and take to bypaths."

"The cost of such horses would be about eighty rupees each; the saddles and bridles another fifteen or twenty."

"Then here are two hundred rupees, Pertaub."

"Have you given up all hope of finding your father, Sahib? I have felt so sure that you would be successful. It seemed to me that such brave efforts could not go unrewarded."

"No, Pertaub, I have not given it up, at all. I intend to stay at Tripataly for a fortnight, with my mother, and shall then come up the ghauts again.

"That is another matter I want to speak to you about. Of course, we should not dare to return to Seringapatam, and I think that we had better settle to go to Bangalore. Could you forward our packs, with the merchandise, to someone in that town?"

"There will be no difficulty in that, Sahib. There are many Hindoo merchants there, who have been forced to change their religion, and who have frequent dealings with traders here. One of my friends will, I am sure, forward your goods with the next consignment that he sends to Bangalore. That, also, I will arrange tomorrow, and when you come in the evening will give you the name of the trader there, together with a letter from the one here, telling him that you are the person to whom the goods are to be given up."

"Thank you, Pertaub. I don't know what we should have done, without your assistance."

"It has been a pleasure, to me, to be of use to you, Sahib. I had thought my time of usefulness was over, and it has given a real pleasure to my life to have been able to aid you. You will let me know, Sahib, if ever you find your father?"

"Certainly, Pertaub. I will, in any case, send word to you, either that I have found him, or that I have given up all hope and have abandoned my efforts."

The next morning a lad brought Dick a message, from Pertaub, that he had fulfilled all his commissions; and on the following morning, Annie Mansfield again came to Dick's room.

"Everything is going on well, Annie," Dick said, as he shook hands with her. "The horses have been bought. There is your disguise in that corner, and we can start any moment, at a quarter of an hour's notice.

"Now, I want you to tell me how you came to be brought up here."

"I have not much to tell," she said. "You see, I was only six years old. I can remember there was a great deal of firing of guns, and that lasted for a long time. Then the firing stopped. I suppose the place surrendered."

"Do you know what place it was, Annie?"

She shook her head.

"I do not know at all. I suppose I did know, then, but I do not remember ever to have heard the name. I remember quite well that there were soldiers, and Father and Mother, and servants, and many other people, and everyone was very miserable, and we all went together out of a gate, and on each side there were a great many natives with guns and swords, some on horse and some on foot; and there were elephants. I don't think I had ever seen one before, for I noticed them particularly. We went on and on, and I know one of the soldiers carried me.

"At night we stopped somewhere. I think it was in a wood, and there were fires, and we lay down to sleep on the ground. Then I woke up suddenly, and there was a great noise and firing of guns, and someone caught me up and threw something over my head, and I don't remember anything more, for a long time. I know that presently I was on horseback, before a fierce-looking man. There were a good many of them, and when I cried for my father and mother, they said they would cut off my head if I were not quiet.

"I do not know how long we were travelling, but after the first day there was only the man who carried me, and another. I was brought here, and there were many people, and I was very much frightened. Then I found myself only among women, and they took off my clothes and dressed me in their fashion. I think I was very happy, when I once got accustomed to it. The ladies made a sort of pet of me, and I was taught to dance and to sing little native songs. There were other white girls here, and they were all very kind to me, though they always seemed very sad, and I could not make out why they cried so often, especially when they were beaten for crying.

"As I grew bigger, I was not so happy. I had ceased to be a plaything, and little by little I was set to work to sweep and dust, and then to sew, and then to do all sorts of work, like the other slave girls. The other white girls gradually went away, the oldest first. The last two, who were two or three years older than I was, went about three years ago.

"At first, I used to wonder why they cried so when they went, and why the others all cried, too; but by the time the last two left, I had come to know all about it, and knew that they had been given by the sultan to his favourite officers.

"There were many white men here, when I first came. When I went out with one of the slaves, into the town, I saw them often. Sometimes they would burst into tears when they saw me. Then I used to wonder why, but I know now that I must have reminded them of girls of their own, whom they would never see again. Then, till three years ago, there were about twenty white boys who had been taught to dance and sing, and who used to come sometimes, dressed up like women, to amuse the ladies of the harem; but I heard that they were all killed, when the sultan first thought that the English might come here. One of the slave girls told me that it was done because the sultan had often sworn, to the English, that there were no white captives here, and so he did not wish that any should be found, if they came.

"I don't think that I have anything else to tell you."

"Well, I hope that what you have told me will be enough to enable us, some day, to find out who you belong to. Evidently you were in some place that was besieged, eight years ago, and had to surrender. The garrison were promised their lives and liberty to depart. They were attacked at night by an armed party, who may have been Hyder's horsemen, but who were perhaps merely a party of mounted robbers, who thought that they might be able to take some loot. Most likely they were defeated, especially as you saw no other captives in the party, but in the confusion of the night attack, one of them probably came upon you, and carried you off, thinking you would be an acceptable present here, and that he would get a reward for you from the sultan.

"Are you not noticed, when you go into the streets on errands?"

"No; I always go veiled. Except the slaves who are old and ugly, all the others wear veils when they go outside the Palace, and we all wear a red scarf, which shows we are servants in the harem; and so, even when the town is full of rough soldiers, no one ventures to speak to us.

"Now tell me, Dick -- you see I have not forgotten -- all about how you came to be here."

Dick told her, briefly, how he had come out with his mother; and how, finding war had broken out, he had joined the army; and how, at the end of the war, having been able to learn nothing about his father, he had come up with Surajah to search for him.

"And then you saw that tiger break in," the girl said, eagerly. "That was dreadful. I will tell you how it was the tiger came to seize me. I was standing behind a lady, and could not see anything. Suddenly they all began screaming, and ran, some to one side, some to the other, of the window; and I, who could not think what was the matter, remained where I was, when there was a great cry, and before I had time to move, or even to wonder, some great thing knocked me down. It was only from the screams of the ladies, and their cries of 'Tiger!' that I knew what had happened. I felt something heavy standing on me -- so heavy that I could hardly breathe; and indeed, I did not try to breathe, for I knew many stories of tigers, and had heard that sometimes, when a man shams being dead, the tiger will walk away and kill someone else.

"The tiger was keeping up an angry growl, and I felt that, unless it took its paw off me, I should soon die, when I heard a shot, and a fierce growl from the tiger, and then the weight was gone, and I think I fainted. When I came round, I was lying where I fell, for many of the ladies were insensible, and everyone was too busy with them to think anything of me.

"When I got up, one of the other slave girls, who had been brave enough to look out of the window, told me that it had been killed by two young men, one of whom must have been the one who had fired the shot in at the window. I went and looked out, and saw it lying there. After that every one talked, and laughed, and cried, and then the sultan's chief wife said that everyone must make a present to the young men who had saved us, and that each one ought to give one of her best jewels. Of course, everyone did. I had nothing to give, except a little cross of gold filigree work, that hung round my neck when I was carried off. It had been hidden by my dress. The men had not noticed it, and they had not taken it away when I was brought here. It was such a poor little gift, but it was all I had."

"I noticed it, Annie," Dick said; "there was a little flat plate behind it, with the letters 'A. M.' and I thought, then, that it must be some little ornament taken from one of the Englishwomen Hyder's troops killed. It is fortunate you kept it, for it may be useful, someday, in proving that you are Annie Mansfield."

"Now I must be going," she said. "I was slapped and pinched, last time, for being so long, but I have several things to get today, so that if I hurry I can be back again as soon as they expect me. You have not settled when you are going, yet?"

"No; but we rather think of going the day after tomorrow. It will be better to do so before Tippoo comes back, for we might be ordered away so quickly as to have no time to make arrangements. Besides, there will be ten times as many people about, in the Palace, and more guards at the entrances when he returns. So, altogether, it will be better to go before he does so. If we settle it so, I will come along past your door, tomorrow evening; and if I say, 'Tomorrow morning,' get here as soon as you can in the morning, and directly you have stained your skin and put on your disguise, we will start. My servant, who is going with us, will act as your guide, and will take you to the place where the horses are, and where we shall join you, almost as soon as you get there."

At the appointed time, next evening, Dick told Annie that they should start in the morning. He and Surajah then went down and said goodbye to Pertaub, and Dick gave him a letter to his aunt, to give to her should he ever go to Tripataly with his daughter.

"It may be," he said, "that neither Surajah nor I may be there, but I shall speak to her about you, and of course tell her how much you have done for us; so you may be sure of the heartiest welcome from her."

"And you will also find a hearty friend in my father, Rajbullub," Surajah said. "He is principal officer in the Rajah's household, and will treat you as a brother, and your daughter as if she were my sister."

Then they returned to the Palace, where they had a final talk over the route that it would be best to pursue. The nearest point to the new frontier was the territory ceded to the English on the Malabar coast. But this would entail a long sea voyage, and they therefore determined to make for Caveripatam, going by the road that led through Anicull, and then through Ryacotta, which stood just outside the line of territory ceded to England, and from whence a road led direct down the passes. Anicull lay nearly due south of Bangalore, but the road they would follow would not be the one by which Tippoo would return, as he would come by the main road, which ran in a direct line between the two cities.

Ibrahim was informed of their plans, and was told to warn the syce to get their horses saddled and in readiness at eight o'clock, and that, as they were going for a long day's ride, he would not be required to accompany them -- as he always did when they rode only into the town, for then he might be wanted to hold the horses, if they dismounted and went into a shop.

He was also to give notice, in the kitchen, that they would not return to the midday meal, and that dishes for them would therefore not be required. Thus it would be unlikely that any suspicion would be aroused by their absence until they had been gone twenty-four hours, by which time they would be more than halfway to the frontier.

They went to bed at their usual time, and slept soundly, for it seemed to them both that there was practically no risk whatever to be run, and that they would be across the frontier before any active search was made for them. Even when it was discovered that they had left the Palace, it would be thought that they had received some order from Bangalore, either to join the sultan, or to go on some mission for him that had occupied more time than they had anticipated on starting. The idea that two officers, who were considered to stand high in Tippoo's favour, should desert, would scarcely occur to anyone.

In the morning they were up early, completed their slight preparations, and took their early breakfast, reserving a portion for Annie, who, they thought, would not improbably have eaten nothing before coming to them.

She was a quarter of an hour late in arriving, and looked somewhat pale and flurried.

"They did not send me out this morning," she said, "and so I had to stay, until I could slip out without being noticed; but they may miss me at any moment."

"That will be all right," Dick said confidently. "They will search all the rooms in the harem for you, first, and certainly won't look for you outside, until there has been a lot of talk over your absence. But even if they do search, you will be able, in a few minutes, to walk through the middle of them without being suspected.

"However, we will lose no time; and to begin with, I will cut off what hair is necessary. I shall do it a good deal quicker than you would. Then we will leave you to yourself, to stain your skin and put on your disguise. When you have finished, clap your hands. Ibrahim will come in and see that your disguise is all right, and that your turban covers your hair. Then he will go with you. We shall be waiting near the gate. There is practically no chance of your being asked any questions, but if you are, and there is any difficulty, we will pass you through all right. Having seen you on your way, we shall mount and follow you."

The operation of cutting off Annie's hair, to the line of her ears, was speedily done; then, with a few reassuring words, Dick joined Surajah in the corridor. As they walked down it he said:

"I don't like leaving them to themselves. Look here, Surajah, you go down to the stable, and mount at once. Tell the syce I shall come for my horse in a few minutes. Then ride out, and take your post where you can see them come out of the gate, and then follow them closely. I will stay here, and see them safely through the gate, and then mount and follow you. I shall overtake you before you get to the ford."

"That will perhaps be safest," Surajah agreed, "though I should think there is no chance of her being suspected, seeing that she will be with Ibrahim. Even if they met one of the Palace officers, and he asked Ibrahim who he had with him, he could say it was a lad who had come to you respecting some horses you had bought."

"Yes, that would do very well."

Dick returned to Ibrahim, who was squatting down in the corridor near the door.

"I am going to follow you, until you are through the gate, and shall keep a short distance behind you. If you should meet any officer on your way out, who may ask you who you have with you, say he has come with a message to me from a trader in the town. By the time you have told him that, I shall be up."

"There is no chance of being questioned, my lord. People come and go all day."

"That is so, Ibrahim, but one cannot be too careful."

They stood, talking together, until they heard Annie clap her hands within. Ibrahim entered at once, and in two or three minutes came out again with the girl. Ibrahim carried a bundle.

"You will do very well," Dick said to Annie. "I should not know you, in the least. You make a capital boy.

"What bundle is that, Ibrahim? I thought you took our other disguises on, yesterday, to the stable where the horses are."

"Yes, my lord, I took them on. These are the things she has taken off. I thought, perhaps, it would be better not to leave them here, as, if they were found, it would be known that she had gone with you."

"I don't think it makes much difference, Ibrahim, but perhaps it is as well to bring them away. We can leave the bundle in the wood.

"Now, go along. I will follow. Perhaps I had better go first. Keep a few paces behind me."

They passed through the long passages of the Palace, without attracting the slightest attention. Once or twice, Dick paused to speak to some officials of his acquaintance, the others stopping respectfully a few paces away. Then he went out into the courtyard, and across to the gate, and as the sentries saluted he stopped, and asked them a few questions as to the regiment they belonged to, until Ibrahim and his companion, who had passed straight through, were well away. He saw Surajah sitting upon his horse, a couple of hundred yards away, and then went to the stables.



Chapter 16: The Journey.


The syce brought out his horse, as soon as he saw Dick approaching.

"You need not wait up for us, after nine o'clock," Dick said, as he mounted. "It is possible that we may be detained, and shall not return until tomorrow evening. If we come, we shall certainly be back by nine at the latest, and we shall not be back before seven, at any rate, so that until then you are free to do as you like."

He rode quietly off, and did not quicken his pace until he had got beyond the fort. Then he touched the horse with his heel, and cantered down to the ford. Surajah was halfway across the river, when he reached it. The other two figures were just ascending the road up the other bank.

Surajah checked his horse, when he got across, and waited till Dick joined him.

"Shall we go on with them to the farmhouse?" he asked.

"We may as well do so as halt in the road. Besides, there are the things Ibrahim took over yesterday, to put into our saddlebags. There is another thing that I never thought of. Of course, the girl has never been on a horse, and that may give us a good deal of trouble. I wonder I did not think of it, though if I had, I don't see that anything else could have been done. We must see how she gets on, and if she cannot manage I must take her before me, whenever we see that the road is clear for a good distance ahead. Of course, it does not matter about country people, but if we see a body of troops coming in the distance, she must mount her own horse again, and follow us at a walk. If we find that things don't go well, we must halt in a wood somewhere, and ride only by night."

They cantered on now, and overtook the others just as they reached the farmhouse. The farmer was at his door, and looked a little surprised at seeing two of the officers of the Palace come up. He salaamed deeply.

"We have not come to requisition anything," Dick said, with a smile, as he saw that the farmer looked alarmed as well as surprised. "We have only come for the two horses that we have bought, for our servants, as we are going on a journey."

"Can I assist you in any way, my lords?"

"No, our men will saddle the horses," Dick said, and, dismounting, went into the stable with Ibrahim and Annie.

"You are not afraid of riding, I hope, Annie?" he said.

"I am not afraid of anything, Dick, so that I can but get away."

"We will go quietly at first, anyhow. Mind, as you mount, put your left foot in the stirrup. When you are seated, carry yourself as easily as you can. The pony looks quiet enough, but if, when we get fairly off, you find that you cannot sit comfortably, you must get up before me, and Ibrahim must lead your pony. When we are fairly on the road, I will fasten a bit of rope to your bridle to act as a leading rein, and you can ride by my side, unless we see people coming along; then you must drop behind, with Ibrahim."

"I won't give more trouble than I can help," she said.

Ibrahim had taken some rugs over with him, on the previous afternoon, which had been bought in case they should sleep out at night. When the horses were saddled, Dick rolled two of these up, strapped one on the high peak, and the other on the cantle of the saddle upon which the girl was to ride.

"That will wedge you in pretty tightly," he said.

"Now, Ibrahim, put the things into the saddlebag, and then we shall be ready."

When this was done, the two horses were led outside. The farmer had gone back into the house, and Dick, helping the girl into her seat, arranged the stirrups the right length for her.

"Now," he said, "you must keep your knees pressed against the roll of blankets in front, and hold on as well as you can with them; but the principal thing is for you to balance yourself with your body. Don't sit up stiffly, but as if you were in a chair.

"Now, we will start at a walk. Ibrahim will keep quite close to you, so as to be able to catch hold of your rein, should there be any occasion for him to do so."

Then, mounting, he and Surajah rode off at a walk, the others following a length or two behind them. Dick looked round, from time to time, and saw that Annie exhibited no signs of nervousness.

"I am quite comfortable," she said, in reply to one of his glances.

When they got into the road again, Dick said:

"We will go at an easy canter now, Annie. If you feel as if you could not keep on, call out, and we will stop directly; but first come up between Surajah and myself, and we will take the leading reins, so that you will have nothing to attend to but holding on."

Two cords had been attached to the bridle, before setting out, and Surajah and Dick each taking one, they started again, the horses instinctively breaking into a canter, which was their usual pace. Annie at first grasped the strap of the rug in front of her, but as soon as she became accustomed to the motion, she let go. A small rug had been strapped over the saddle, before she mounted, and this afforded her a much better hold than she would have had of the leather; and as the pace of the horse was a gentle one, she found it much more easy to keep her seat than she had expected. Moreover, the fact that Dick and Surajah rode close by her side, and would be able to catch her, at once, if she swayed in the saddle, gave her confidence.

"It is much better than I thought it would be," she said. "It is quite a pleasant motion. I will go faster, if you like."

"No, there is no occasion for that," Dick replied. "This is the pace the horses are most accustomed to, and they will go on longer, at it, than at any other. There is no fear of pursuit, and we have all day before us."

After a quarter of a mile's riding, they came to a wood.

"We must turn in here," Dick said. "We are going treasure hunting. We hid those caskets, that were given us by the ladies, directly after we got them; and we are going to dig them up now, and take them with us."

They rode at a walk, now, till they came to a very large baobab tree, growing by the path they were following.

"Here we turn off."

"There is a man there," Surajah exclaimed, when they had ridden a few yards farther.

Dick checked his horse.

"It is Pertaub," he said, a moment later, and in a minute they were beside the Hindoo.

"I could not sleep, thinking of you, Sahib," the latter said, as they came up. "So I came across here, partly to help you dig up the caskets, and partly that I might see you, and assure myself that, so far, all had gone well."

"Thank you, Pertaub. You have, I see, brought a pickaxe. It will save us half an hour's work; and besides, I am glad to say goodbye again.

"All has gone well. This is the young lady."

"She is well disguised," Pertaub said, bowing his head to Annie. "She looks so like a boy that, even now you tell me, I can scarce believe she is a white girl. Truly you can go on without fear that anyone will suspect her."

Leading the way to the spot where the caskets had been buried, Dick looked on while Surajah and Ibrahim dug them up. They were then wrapped up in rugs, and strapped securely behind their owners' saddles. Then, after a warm adieu to the kind old man, they turned their horses' heads, and rode back out of the woods.

After riding for three hours at a canter, Dick saw that, although Annie still spoke cheerfully, her strength was failing her, and on arriving at a wood, he said:

"We will wait here till the heat of the sun has abated. We have done very well, and the horses, as well as ourselves, will be glad of a few hours' rest."

He alighted from the saddle, gave his horse to Ibrahim, and then lifted Annie from her seat. As he set her down on her feet, and loosed his hold of her, she slipped down on to the ground. Dick and Surajah at once raised her, and placed her so that, as she sat, she could lean against a tree.

Here Dick supported her, while Surajah ran and fetched his water bottle. Annie drank a little, and then said, with a nervous laugh:

"It is very silly of me. But I feel better now. My legs seemed to give way, altogether."

"It was not silly at all," Dick said. "You have held on most bravely. I can tell you there are not many girls who would have ridden four or five and twenty miles, the first time they sat on a horse. Why, I can tell you the first time I mounted, I did not do a quarter as much, and I was so stiff I could hardly walk, when I got down. I should have stopped before, but you kept talking so cheerfully that, it seemed to me, you could not be anything like as tired as I was, then. I was a brute not to have known that you must be thoroughly done up, although you did not say so.

"We have got some food with us. Do you think you could eat, a little?"

She shook her head.

"Not just yet."

"All right. I have brought a couple of bottles of wine I got at one of the traders' stores, yesterday. You must take a sip of that, and then we will leave you to yourself for a bit, and you must lie down and have a good nap."

Dick took a bottle from his holster, opened it, and gave her some in a tin cup. Then one of the rugs was spread on the ground, with another one rolled up as a pillow, and then they led the horses farther into the wood, leaving Annie to herself.

"She won't be able to ride again, tonight," Surajah said, as they sat down, while Ibrahim took out the provisions that he had, on the previous day, carried across to the farm.

"No, I must carry her before me. We will shift my saddle a little farther back, and strap a couple of rugs in front of it, so as to make a comfortable seat for her. There is no doubt she will not be able to ride again, by herself. I am sure that, after my first day's riding, I could not have gone on again for anything.

"We won't start until it begins to get dusk. Of course, she ought to have a good twenty-four hours' rest, before she goes on, but we dare not risk that. I don't think there is any chance of pursuit for days; or, indeed, of any pursuit at all, for by the time they begin to suspect that we have really deserted, they will know that we have had time to get to the frontier. Still, I don't want to run the slightest risk, and at any rate, if we have to halt, it would be better to do so fifty miles farther on than here.

"When we mount again, we will put the saddlebags from my horse on to hers, and Ibrahim must lead it. Her weight won't make much difference to my horse, and if I find it tiring, I will change with you. You may as well put your saddlebags on to her horse, also."

"It would be better, would it not," Surajah said, "if you change to her horse, which will have carried nothing?"

"Yes, of course that would be best, so you had better not shift your saddlebags."

After they had had their meal, they stretched themselves out for a sleep, and when they woke it was already becoming dusk. The horses had had a good feed, and were now given a drink of water, from the skin. They were then saddled again, the blankets carefully arranged for Annie's use, and then they went back to the place where she was lying, still asleep.

"Put the provisions into the wallet again, Ibrahim. We will see if we can get her up without waking her. She is so dead beat that, perhaps, we may do so. I don't suppose she would be able to eat anything, if we woke her.

"I had better mount first. Then you, Surajah, can lift her up to me. I can stoop down, and take her from your arms, and put her in front of me. She is no weight to speak of."

Very gently, Surajah put his arms under the sleeping girl, and lifted her.

"That is right," Dick said, as he placed her on the blankets before him, and held her with his right arm, with her head against his shoulder. "She is dead asleep."

The blankets were strapped on to the horses again, the others mounted, and they started, at a walk, out of the wood. As soon as they were on the road, the horses broke into a canter again. Annie moaned uneasily, but did not open her eyes. Dick drew her still more closely to him.

"She will do now, Surajah," he said, in a low voice. "I hope that she will sleep till morning."

Half an hour later, they rode through Sultanpetta. It was quite dark now, and although there were people in the streets, Dick knew that at the rate they were riding, in the darkness, the fact that he was carrying a lad in front of him would scarce be noticed. Nor would it be of any consequence if it were, as, even if they met any officer who should stop and question them, it would suffice to say that the lad had been taken ill; and that, their business being urgent, they were taking him on with them.

Four hours later they passed through Conkanelly, and crossed the bridge over a branch of the Cauvery. Here Dick felt that his horse was flagging. Halting, he dismounted, and lifted Annie down. This time the movement woke her; she gave a little cry.

"Where am I?" she asked.

"You are quite safe, child," Dick said cheerfully. "Just lie quiet in my arms. We have come five hours' journey, and as my horse is getting tired, I am changing to yours. Ibrahim is shifting the rugs that you have been sitting on."

"I can go on by myself," she said, making a little struggle to get down.

"You must be good, and do what you are told," he said, with a laugh. "Remember that you are a slave, and I am your master, at present."

She said nothing more until they were seated afresh, and had got into motion.

"Oh, you are good, Dick!" she sighed softly. "Only to think of your carrying me like this, for five hours, without waking me!"

"Well, it was much better for us both that you should sleep," he said, "and it is the horse that is carrying you, not I. I have been very comfortable, I can assure you.

"We shall go on for another four hours. After that we shall hide up in a wood, and sleep till the afternoon. Then it will depend upon you. If you can sit your horse, we shall ride on through Anicull. If not, we must wait till it gets dark again, and then go on as we are now. Are you comfortable, child?"

"Very comfortable, Dick."

They were talking in English now, for the first time since they started.

"I have almost forgotten how to talk English," she said. "We white girls always used to talk it, when we were together, so as not to forget it; and since the last one went, three years ago, I have always talked it to myself, for a bit, before going to sleep, so as to keep it up; but it does not come anything like so easy as the other. Still, I like talking it to you. It almost seems as if I were at home again. You see, I have never heard a man talk English, since I was carried away. Even now, I can hardly believe this is not a happy dream, and that I shall not wake up, presently, and find myself a slave girl in the harem."

"It is pleasant to me to talk English, too," Dick said, "though it is only a few months since I last spoke it. Now, the best thing you can do is to try and get off to sleep again. When we stop you shall have breakfast. I am sure you must want something. You have had nothing since you ate a mouthful or two, in my room, before starting."

"Oh, I have slept hours and hours!" she said. "I shall not want to sleep any more."

However, before long the easy motion lulled her off again, and she did not wake until, at about four o'clock in the morning, they entered a wood that was, as Dick supposed, some three or four miles from Anicull.

"Well, how do you feel now?" Dick asked, as he set her on her feet.

"I feel stiff," she said; "but that will soon wear off, when I have run about a little. Oh, how tired you must be, after carrying me all these hours!"

"There has not been much to hold," Dick said with a laugh, "especially since we started the last time. Before that, you were so dead asleep that I did have to hold you; but, you see, you nestled up more comfortably when we changed horses, and needed very little support since then."

"Now, what can I do?" she asked, with a little laugh. "Please order me to do something. I am your slave, you know, and I want to be helping you."

"Well, then, I command you to aid me to gather some sticks for a fire. We have nothing to cook, but it will be cheerful, and the air is cool."

They picked up sticks, while Surajah and Ibrahim loosened the girths of the horses, took off their bridles, and poured out another feed from the bag of grain they had brought with them. In a few minutes a fire was blazing, and the wallet of provisions brought out.

"I wish I had a cup of coffee to offer you, Annie," Dick said, as he poured her out some wine and water, "but we must wait, for that, until we get down to Tripataly."

"I have forgotten all about coffee, Dick, and what it tastes like. The white girls used to talk about it, and say how they longed for a cup. It seems, to me, funny to drink anything hot. I have never tasted anything but water, that I can remember, until you gave me that wine yesterday."

"It is very nice, and very refreshing. There is another drink that is coming into fashion. It is called tea. I have tasted it a few times, but I don't like it as well as coffee, and it is much more expensive."

"The sultan says that all the English get drunk, and there used to be pictures of them on the walls. They used to make me so angry."

"I don't say that no English get drunk, Annie, because there is no doubt that some do. But it is very far from being true of the great proportion of them. Tippoo only says it to excite the people against us, because, now that he has made them all Mohammedans, they cannot drink wine -- at any rate, openly. When I bought these two bottles, the trader made a great mystery over it, and if I had not given him a sign he understood, and which made him believe that I was a Hindoo and not a Mussulman, he would not have admitted that he kept it at all. He did say so, at first, for I have no doubt he thought that, as I was an officer of the Palace, it was a snare, and that if he had admitted he had wine I should have reported him, and it would have served as an excuse for his being fined, and perhaps having all his goods confiscated. When I made the sign that an old Hindoo had taught me, his manner changed directly, and he took me to the back of his little shop, and produced the wine. I told him I wanted it for medicine, and that was quite true, for I thought it was a drug you were very likely to need, on your journey."

"How much farther have we to ride?" she asked, after a pause.

"Only about thirty-five miles -- that is to say, it is only that distance to the frontier. There is a road that is rather more direct, but it passes through Oussoor, a large town, which we had better avoid. It is not more than fifty miles from the frontier to Tripataly, but once across the line we can take matters easily, and stop whenever you get tired."

"It will be all very strange to me, Dick. I sha'n't mind it, as long as you are with me, but it will be dreadful when you go. I am afraid your mother won't like me. You see, I know nothing of English ways, and I am oh! so ignorant. I cannot even read -- at least, very little. One of the girls used to teach me, from a book she had when she was carried off. It was a Bible -- she used to tell me stories out of it. But one day they found it, and she was beaten, very much, for venturing to have it. I am afraid I have quite forgotten even my letters; but she and the other girls used to teach me about religion, and told me I must never forget that I was a Christian, whatever they might do to me, and I was to say my prayers every night after I lay down, and every morning before I got up. Of course, I have always done it."

"You need not be afraid of my mother, Annie. She is very kind, and I am sure she will take to you very much, and will be very glad that I have brought you to Tripataly; for, you see, she has no girls of her own. She will teach you to read and write, and if we go back to England, I dare say you will go to school for a time, so as to learn things like other girls."

"I can work very nicely," she said. "The ladies of the harem all used to say that."

"Well, you will find that very useful, no doubt."

"And what else is there to learn?" she asked.

"No end of things, Annie -- at least, there are no end of things for boys to learn. I do not know anything about girls. But, of course, you will have to get to know something of history and geography."

"What is geography, Dick?"

"Well, geography is where countries and places are. For instance, you know something of the geography of India, without ever having learnt it. You know that Madras and the Carnatic lie to the east, and Travancore to the southwest, and Malabar to the west, and the Mahratta country and the Nizam's dominions to the north. Well, that is the geography of this part of the country -- that and the names of the towns and rivers. In the same way, there are a lot of nations in Europe, and you want to know all about them, and where they lie with respect to each other, and the names of their principal towns. Then there are America, and Africa, and Asia, and all the countries in them. If you don't know about these things, you can't follow what people are talking about."

"And did you like learning geography, Dick?" she asked, a little anxiously.

"Well no, I can't say that I did, Annie. I think I used to hate geography. It was very hard to remember where all the places were, and what rivers they stood on. I know very little about it now, except the principal towns and places. But then, I never was very fond of learning anything. I was a very stupid boy, at school."

"Oh, I am sure you could not have been that, Dick," she said confidently.

"I was indeed, Annie. I think the only thing I could do well was fighting. I was a beggar to fight -- not because I used to quarrel with fellows, but because it made me hard and tough, and my mother thought that it would make me more fit to carry out this search for my father."

"What did you fight with -- swords?" Annie asked.

Dick laughed.

"No, no, Annie, when we quarrel in England we fight with our fists."

"What is a fist? I never heard of that weapon."

"That is a fist, Annie. You see, it is hard enough to knock a fellow down, though it does not very often do that; but it hurts him a bit, without doing him any harm, except that it may black his eyes or puff up his face for a day or two -- and no boy minds that. It accustoms one to bear pain, and is a splendid thing for teaching a boy to keep his temper, and I believe it is one reason why the English make such good soldiers. It is a sort of science, you see, and one learns it just as people here learn to be good swordsmen. I had lessons, when I was twelve years old, from a little man who used to be a champion lightweight -- that is, a man of not more than a certain weight."

Annie looked doubtful for a minute, and then exclaimed:

"Ah, yes, I understand now. That is how it is you came to our help so quickly and bravely, when the tiger burst in."

"I daresay it had something to do with it," Dick said, with a smile. "There is no doubt that boxing, as we call it, does make you quick. There is not much time to waste in thinking how you are to stop a blow, and to return it at the same moment. One gets into the habit of deciding at once what is the best thing to be done; and I have no doubt that I should not have seen, at once, that one must cut through the netting, run to the window, jump on to Surajah's shoulders, and fire at the tiger, unless I had been sharpened up by boxing. I only say I suppose that, because there were, no doubt, hundreds of men looking on who had pluck enough to face the tiger, and who would have gladly done the thing that we did, if the idea had occurred to them. The idea did not occur to them, you see, and I have no doubt that it was just owing to that boxing that I thought of it. So you see, Annie, it was, in a way, the fights I had with boys at Shadwell -- which is the part of London where I lived -- that saved you, and perhaps half a dozen ladies of the sultan's harem, from being killed by that tiger.

"Now, I should advise you to walk about the wood for at least an hour, to get rid of your stiffness. The longer you walk, the better. When you have tired yourself, come back here. By that time, I daresay you will be ready for another sleep. We will start about three o'clock, and shall cross the frontier before it gets quite dark. Once across, we can camp comfortably where we like, or put up at a village, if we should light upon one.

"I should not go far away from here," he went on, as the girl at once rose and prepared to start. "Very likely the wood may get thicker, farther in, and you might lose your way, or come across a snake; so I should not go far out of sight. The great thing is to keep moving. It is getting broad daylight, now."

As soon as Annie had started, Dick lay down.

"I feel dog tired, Surajah. This right arm of mine is so stiff that I can hardly lift it. I did not feel it at the time, and her weight was nothing, but I certainly feel it now."

"You have a good sleep, Dick. Ibrahim and I will keep watch, by turns."

"I don't think there is any occasion for that," Dick said. "No one is likely to come into the wood."

"Not very likely," Surajah agreed; "but a body of travellers might turn in here, for a halt in the middle of the day, and it would look strange were they to find two of the Palace officers, and their attendants, all fast asleep."

"They would only think we came in for a rest, a short time before they did," Dick said drowsily. "Still, if you don't mind, perhaps it would be best."

In two minutes, Dick was sound asleep.

"'Now, Ibrahim, you lie down," Surajah said. "I will call you in three hours."

In half an hour Annie returned. She looked pitifully at Dick, and then seated herself by Surajah.

"He must be tired," she said. "It was too bad of me, letting him carry me like that all night. I thought so, over and over again, when he believed I was fast asleep, but I knew that it was of no use asking him to let me ride for a bit.

"You don't mind my sitting here for a little, do you? I am going away again, presently. I only came back, so soon, because I thought he might wonder what had become of me, if I did not. I could have gone on walking for a long time. It was very hard work at first, for my back ached dreadfully, and every step hurt me so, it was as much as I could do to keep on walking; but gradually it got better, and at last I had a long run, and after that I scarcely felt it.

"How long have you known him, Surajah?" and she nodded towards Dick.

"It is about two years and a half since he came to Tripataly, and I have seen a great deal of him, ever since. I love him very much. He is always the same. He never seems to get angry, and is kind to everyone."

"Did he fight when he was with the army?"

"Not much. He was one of the general's own officers, and used to ride with the others behind him. He fought in the battle before Seringapatam, for the general and every one else had to fight, then."

"How is it you come to be always with him?" she asked.

"It first began when we went out on a scouting expedition together, before the English army went up the ghauts. We volunteered to find out, if we could, which way the sultan's army was going. We went through a good deal of danger together, and some hard fighting, and the Sahib was pleased with me; and since then we have always been together."

"Tell me about that, Surajah?"

Surajah related the story of their capture and escape, of their making their way through the fort, and the subsequent pursuit, and their defence of the ruined hut. Annie listened almost breathlessly.

"How I should like to have been with you," she said, when he finished. "At least, I think I should have liked it. I should have been dreadfully in the way, but I could have sat down in the hut and loaded the guns, while you were both fighting. You could have shown me how to do it. How brave of you both to have fought fifty or sixty men!"

"It was not so very brave," Surajah said. "We knew we should be killed, if they took us. There is nothing brave in doing your best, when you know that. But it was not so much the fighting as arranging things, and he did all that, and I only carried out his orders. He always seemed to know exactly what was best to be done, and it was entirely his doing, our getting through the fort, and taking to the hut, and making the loopholes, and blocking up the windows; just as it was his doing, entirely, that we killed that tiger. Whatever he says is sure to be right, and when he tells me to do a thing I do it directly, for I trust him entirely, and there is no need for me to think at all. If he had told me to go up to the sultan and shoot him, in the middle of his officers, I should have done it, though they would have cut me in pieces a minute afterwards."

"I will go away again, now," Annie said, getting up. "He told me to keep on walking about, and he would not like it if he were to wake up and find me sitting here."

And she got up and strolled away again. By the time she returned, Surajah had lain down to sleep, and Ibrahim was on watch. Annie was, by this time, tired enough to be ready for sleep again, and, wrapping herself in a rug, she lay down at a short distance from the others.

It was two o'clock when she awoke, and she sprang to her feet as she saw Dick and Surajah standing by the fire, talking.

"I was going to wake you soon," Dick said, as she joined them, "for we must have another meal before we start. I hope you feel all the better, after your walk and sleep?"

"Ever so much better. I scarcely feel stiff at all, and shall be ready to ride, as soon as you like. How do you feel, Dick?"

"Oh, I am all right, Annie. I was all right before, though I did feel I wanted a sleep badly; and you see I have been having a long one, for I only woke up ten minutes ago. I own, though, that I should like a good wash. I don't suppose I can look dirty through this stain, but I certainly feel so."

"There is a pool," she said, "a few hundred yards away there, on the right. I found it the second time I went away, and I did enjoy a wash."

"I thought you were looking wonderfully tidy," Dick said, smiling. "Well, I will go there at once. I shall feel a new man, after a bath."

"I will come with you," Surajah said -- for he had learned to speak a good deal of English, during his companionship with Dick.

They returned in half an hour. Ibrahim had warmed up some of the chupatties, over the ashes, and they all thoroughly enjoyed their meal. The horses were saddled, and were taken to the pool for a good drink.

Then Annie was helped into her saddle, and they started again. They rode at a canter to Anicull, their badges of office securing them from any questioning from the soldiers at the guard houses, when they entered and left the town.

"I don't know whether there is any post established at the frontier," Dick said, as Annie, who had ridden behind with Ibrahim as they passed through the town, took her place again between him and Surajah. "I have no fear that they will be erecting a fort, for after our capturing Bangalore and the hill fortresses, they will know very well that nothing they could build on the flat would be of the slightest use in stopping an army advancing by this line. Still, there may be a guard placed there.

"How do you think we had better get past, Surajah? We have still got the order to the governors of forts, and it is likely enough that the officer in charge may not be able to read. Very few of those we met before were able to do so. The sight of the sultan's seal at the bottom was quite enough for them, and I should think it would suffice to pass us here. Still, it would look suspicious, our leaving the the country altogether, and we must give some explanation if they ask us."

"I might say that we are charged with a mission to the English commander at Kistnagherry."

"That might do, Surajah. The fort is only eight or ten miles on the other side of the frontier, and we might very well be sent on some message. A complaint of some of the villagers, that their rights have not been respected as agreed by the treaty, or that they have been robbed by men from this side of the frontier -- there are plenty of things about which Tippoo might be sending a message to Kistnagherry. The worst of it is that Tippoo has not given us a mission, and I do hate your having to say what is not true."

Surajah was not so particular, and he replied:

"Well, he has given us a mission to visit the hill forts, and as Kistnagherry is a hill fort, it is not a very great stretch to include it."

Dick laughed.

"That is ingenious, Surajah. Anyhow, I don't see any better excuse for crossing the frontier, and so we must make the best of it; but I hope we sha'n't be asked at all."

"I think, if I say we are going to Kistnagherry, and then show Tippoo's order and seal, that will be sufficient; and the story will be quite true, for we shall go by Kistnagherry, as the road passes close to the fortress."

"Yes, that will be quite true, Surajah, and the officers are not likely to ask any further questions.

"How are you getting on, Annie?"

"Oh, much better than I did yesterday," she said. "I would much rather not halt, until we are across the frontier. I am getting accustomed to the motion now, and am not at all afraid of falling off. I dare say I shall be rather stiff, when we halt, but that will not matter, then."

The sun was just setting when they arrived at a newly-erected house, round which ten or twelve tents were arranged. An officer came out of the house as they approached. He salaamed on seeing two officials of the Palace, wearing the emblems of the rank of colonels. Surajah returned the usual Moslem salutation.

"We are going to Kistnagherry," he said. "Here is the sultan's order."

The officer glanced at the seal, placed it to his forehead, and then stood aside.

"Will you return tonight, my lord? I ask that I may give orders to the sentries."

"No; there is no chance of our being able to be back before morning."

He touched his horse, and then trotted on again. Not a word was spoken, until they had gone a few hundred yards, and then Dick checked his horse, and, as Annie came alongside, held out his hand and said:

"Thank God, Annie, that we have got you safely back onto English territory."



Chapter 17: Back At Tripataly.


Annie's lips moved, as Dick announced that they had crossed the Mysore boundary, but no sound came from them. He saw her eyes close, and she reeled in the saddle.

"Hold her, Surajah," Dick exclaimed, "or she will fall."

Leaning over, Surajah caught her by the shoulder; and Dick, leaping to the ground, stopped her horse, and, lifting her from the saddle, seated her upon a bank and supported her.

"Some water, Surajah!" he exclaimed.

Surajah poured a little water from the skin into the hollow of Dick's hand, and the latter sprinkled the girl's face with it.

"I have not fainted," she murmured, opening her eyes, "but I turned giddy. I shall be better, directly."

"Drink a little wine," Dick said.

Surajah poured some into a cup, but with an effort she sat up, and pushed it from her.

"There is nothing the matter," she said. "Only, only" and she burst suddenly into a passion of sobbing.

The spirit that she had shown, so long as there was danger, had deserted her now that the peril had passed, and she was safe.

Dick looked at her, helplessly. A girl in tears was a creature wholly beyond his experience, and he had no idea what he ought to do in such an emergency. He therefore adopted what was, doubtless, the best course, had he but known it, of letting her alone. After a time, the violence of her crying abated, and only short sobs broke from her, as she sat with her face hidden in her hands.

"That is right, Annie," he said, putting his hand on her shoulder. "It is quite natural for you to cry, after the excitement and fatigue you have gone through. You have been very brave, and have not said a word of complaint today about your fatigue, although you must be desperately tired. Now, try and pull yourself together. It is getting dark already, and we ought to be moving on to Ryacotta, which cannot be much more than a mile away. You shall ride in front of me, when we get there."

"I would rather not," she said, getting up with a painful effort. "I am awfully foolish, and I am so sorry that I broke down, but I felt so delighted that I could not help it. You said we could camp, safely, when we once got across the frontier. Would you mind doing so? For I don't think I could go much farther."

"Certainly we can camp," Dick said cheerfully. "But we must get a little bit farther from that post we passed. If they were to see a fire, here, they would be sure to suspect something. I see a clump of trees a quarter of a mile on. We can make our camp there, and I would rather do that, myself, than go on to Ryacotta, where our appearance in the Mysore uniform would excite a stir, and we should have no end of questions to answer.

"But I am sure that you are not fit to walk, even that distance. Now, I will lift you on my saddle, and you can sit sideways. There, I will walk by your side, and you can put your hand to my shoulder to steady yourself. Surajah can lead your horse and his own, and Ibrahim can take mine."

In this way they performed the journey to the trees, and then halted. Annie was lifted down, and laid on a rug. Dick insisted on her drinking some wine, and then, covering her with another rug, they left her and lighted a fire, fifty yards away.

"Look here, Ibrahim, put that whole chicken into the pan, cover it with water, and let it stew. Don't let it boil fast, but just simmer until it falls all to pieces. Then I will wake her, if she has gone to sleep, and make her drink the broth. It will do her ever so much more good than wine, and she will be all right in the morning, though no doubt she will be desperately stiff again. Still, it has not been a longer ride than she had yesterday. I expect it is the excitement, more than the fatigue, that has upset her. Tomorrow she must ride in front of me, again."

An hour and a half later, Dick went across with the cup full of strong broth.

"Are you asleep, Annie?" he said, when he reached her side.

"No, I am not asleep. There is so much to think of, and it is such happiness to know that I am free, that I feel quite wide awake. Besides, you know, I have been asleep for hours today, and I slept all night, as I was riding before you."

"Then sit up, and drink this hot broth. It will do you good. And after that, I hope you will go off. You won't be fit for anything, tomorrow, if you don't have a good night. You will have plenty of time to think, as we ride along."

The girl did as she was told.

"It is very nice," she said, as she handed the cup back to him. "Oh, Dick, I do hope that we shall find my father and mother. I don't want to, for some things, but I do for others, and most of all that they may thank you for all your goodness to me, which I shall never be able to do, myself."

"Nonsense, child!" he said cheerfully. "I have done what every one would do, if they found a little countrywoman in distress. I should have gone away from Seringapatam anyhow, if I had not met you, and getting you down is a good excuse for me to go back and spend a fortnight with my mother.

"Now get off to sleep, as quickly as you can. We will see what we can do to make things comfortable for your ride, tomorrow."

It was late when Annie awoke. The sun was some distance above the horizon, and she saw her companions occupied with the horses. In a few minutes she joined them.

"I am ashamed at sleeping so long," she said.

"We were glad to find that you did," Dick replied. "If you went to sleep soon after I brought you the broth, you have had ten hours of it, and ought to feel all the better."

"I do," she said. "I am very stiff, but not so stiff as I was yesterday morning. How you are both altered!"

"Yes. It would never have done to have gone on in our gay dresses, and Tippoo's badges. These are the clothes we came up in, and we shall attract no attention whatever. You won't have to ride far, today. It will be as well for you to keep to your own horse, until we have passed through Ryacotta, which is not much more than half a mile away. After that, you must sit on this pad I have fastened behind my saddle. You can sit sideways, you know, and put your arm around me, just as ladies used to ride in England, a couple of hundred years ago."

As soon as they had eaten something they started, and rode at a good pace to the little town. People looked at them somewhat curiously as they passed through the street, wondering that they should have come from Mysore; but as they did not halt, no one asked any questions. The population were, at present, a good deal divided. The great majority by no means regretted their change of masters. Some of the Mohammedans had left, when the place was taken over by the English, and had crossed into Mysore. Others had remained, and hoped that, ere long, Tippoo would drive back the British, and regain his former dominions.

Before mounting, the rich housings and the silver work on the bridles had been removed, and hidden among the rugs, and there was nothing beyond the excellence of two of the horses, and the direction from which they came, to attract attention.

When well beyond the town, they halted. The saddlebags were all packed upon Annie's horse. Dick lifted the girl on to the pad behind his saddle, and then mounted.

"Now hold tight by me," he said, "and mind, whenever you are tired, we will halt for an hour's rest. We will not go more than twenty miles today, and then it will only be as much more down to Tripataly, tomorrow. We will walk for a bit, until you get quite accustomed to your seat."

After a while, the horses broke into a gentle canter. For a time, Annie felt very doubtful as to whether she could retain her seat, and so held tight with one arm to Dick, while with the other hand she kept a firm hold of the crupper. Presently, however, she was able to release her hold of the latter, and it was not long before she was able, honestly, to assure Dick that she felt quite comfortable, and had no fear of falling off.

In two hours they passed near the hill on which stood the fortress of Kistnagherry, which had successfully resisted the attack of the English, but above which now flew the British flag. Skirting round the foot, they came, in the course of an hour and a half's ride, on to the direct road which they had left at Anicull, in order to avoid passing through the town of Oussoor. Here they came upon a large village, and Dick found no difficulty in hiring a light native cart to take Annie, who was, as he felt by the relaxation of her hold, unable to proceed farther on horseback, or continue straight through to Tripataly.

A thick layer of straw was placed at the bottom of the cart, a couple of rugs spread over it, and on this Annie was enabled to lie down at her ease. The horses were fed and watered, and had an hour's rest, and then they started for the last twenty miles of their journey.

Annie had, while the horses were resting, a chat with a native woman, and had gone into her house with her. When they were ready for the start, she returned, dressed in the costume she had worn in the Palace. It had originally been intended to get rid of the clothes, after starting, but Annie had asked for them to be taken on.

"I can change again, before I get to Tripataly," she said. "I should not like to appear before your mother, for the first time, dressed as a boy."

And Dick had at once fallen in with her wishes.

The turban was gone, and her head was covered in the fashion of native women, with a long cotton cloth of a deep red colour.

Where the road was good, the cart proceeded at a fair pace, but in the pass down the ghauts they could go only at a walk, and the sun had set before they reached Tripataly. Dick, seeing that Annie was growing very nervous, as they neared their destination, had ridden all the way by the side of the cart, chatting cheerfully with her.

"Why, Annie," he said, "you look as solemn as if you were just going into slavery, instead of having escaped from it."

"It is not that I feel solemn, Dick. It is that everything is so new and strange. Of course, after your saving my life, I have never felt that you were a stranger, and as long as there were only you and Surajah, I did not mind, and I have felt quite at home with you. But now that I am going to a new place, where I don't know anyone, I can't help feeling desolate."

"You will feel quite as much at home with them, in twenty-four hours, as you have done with me, Annie. You are tired now, and quite worn out with your journey, and so you take a gloomy view of things. I will guarantee that, before I go away again, you will be good friends with everyone, and will wonder how you could have thought it to be anything dreadful to come among them."

When they got within a mile of Tripataly, Dick said:

"Now I will ride on ahead, Annie, and prepare my mother for your coming. It will be pleasant to have no questions or explanations when you arrive, and I am sure she will carry you straight off to bed, and keep you there, until you have quite got over the effects of your journey."

He did not wait to hear Annie's faint protest against his leaving her, but telling Surajah to take his place beside the cart, and to keep talking to the girl, he galloped on ahead. He sprang from his horse in the courtyard, threw the reins to a servant, and ran in. The party had just sat down to their evening meal, and as he entered he was greeted by exclamations of astonishment and welcome.

His mother had received two letters, sent through Pertaub by traders going down from Seringapatam. In these he had told her, first, of his arrival and of the adventure with the tiger, and of his obtaining the post in the Palace; and in the second of the non-success that had attended his visits to the hill forts. He had told her that he should probably leave Seringapatam shortly, and continue the search, but that she must not anticipate any result, for a long time.

"Well, Mother," he said, after the first embrace and greetings were over, "I have left Tippoo's service, you see, and am no longer a colonel, or an officer of the Palace. I have come down to spend a fortnight with you, before I set out again on my travels."

"Has Surajah come back with you, Dick?" the Rajah asked.

"Yes. He will be here in a few minutes, with a cart. That is one of the reasons why I came down here. I found, among the slaves of the harem, a white girl about fourteen years old. She is the daughter of a British officer named Mansfield, and was carried away from her parents, eight years ago. She was the only white captive left in the Palace. There have been other girls, in a similar position, but they have all, at about fourteen or fifteen, been given by Tippoo to his officers; as would have been her fate, before long, so I determined to carry her off with me, and bring her to you, until we could find her parents. She is a very plucky girl, and, although she had never been on a horse before, rode all the way down, until we got this side of Kistnagherry. But as you may imagine, the poor little thing is completely knocked up, so we brought her down from there in a cart.

"It is something, Mother, to have saved one captive from Tippoo's grasp, even though it is not the dear one that I was looking for; and I promised that you would be a mother to her, until we could restore her to her friends."

"Certainly I will, Dick," Mrs. Holland said warmly.

"Will you tell the girls, Gholla," she said to her sister-in-law, "to have a bed made up for her, in my room?"

"I will do so at once," the ranee said. "Poor little thing, she must have had a journey, indeed."

"She will be here directly, Mother," Dick said, as his aunt gave the necessary directions for the bed to be prepared, and a dish of rice and strong gravy. "She is very nervous, and I am sure it will be best if you will meet her, when she arrives, and take her straight to her room."

"That is what I was going to do, Dick," his mother said, with a smile. "Well, I will go down with you, at once."

Two or three minutes later, the cart entered the courtyard. Mrs. Holland was on the steps. Dick ran down, and helped Annie from the cart. The girl was trembling violently.

"Don't be afraid, Annie," Dick whispered, as he lifted her down. "Here is my mother, waiting to receive you.

"This is the young lady," he went on cheerfully, as he turned to his mother. "I promised her a warm welcome, in your name."

Mrs. Holland had already come down the steps, and as the girl turned towards her, she took her in her arms, and kissed her in motherly fashion.

"Welcome, indeed," she said. "I will be a mother to you, poor child, till I can hand you over to your own. I thank God for sending you to me. It will be a comfort to me to know that, even if my son should never bring my husband back to me, he has at least succeeded in rescuing one victim from Tippoo, and in making one family happy."

The girl clung to her, crying softly.

"Oh, how good you all are!" she sobbed. "It seems too much happiness to be true."

"It is quite true, dear. Come with me. We will go up the private stairs, and I will put you straight to bed in my room, and no one else shall see you, or question you, until you are quite recovered from your fatigue."

"I am afraid," Annie began faintly.

She did not need to say more. Mrs. Holland interrupted her.

"Dick, you must lift her up, and carry her into my room. Poor child, she is utterly exhausted, and no wonder."

A couple of minutes later, Dick returned to the dining room. He had run down, first, to tell Surajah to come up with him, but found that he had already gone to his father's apartments.

"Well, Dick," the Rajah said, as he entered, "I was prepared, after hearing of that tiger adventure, and of you and Surajah being colonels in Tippoo's household, for almost anything; but I certainly never dreamt of your returning here with an English girl."

"I suppose not, Uncle. Such a thing certainly never entered into my calculations. I did not even know there was a white girl in the Palace, until one day she stopped me, as I was passing along the corridor near the harem, to thank me for saving her life -- for it was this girl that the tiger had struck down, and was standing upon, when I fired at him. Of course, she had no idea that I was English. We only said a few words then, for if I had been seen talking to a slave girl belonging to the harem, I might have got into a scrape. However, I saw her afterwards, and she told me about herself, and how she was afraid that she would be given away to one of Tippoo's officers. Of course, I could not leave her to such a fate as that.

"There was really no difficulty in getting her away. She was dressed as a boy, and only had to ride, with our servant, after us. We had arranged so that our absence would not be noticed, until we had been away for at least twenty-four hours, and of course, as officers of the Palace, no one questioned us on the journey, so that it is a very simple affair altogether, and the only difficulty there was, rose from her being completely tired out and exhausted by the journey, as she was utterly unaccustomed to travelling. I had to carry her one night, in front of me on my saddle, for she was scarce able to stand."

"I am not surprised at that. A journey of a hundred and fifty miles, to anyone who has never been on horseback, would be a terrible trial, especially to a young girl. I really wonder that she did not break down altogether. Why, you can remember how stiff you were, yourself, the first day or two you were here, and that after riding only an hour or two."

"I know, Uncle, and I should not have been in the least surprised, if she had collapsed. I talked it over with Surajah, and we agreed that, if she could not go on, we must hire a vehicle of some sort, and let her travel, every day, in front of us with Ibrahim, and that if it delayed us so much that there was any possibility of our being overtaken, we would have put on our peasant's dresses, got rid of our horses, and have gone forward on foot.

"However, she kept up wonderfully well, and always made the best of things."

"We won't ask you to tell us anything more, Dick, till your mother joins us, or you will have to go over the story twice."

"No, Uncle; and I can assure you I don't want to tell the story until I have had my supper, for our meals have not been very comfortable on the road, and I have not eaten anything since early this morning."

"What is Tippoo doing, Dick?"

"Well, as far as I can see, Uncle, he is preparing for war again. He is strengthening all his forts, building fresh defences to Seringapatam, and drilling numbers of fresh troops."

"The English general made a great mistake, in not finishing with him when he was there. We ought to have taken the city, sent Tippoo down a prisoner to Madras, and there tried him for the murder of scores of Englishmen, and hung him over the ramparts. We shall have all our work to do over again, in another four or five years. However, it will not be such a difficult business as it was last time, now that we have the passes in our hands."

"There is no doubt, Uncle, that a considerable part of the population will be heartily glad when Tippoo's power is at an end. You see, he and Hyder were both usurpers, and had no more right to the throne than you had."

"Quite so, Dick, and that makes our letting him off, when we could have taken the capital easily, all the more foolish. If he had been the lawful ruler of Mysore, it might not have been good policy to push him too hard, for he would have had sympathy from all the native princes of India. But, as being only the son of an adventurer, who had deposed and ill-treated the lawful ruler of Mysore, it would seem to them but a mere act of justice, if the English had dethroned him and punished him -- provided, of course, they put a native prince on the throne, and did not annex all his dominions.

"It has all got to come some day. I can see that, in time, the English will be the rulers of all India, but at present they are not strong enough to face a general coalition of the native states against them; and any very high-handed action, in Mysore, might well alarm the native princes, throughout India, into laying aside their quarrels with each other, and combining in an attempt to drive them out."

Just as they had finished their meal, Mrs. Holland entered.

"The poor child is asleep," she said. "She wanted to talk at first, and to tell me how grateful she was to you, Dick; but of course I insisted on her being quiet, and said that she should tell me all about it, in the morning. She ate a few mouthfuls of the rice, and not long after she lay down, she fell asleep. I have left Sundra sitting there, in case she should wake up again, but I don't think it is likely that she will do so.

"Now, Dick, you must tell us all about it."

Dick was not a great hand at writing letters, so he had not entered, with any fullness, into the details of what he was doing, the principal point being to let his mother know that he was alive and well.

"Before he begins," the Rajah said, "I will send for Rajbullub and Surajah. Master Dick is rather fond of cutting his stories short, and we must have Surajah here to fill up details."

Surajah and his father soon appeared. The former was warmly greeted by the Rajah, and when they had seated themselves on a divan, Dick proceeded to tell the story. He was not interrupted, until he came to the incident of the killing of the tiger, and here Surajah was called upon to supplement the story, which he did, doing full credit to the quickness with which Dick had, without a moment's loss of time, cut the netting and ascended to the window.

When Dick came to the incident of the ladies of the harem presenting them, in Tippoo's presence, with the two caskets, Mrs. Holland broke in:

"You did not say anything about that in your letter, Dick. Let me see your casket. Where is it?"

"It is in one of the saddlebags," Dick said.

"They are in my room," Rajbullub corrected. "Surajah brought them up at once."

"Then he had better get them," the Rajah said.

"What do they contain, Dick?" he asked, as Surajah left the room.

"All sorts of things -- necklaces and rings. Some of them are stones, as if they had been taken out of their settings. Pertaub said they had done this because they thought, perhaps, that Tippoo would not allow the jewels they had worn to be sold, or worn by anyone else."

"Then I should think that they must be valuable," the ranee said.

"Pertaub said they were worth a good deal, but I don't know whether he really knew about the cost of precious stones. Some of the things were of small value, being, I suppose, the trinkets of the slave girls. All gave something, and there is a little cross there that belonged to Annie. It has her initials on it, and she had it on her neck, when she was captured. It was the thing she valued most, and therefore she gave it. I don't suppose she had anything else, except the usual trinkets she would wear, when she went out on special occasions with the ladies of the harem. I thought it would be useful to us, to prove who she was."

Surajah now returned with the casket.

"You had better look at Surajah's first," Dick said. "I don't know anything about it, but it looks as if mine were the more valuable. I wanted Surajah to put them all together, and divide fairly, but he would not."

"My son was perfectly right," Rajbullub said. "If it had not been for the young lord, the deed would never have been done at all. Surajah aided in killing the tiger, but that was nothing more than he has done on the hills, here. It is to you the merit is entirely due. The purse that the Sultan gave my son was, in itself, an ample reward for the share he took in it.

"Now, Surajah, open your casket. The ladies are waiting to see the contents."

The whole of the little packets, some fifty in number, were opened and examined; many of them eliciting exclamations of admiration from the ranee and Mrs. Holland.

"There is no doubt that many of them are worth a good deal of money," the Rajah said. "It is certain that Tippoo's treasuries are full of the spoils he has carried off, from the states he has overrun, and the ladies of the harem, no doubt, possess a store of the jewels, and could afford to be liberal to those whom they considered had saved their lives. Those seven, which you put together as the best, must alone be worth a large sum. I should think that the total value of the whole cannot be less than forty or fifty thousand rupees, so that, if those in your casket are handsomer than these, Dick, they must be valuable, indeed."

Dick's casket was next examined.

"Some of these stones are magnificent, Dick. Those three great diamonds could only be valued by a jeweller accustomed to such things, for their value depends upon their being of good lustre, and free from all flaws; but, according to my judgment, I should say that, at the very least, they must be worth ten thousand rupees each. That pearl necklace is worth at least as much. Those rubies are superb. I should say, lad, that the value of the whole cannot be less than fifteen thousand pounds.

"The harem must be rich in jewels, indeed, to be able to make such gifts. Not that I am surprised at that. Tippoo had all the jewels belonging to the lawful rulers of Mysore. He has captured all those of Coorg, Travancore, and the other states on the Malabar coast. He and his father have looted all the Carnatic, from Cape Comorin to the north of Madras. He has captured many of the Nizam's cities, and several Mahratta provinces.

"In fact, he has accumulated, at Seringapatam, the spoils of the whole of southern India, and those of the Hindoo portion of his own people. The value of the jewels, alone, must be millions of pounds; and as he himself, as they say, dresses simply, and only wears one or two gems, of immense value, he may well have bestowed large quantities upon his harem, especially as these would be, in fact, only loans, as at the death of their wearers they would revert to him, or, indeed, could be reclaimed at any moment, in a freak of bad temper.

"I have no doubt they had to ask his permission to give you the presents, and as you, at the moment, were in high favour with him, I daresay he suffered them to give what they chose, without inquiring at all into their value. The gold he gave you was simply to procure your outfits, and he left it to the harem to reward you, as they chose, for the service you had rendered.

"Well, Dick, I congratulate you heartily. It places your future beyond doubt, and leaves you free to choose any mode of life that you may prefer.

"I congratulate you, too, Margaret, on the lad's good fortune; which he has well deserved by his conduct.

"See this, my sons. Here you have a proof of the advantages of the training your cousin has had. The quickness and coolness he has acquired, by it, enabled him to make his way down through the fort at the top of the pass, and to defend the ruined hut against fifty enemies. Now it has enabled him to seize the opportunity, opened by the attack of the tiger on Tippoo's harem, thereby gaining the Sultan's favour, his appointment to the rank of colonel in the Mysore army, a post in his Palace, and this magnificent collection of gems. Without that quickness and decision, his courage alone would have done little for him. We in India have courage; but it is because our princes and nobles are brought up in indolence and luxury that the English, though but a handful in point of numbers, have become masters of such wide territories. Surajah is as brave as Dick, but he would be the first to tell you that it is to Dick he owes it that, on their first excursion together, he escaped with his life; and that, in this last adventure, he attained rank and position, and has returned with these valuable gifts."

"It is indeed, my lord," Surajah said. "The young lord has been my leader, and I have tried to carry out his orders. Alone, I could never have got through the gate in the fort, and should no more have thought of going to the assistance of the ladies of the Sultan's harem than did any other of the thousands of men who were there, looking on."

"So you see, boys," the Rajah went on, "that though, when he came out here, your cousin was able neither to shoot nor to ride, and can neither shoot nor ride as well, now, as can tens of thousands of natives; he has acquired, from his training in rough exercises, qualities of infinitely greater value than these accomplishments; and I do hope that his example will stir you up to take much greater interest than, in spite of my advice, you have hitherto done in active sports and exercises. Your grandmother was an Englishwoman, and I want to see that, with the white blood in your veins, you have some of the vigour and energy of Englishmen."

It was some days before Annie Mansfield left her room. For the first two she had been completely prostrated. After that, she rapidly gained strength; but Mrs. Holland thought it best to insist upon her remaining perfectly quiet, until she had quite recovered. Either she or the ranee were constantly with her, so that when, at the end of a week, she made her first appearance at the breakfast table, she was already at home with three of the party.

Before long her shyness completely wore off, and she seemed to have become really a member of the family. Mrs. Holland had altered two of her own dresses to fit her, but she preferred, for a time, to dress in Indian costume, to which she was accustomed; and which was, indeed, much better suited to the climate than the more closely-fitting European dress. Mrs. Holland, however, bargained that she should, of an evening, wear the frocks she had made for her.

"You must get accustomed to them, my dear, so that when you find your own people, you will not be stiff and awkward; as you certainly will be, when you dress in English fashion for the first time."

The day after his arrival, Dick had written to the military secretary of the governor of Madras, with whom he was well acquainted, to tell him that, having gone up in disguise to Seringapatam, to endeavour to ascertain the fate of his father, he had discovered a young English girl, detained as a slave in Tippoo's harem, and that he had enabled her to effect her escape, and had placed her in the charge of his mother. He then repeated the account Annie had given of her capture, and asked if the circumstances could be identified, and if the officer, of the name of Mansfield, concerned in it was still alive; and if so, was he still in India?

Annie was secretly dreading the arrival of the answer. After her life as a slave, her present existence seemed to her so perfectly happy that she shrank from the idea of any fresh change. She had no memory, whatever, of her parents, and had already a very strong affection for Mrs. Holland. She liked the ranee very much also, and the absence of all state and ceremony, in the household of the Rajah, was to her delightful. She was already on good terms with the boys; and as to Dick, she was always ready to go out with him, if he would take her, to run messages for him, or to do anything in her power; and, indeed, watched him anxiously, as if she would discover and forestall his slightest wish.

"One would think, Annie," he said one day, "that you were still a slave, and that I was your master. I don't want you to wait on me, child, as you waited on the ladies of the harem. However, as I shall be going away in a few days now, it does not matter; but I should grow as lazy as a young rajah, if this were to go on long."

"What shall I do when you go away, Dick?"

"Well, I hope that you will set to work, hard, to learn to read and write, and other things my mother will teach you. You would not like, when you find your own people, to be regarded by girls of your own age as an ignorant little savage; and I want you to set to, and make up for lost time; so that, if you are still here when I come back, I shall find you have made wonderful progress."

"Oh, I do hope I sha'n't be gone before that, Dick!"

"I am afraid you must make up your mind to it, Annie, for there is no saying how long I may be away next time. You see, there is not much chance of my lighting upon another white slave girl, and having to bring her down here; and I shall go in for a long, steady search for my father."

"I don't want you to find another slave girl, Dick," she said earnestly, "not even if it brought you down here again. I should not like that at all."

"Why not, Annie?"

"Oh, you might like her ever so much better than me. I should like you to do all sorts of brave things, Dick, and to save people as you have saved me, but I would rather there was not another girl."

Dick laughed.

"Well, I don't suppose that there is much chance of it. Besides, I can't turn my uncle's palace into a Home for Lost Girls."

Two days before Dick and Surajah started again, the reply from the military secretary arrived. It stated that the time and circumstances pointed out that the place besieged and forced to surrender, eight years before, was Corsepan; and this was indeed rendered a certainty, by the fact that the officer in command was Captain Mansfield. He had with him a half company of Europeans, and three companies of Sepoys. On looking through the official papers at the time, he had found Captain Mansfield's report, in which he stated that, on the night after leaving the fort, the troops, which had been reduced to half their original strength, had been attacked by a party either of dacoits or irregular troops. Fearing that some such act of treachery might be attempted, he had told his men to conceal a few cartridges under their clothes, when they marched out with empty cartridge pouches. They had, on arriving at their halting place, loaded; and, when the dacoits fell upon them, had opened fire.

The robbers doubtless expected to find them defenceless, and speedily fled. In the confusion, some of them had penetrated far into the camp, and had carried off the captain's daughter, a child of six years old. When peace was signed with Tippoo, three weeks afterwards, the commissioners were ordered to make special inquiries as to this child, and to demand her restoration. They reported that Tippoo denied all knowledge of the affair, and neither she, nor any of the other girls there, were ever given up. The letter went on:

"There can be no doubt that the young lady you rescued is the child who was carried off, and the initials you speak of, on the cross, may certainly be taken as proof of her identity. Her father retired from the Service last year, with the rank of colonel. I am, of course, ignorant of his address. As you say that Mrs. Holland will gladly continue in charge of her, I would suggest that you should write a letter to Colonel Mansfield, stating the circumstances of the case, and saying that, as soon as you are informed of his address, the young lady will be sent to England. I will enclose the letter in one to the Board of Directors, briefly stating the circumstances, and requesting them to forward the enclosure to Colonel Mansfield."

To Annie, the letter came as a relief. It would be nearly a year before a letter could be received from her father. Until then she would be able to remain in her new home.



Chapter 18: A Narrow Escape.


Mrs. Holland undertook to write the letter to Annie's father, and did so at very much greater length than Dick would have done, giving him the story of the girl's life at Seringapatam, the circumstances of her meeting Dick, and the story of her escape. She assured him that his daughter was all that he could wish her to be.

"She is of a very affectionate disposition. She is frank, outspoken, and natural -- qualities that are wonderful, considering the years she has passed as a slave in the harem. Now that she has been with us for a fortnight, and has recovered from the fatigue of her flight, and is beginning to feel at home, she has regained her natural spirits, after their long repression.

"Personally, she is of about the average height, and of a more graceful figure than is usual with girls of her age. The stain has now worn off her face, and I should say she will, as she grows up, be pretty. She is fair rather than dark, has expressive eyes, and a nice mouth. Altogether, had I a daughter, I should be well content if she resembled your Annie. I shall, I can assure you, do my best to supply the place of a mother to her, until I receive a letter from you, and shall part from her with regret. She is, of course, at present entirely uneducated, but she has already begun to learn with me, and as she is quick and intelligent I hope that, before I resign my charge, her deficiencies will be so far repaired that she will be able to pass muster, in all ordinary matters."

"You will be back before I go, won't you, Dick?" Annie said, as she sat by his side on a seat in the garden, on the evening before he was to start.

"I think so," he said. "We can calculate on your being here ten months, anyhow. I have been talking it over with my mother. If it had not been for those jewels, I should have given up the search for my father after another six months, because it would have been high time for me to get to work in some profession. I had, indeed, made up my mind to enter the Company's service, for Lord Cornwallis promised me a commission, and my uncle received a letter some time ago, from the governor of Madras, saying that, on the very strong recommendation of Lord Cornwallis, and his report of my services, he was authorised to grant me one. It was to be dated back to the time I joined Lord Cornwallis, more than two years ago. However, now that I am really made independent of a profession, I shall probably continue my search for a somewhat longer time. But at any rate, I will promise to come back, at the end of ten months from the present time, so as to say goodbye to you, before you start."

The girl's face brightened.

"Thank you, Dick. I don't think I should go, anyhow, until I saw you again -- not even if I got a letter saying that I was to sail by the next ship."

"My uncle would take you down bodily, and put you on board," Dick laughed. "Mind, Annie, when I come back, at the end of ten months, I shall expect to find you quite an educated young lady. I shall think of all sorts of hard questions, in geography and history, to put to you."

"I will try hard, Dick, really hard, to please you. I have had three lessons, and I have learnt all the letters quite well."

"That is a good beginning, Annie. It took me a lot longer than that, I know."

The next morning, Dick and Surajah started. They were to ride up the ghauts, to the frontier line at Amboor, two troopers accompanying them to bring back their horses. There they were to disguise themselves as traders, and make their way direct to Bangalore. Dick said goodbye to his mother, up in her own room.

"You must not be down-hearted, Mother," he said, as she tried in vain to keep back her tears. "You see, I have come back to you twice, safely, and after passing unsuspected in Tippoo's palace, there is no fear of my being detected elsewhere. Besides, of course, every month I am there I become better acquainted with the people, and can pass as a native more easily."

"I am not really afraid, my boy. You have got on so well that, it seems to me, God will surely protect you and bring you back safely. And I can't help thinking that this time your search may be successful. You know why I feel convinced that your father is still alive, and, in spite of past disappointments, I still cling to the belief."

"Well, Mother, if he is to be found I will find him. There are still many hill forts where he may be living, and his very existence forgotten, and until I have visited every one of them, I don't mean to give up the search. Anyhow, I shall come back at the end of ten months, whether I have heard of him or not. I have promised Annie that I will be back before she sails. It is not a very long journey down here, and I shall drop in for a fortnight's stay with you, as I have done this time."

"She is in the next room, crying her eyes out, Dick. You had better look in there, and say goodbye to her. She is not fit to go down to the door."

After parting with his mother, Dick went in to see Annie.

"You must not cry so, child," he said, as she rose from the divan, with her face swollen with crying. "I am sure that you will be very happy here, until I come back."

"I know, Dick; but it won't be at all the same, without you."

"Oh, you will have plenty to do, and you will soon fall into regular ways. Besides, you know, you have got to comfort my mother, and keep up her spirits, and I quite rely upon you to do that."

"I will try, Dick," she said earnestly.

"Now, goodbye, Annie."

He held out his hand, but she threw her arms round his neck, and kissed him.

"You have never kissed me, not once," she said reproachfully, "and you were going away without it, now. Your mother kisses me, and the English girls in the harem always used to do so."

"But that is different, Annie. Girls and women do kiss each other, but boys and girls do not kiss, unless they are brothers and sisters, or are relations, or something of that sort."

"But you are not a boy. You are a great big man, Dick."

"I am not much more than a boy yet, Annie. However, there is no harm in kissing, when one is saying goodbye, so there.

"Now be a good girl, and don't fret;" and he ran downstairs to the door, where his uncle and the two boys were standing.

"Take care of yourself, lad," the Rajah said, as, after bidding them goodbye, Dick sprang upon his horse. "Whenever you get a chance, send down a letter as we arranged last night, to the care of Azol Afool, trader, Tripataly. That will seem natural enough, whoever you send it by, while a letter directed to me might excite suspicion.

"Goodbye."

"Goodbye, Uncle;" and, with a wave of his hand, Dick rode off and joined Surajah, who was waiting for him a short distance off. And then, followed by Ibrahim -- who had begged so earnestly to be allowed to accompany them that Dick had consented to take him, feeling indeed that his services would be most useful to them -- and the two troopers, they rode off at a sharp pace.

At Amboor they assumed their disguises. Dick purchased a pack pony, and some goods suitable to their appearance as pedlers, and then they started up the pass on foot. They passed the frontier line without any interruption, stopped and chatted for a few minutes with the guard, and then passed on up the valley.

"There is the house where we had our fight, Surajah," Dick said, as they reached the ruined village. "Though there is peace now, I fancy we should not get much farther than that fort ahead, if they guessed that we were the fellows who gave them such trouble, two years and a half ago."

"There is no fear of our being recognised," Surajah said. "The guard has probably been changed, long ago. Besides, they never once caught sight of our faces."

"Oh, no; we are safe enough," Dick agreed. "If I had not been sure of that, we would have gone up one of the passes to the south, that has been ceded to us, though it would have been a great deal longer round to Bangalore -- unless, indeed, we had gone by Kistnagherry, and that would have been too dangerous to attempt, for the officers on the frontier would probably have recognised us."

It was late in the afternoon before they arrived at the gate. It stood open, and there was no sentry on duty. A few soldiers could be seen, loitering about in the street; but it was evident that, now the war was over and everything finally settled, it was considered that all occasion for vigilance was at an end.

Upon making inquiries, they soon found a house where they could put up for the night. They had, as is the custom in India, brought their provisions with them, and after leaving their goods in the house, and seeing that the horse was fed, Ibrahim set to work to cook a meal; while the others opened one of the packs, and went round the village, where they disposed of a few small articles.

They arrived, without any adventure, at Bangalore. There, as soon as they had established themselves at one of the caravansaries for travellers, Dick and Surajah went to the house of the trader to whom Pertaub had promised to consign their goods.

"We have come for some packs, that have been sent by friends of ours at Seringapatam to your care," Dick said, making as he spoke the sign that Pertaub had taught him, as enabling those who were Hindoos to recognise each other, at once. "We were to use the word 'Madras' as a sign that we were the parties to whom they were consigned."

"The goods arrived a week ago," the trader said, "and are lying for you at my warehouse. I will hand them over to you, tomorrow morning."

"Thank you. We may not come early, for we have to purchase two pack horses to carry them, and three tats for ourselves and our man. This may take us some time, and it will be, perhaps, better for us to come to you early the next morning, and we can then start away direct."

This was arranged, and on the following day, two strong animals were bought for the packs; and three tats, or ponies, for their own riding. Dick had disposed of the horse he had ridden down to Tripataly for a good price, and had also been supplied with funds by his mother, although, as he said, the contents of their packs ought to suffice to pay all their expenses, for a long time.

Then they purchased some provisions for the journey. The pack horse they had brought with them was laden with these, and the goods brought up from Amboor. The new pack horses were taken round to the trader's, and the goods sent from Seringapatam packed on them. Then they mounted and rode off at a walk, the pack animals following Ibrahim's horse, tied one behind the other.

They had already debated upon the course to pursue, and finally decided that they would, in the first place, again visit Savandroog; for the conviction Dick had entertained, that there was at least one white captive there, had increased rather than diminished.

"I can't give any good reason for it, Surajah," he had admitted, when they talked it over before starting, "but it is just because I have no good reason to give, that I want to go there again. Why should I have such a strong conviction without a good cause? One has heard of a presentiment of evil -- I can't help feeling that this is a presentiment of good. The question is, how can we best go there again? I don't think it is in the least likely that the governor will have heard of our flight, as this would be the last direction anyone would think of our taking, for had we done so, we might have met the Sultan on his way back from Bangalore. It will naturally be supposed that we have made for the frontier, and have descended the Western or Southern Ghauts. The affair will, of course, seem a mystery to them altogether; for why should two young fellows, so recently promoted, and in such high favour, desert Tippoo's service? If they do not associate Annie's disappearance with our flight -- and there is no reason on earth why they should do so, as no one ever saw us speaking to her -- they will most likely think that we have fallen into the hands of the Dacoits, or Thugs, and have been murdered. Numbers of people do disappear every year, and are, as everyone supposes, victims of that detestable sect. My uncle has told me of Thugs. He warned me to be very careful, if I travelled with strangers, for that these men travel in all sorts of disguises.

"So I think that, as far as that goes, we could boldly put on our uniforms and badges again, and ride into Savandroog. The disadvantage of doing so is, however, plain. The commander would remain with us all the time. We should get no opportunity of speaking privately with any of the soldiers, and, taking us to be in Tippoo's confidence, he would, as before, shirk the question of prisoners. On the other hand, if we can get in as traders we shall be able to move about unwatched -- to go to the soldiers' huts and offer goods to their wives, and be able to find out, to a certainty, if there is a prisoner there, and, if so, where he is kept. We may even see him; for while, if the governor wished to keep his existence a secret, he would have shut him up when he heard that two of Tippoo's officers were coming, he would not trouble about it, one way or the other, in the case of a couple of traders.

"The only objection to that course is that we were here but two or three months since, and he and his servants, and that artillery officer we went round with, would know us at once. If we go, we shall have to alter our appearance completely. At any rate, we had better provide means for disguise, and we can use them, or not, as we please."

While they were at Tripataly, therefore, they had two false beards made for themselves, and tried many experiments in the way of painting their faces; and found that by tracing light lines on their foreheads, and at the corners of their eyes, they were able, by the help of beards, to counterfeit the appearance of old age, so well that it could only be detected on close observation. Dick, too, had purchased a pair of native spectacles, with large round glasses and broad black-horn rims, that made him look, as he said, like an astonished owl. It was agreed that Surajah should wear, under his dress, a very thickly padded vest, which would give him the appearance of being fat, as well as elderly.

They proceeded for seven or eight miles at a walking pace, and when the heat of the day rendered it necessary for them to stop, turned into a grove by the roadside, as they had no intention of going on to Savandroog that day, intending to halt some miles short of it, and to present themselves there the next afternoon. They therefore prepared for a stay of some hours. The pack horses were unloaded, and the saddles taken off the other animals.

Half an hour later a party of twelve men, travelling in the same direction as themselves, also halted and turned in among the trees. The man who was apparently the leader of the party came across to where they were sitting.

"We do not disturb you, I hope, brothers?" he said. "The grove is large enough for us all. I see that you are traders, like myself."

"By no means," Surajah replied. "The wood is open to all, and even were it not, we should be discourteous, indeed, did we refuse to share our shade with others. Sit down by us, I beg of you, while your people are unloading your animals."

"I marked you as you left Bangalore," the trader said, as he seated himself beside them, "and when I saw that you were taking the same route that we should follow, I wondered how far our roads might lie together."

"We are travelling west," Surajah replied. "It may be that we shall stop at Magree, and there, or at Outradroog, stop for a day or two to trade. Thence we may go north."

"Then as far as Outradroog our paths will lie together," the merchant said. "There we shall strike the river, and turn south to Seringapatam. I am sorry that you will not be going farther in our direction, for the roads are far from safe. Since the war with the Feringhees ended, there are many disbanded soldiers who have taken to dacoity, and it is always better to travel with a strong band. I wonder that you venture with three loaded animals, and only one man beside yourselves."

Surajah was about to speak, but a quick glance from Dick stopped him.

"We think there is less danger in travelling in a small body than there is with a large one," the latter said. "There is less to tempt anyone to interfere with us. Moreover, we could not travel with a caravan, because the greater part of our goods are such as would tempt the peasantry only. We therefore stop at small villages to trade, leaving the towns to those who travel with more valuable merchandise."

After chatting for some minutes, the traveller got up and joined his party.

"I don't much like that fellow's looks," Dick said, when they were alone.

"Why? He looks a very respectable man."

"Oh, yes, he looks respectable enough, but for all that I don't fancy him. It may be that he regards us as rivals, and was only trying to find out where we intended to stop, and whether we were likely to spoil his trade. That was why I said what I did, so that he might perceive that we were not likely to interfere with him.

"Then again, Surajah, I remembered my uncle's warning against joining other travellers, as these Thugs, who, they say, commit so many murders, generally travel in bands, disguised sometimes as traders, sometimes as men seeking work, sometimes as disbanded soldiers. Anyhow, it is as well to be careful. We have each got a brace of double-barrelled pistols in our girdles, in addition to these old single-barrelled Indian ones that we carry for show, and our swords are leaning against the tree behind us, so we can get hold of them in a moment. I know, of course, that the betting is all in favour of these people being peaceful traders, but I don't want to leave anything to chance, and there is nothing like being prepared for whatever may happen."

Presently Dick got up and sauntered across to Ibrahim, who was engaged in cooking.

"Ibrahim," he said, "don't look round while I speak to you, but go on with your cooking. I don't like the look of the leader of this party. He may be a respectable trader, he may be a Dacoit or a Thug. I want you to keep a sharp lookout, without seeming to do so. See that your pistols will come out of your girdle easily. Keep your sword handy for use. If you see anything suspicious, come over and tell me, and if there is not time for that, shout."

"I will watch, Sahib," Ibrahim said. "But they seem to me peaceable men like ourselves. Of course they carry weapons. No one would travel about, with merchandise, without doing so."

"They may be all right, Ibrahim, but I have a sort of feeling that they are not, and at any rate, it is best to be cautious."

The other party did not light a fire, but sat down and ate some provisions they carried with them. When Surajah and Dick had finished their meal, the leader again strolled over to them. He asked whether they intended to sleep, and on hearing that they did not, he again sat down with them. He proceeded to discuss trading matters, to describe the goods he carried, the places where he had purchased them, and the prices he had given.

As he talked, Dick noticed that three or four of the others came across. They did not sit down, but stood round listening to the conversation, and sometimes joining in. Dick's feeling of uneasiness increased, and thrusting one hand carelessly into his girdle, he grasped the butt of one of his hidden pistols.

Suddenly a loud cry came from Ibrahim. At the same moment something passed before Dick's face. He threw himself backwards, drawing his pistol as he did so, and fired into the body of the man behind him. A second later he shot another, who was in the act of throwing a twisted handkerchief round Surajah's neck. Then he leapt to his feet, delivering, as he did so, a heavy blow, with the barrel of his pistol, on the head of the trader who had been sitting between him and Surajah.

It had all passed in a few seconds, and the other men started back, in their surprise at this unexpected failure of their plan.

Surajah was on his feet almost as quickly as Dick. Even yet, he did not understand what had happened. At this moment there was the crack of another pistol, and then Ibrahim came running towards them, having shot a man who had suddenly drawn his sword, and tried to cut him down. At his heels came the six men who had, up to this point, been standing in a group near their horses.

Without hesitation, Dick drew out one of his single-barrelled pistols and shot the pretended trader, whose turban had saved him from the effect of the blow, and who, shouting loudly to his companions, was struggling to his feet. The remaining eight men had all drawn their swords, and were rushing upon them.

"Fire, Surajah!" Dick shouted. "Are you asleep, man?"

Surajah was not asleep, but he was confused by the suddenness of the fray, and was still doubtful whether Dick had not made an entirely unprovoked attack upon the strangers. However, he perceived that it was now too late to discuss that point, and was a question of fighting for his life. Accordingly, he fired both barrels of one of his pistols. One of the men dropped.

"Your sword, Surajah!" Dick exclaimed, as he grasped the scabbard of his own weapon in his left hand, while in his right he held his other double-barrelled pistol.

Their antagonists, with yells of fury, were now upon them. Dick shot one, but the next man he aimed at darted suddenly aside when he fired. Dick dropped his pistol, and grasped the hilt of his sword just in time to ward off a blow aimed at his head. Blow after blow was showered upon him, so quickly that he could do no more than ward them off and wait his opportunity. He heard Surajah fire two more shots in quick succession; then Ibrahim suddenly dashed forward and cut down his opponent, and then furiously engaged another, who was on the point of attacking him from behind. Dick drew his remaining pistol, and shot the man through the head.

He had then time to look round.

Both Surajah's shots had told, and he was now defending himself against the assaults of two others, who were pressing him hard, while a third stood irresolute a short distance away. Dick rushed to Surajah's assistance. As he did so, the third man fled.

"After him, Ibrahim!" Dick shouted. "Not one of them must get away."

The two Thugs defended themselves, with cries of fanatical fury, but their opponents were far better swordsmen, and, fighting coolly, were not long before they cut them both down.

"What on earth is it all about, Dick?" Surajah asked, as, panting with his exertions, he looked round after cutting down his opponent.

"Thugs," Dick said briefly.

"Are you sure, Dick?" Surajah asked presently. "It may be a terrible business for us, if there is any mistake."

For answer, Dick pointed to the bodies of the two men he had first shot. One still grasped the roomal, or twisted silk sash, while a like deadly implement lay by the side of the other.

"Thank Heaven!" Surajah ejaculated. "I was afraid there might have been a mistake, Dick, but I see that you were right, and that it was a party of Thugs. If it had not been that you were on the watch for them, and had your pistol ready, we should have lost our lives."

"It was a close shave as it was, Surajah. One second later, and you and I should both have been strangled. I had my hand on my pistol, and felt so sure that an attack was intended that, the moment something passed before my face, although I had no idea what it was, I threw myself back and fired at the man behind me, with an instinctive feeling that my life depended on my speed. But it was only when, on looking at you, I saw a man in the act of throwing a noose round your neck, that I knew exactly what I had escaped."

"It was fortunate that they had not pistols," Surajah said. "We should have had no chance against them, if they had had firearms."

"No; they could have shot us the moment I first fired. But Uncle said, when he was talking to me one day, that he had heard that the Stranglers did not carry firearms, because the reports might attract attention; and that it was a matter of religion, with them, to kill their victims by strangling; but that if the Strangler failed, which he very seldom did, the other men would then despatch the victims with their swords and knives.

"Ah! here comes Ibrahim."

"I caught him just outside the trees, Sahib. He will strangle no more travellers."

"Well, what had we better do?" asked Surajah.

"I should say we had better make off, as fast as we can. Of course, if we were really traders, able to prove who we are, we should go back to the town and report the affair; but as we can't do that, we had better be moving on at once, before any other party of travellers comes up. That was why, when we had killed several of them, I was anxious that none should get away, for they might have gone and accused us of slaughtering their companions."

"That would be too unlikely a story to be believed. No one would credit that three men would attack twelve."

"But there would be no one to prove that there were only three. The fellows would naturally swear that there were a score of us, and that, after murdering their companions, the rest made off with the booty.

"Ibrahim, load the pack animals, at once. We will saddle the horses.

"I think, Surajah, we had better leave everything just as it is. It is now getting on for the afternoon. It is likely enough that no other travellers will enter the grove today. By tomorrow, at the latest, someone will come in, and will of course go and report at once, in Bangalore, what he has found; and they will send out here to examine into it. When they find that the men have all fallen, sword in hand, that two of them are evidently Stranglers, and that their girdles have not been searched, nor the packs on their horses opened, it will be seen that it was not the work of robbers. I don't suppose they will know what to make of it, but I should think they would most likely conclude that these men have been attacked by some other party, and that it is a matter of some feud or private revenge -- though, even then, the fact that the bodies have not been searched for valuables, or the baggage or animals carried off, will beat them altogether."

By this time, the horses were ready for the start, and after looking up and down the long, straight road, to see that no one was in sight, they issued from the wood and continued their journey. Being anxious, now, to get away as far as possible from the scene of the struggle, instead of going on to Magree as they had intended, they turned off by the first country road on the left-hand side, and made for Savandroog, which they could see towering up above the plain. When within three miles of it, they halted in a large wood. Here, as soon as the horses had been unsaddled, and the fire lighted, their talk naturally turned to the fight they had gone through.

"I cannot make out how you came to suspect them, Dick."

"I can hardly account for it myself, but, as I told you, I did not like the look of that man, and I had an uneasy sort of feeling, which I could not explain even to myself, that there was danger in the air."

"But what made you think of these Stranglers? I had heard some talk about them, but never anything for certain."

"The Rajah told me, when he was warning me against joining parties of travellers, that although very little was known about the organisation, it was certain that there was a sect who strangled and robbed travellers in great numbers. He said that he was aware that complaints had been made, to princes all over India, of numbers of persons being missing; and that it was certain that these murders were not the work of ordinary dacoits, but of some secret association; and that even powerful princes were afraid to take any steps against it, as one or two, who had made efforts to investigate the affair, had been found strangled in their beds. Therefore, no one cared to take any steps to search into the matter. It was not known whether these Stranglers, scattered as they were very widely, obeyed one common chief, or whether they acted separately; but all were glad to leave this mysterious organisation alone, especially as they preyed only on travellers, and in no case meddled in any way with rajahs, or officials, who did not interfere with them. Consequently, the idea occurred to me, directly, that these men who seemed like traders might be a party of these Stranglers; and when the others came up, while the leader was sitting talking to us, I felt as if cold water was running down my back, and that someone was whispering to me, 'Be on your guard, be on your guard!' Therefore, the moment something passed before my face, I threw myself back and fired at the man behind me, without a moment's thought as to what it was."

"Well, certainly you saved our lives by doing so, Dick; for I suppose, if that man behind me had once got his silk scarf round my neck, he would have choked me before I had time to so much as lift my hand."

"I have not the least doubt that he would, and I feel thankful, indeed, that I had such a strange feeling that these men were dangerous. Do you know, Surajah, it seems to me that it was just the same sort of feeling that my mother tells me she has, whenever my father is in danger; and I shall be curious to know, when we get back, whether she had the same feeling about me. Anyhow, I shall, in future, have even more faith than I had before, in her confidence that she would have certainly known if any evil had happened to my father."



Chapter 19: Found At Last.


The next morning, early, Dick and Surajah set to work to perfect their disguises. They had, before, appeared simply as two young traders, well to do, and of a class above the ordinary peddling merchant. They now fitted on the ample beards that had been made at Tripataly. These were attached so firmly to their faces, by an adhesive wax, that they could not be pulled off without the use of a good deal of force. With the same stuff, small patches of hair were fastened on, so as to hide the edge of the foundation of the beard. Tufts of short grey hair were attached to their eyebrows; a few grey lines were carefully drawn at the corner of the eyes, and across the foreheads; and when this was done, they felt assured that no one was likely to suspect the disguise.

Ibrahim, who had assisted in the operation, declared that he should take them for men of sixty-five, and as, before beginning it, both of them had darkened their faces several shades, they felt confident that no one at the fort was likely to recognise them. When Surajah had put on the padded undergarment, and converted himself into a portly-looking old man, and Dick the great horn spectacles, they indulged in a burst of laughter at their changed appearance, while Ibrahim fairly shouted with amusement.

He was to stay behind in the wood, when they went on, for it would but have added to the risk had he accompanied them, as, unless also completely disguised, he would have been recognised by the soldiers with whom he had talked, during his twenty-four hours' stay inside the Tower walls. He was, in the evening, to proceed along the road, to encamp in the last grove he came to, at a distance of a quarter of a mile from the gates, and to remain there until they returned.

Under his garments Dick had wound a thin, but very strong, silken cord that he had purchased at Bangalore. It was four hundred feet in length, and considerably increased his apparent bulk, although he was still far from emulating the stoutness of Surajah. The halters of the pack horses were attached to the cruppers of the riding ponies, and after a final instruction to Ibrahim that if at the end of four days they had not returned, he was to endeavour to find out what had happened to them, and was then to carry the news to Tripataly, they started for the fort. When they approached the gate they were, as before, hailed by the sentry.

"We are merchants," Surajah said, "and we have with us a rich assortment of goods of all descriptions -- silks and trinkets for the ladies of the governor's harem, and handkerchiefs, scarves, silver ornaments, and things of all kinds suitable for the wives of those of lower rank. We pray for permission to enter and exhibit our wares, which have been collected by us in the cities where they were manufactured, and which we can therefore sell at prices hitherto unheard of."

"I will send word up to the governor," the officer said. "It is a long time since we have been visited by traders, and maybe he will grant you permission. You had best go back to the shade of those trees. It will be a good hour before the answer comes."

"I think it likely they will let us in," Dick said, as they moved away towards the trees. "It is but a short time since things were sufficiently settled for traders to venture up here, and as Savandroog lies altogether off the roads between large towns, it is possible that none with such goods as we have have come this way, since the garrison took over Savandroog from the British detachment that occupied it."

In little over an hour there was a shout from the walls, and on approaching the gate again, they were told that the governor had given permission for them to enter.

"You are to be blindfolded," the officer said, as the gate closed behind them. "No one may ascend the rock, unless he consents to this. Your horses will be led, and beware that you do not attempt to remove the bandages, until you have permission to do so."

It took nearly an hour to mount the steep road, and when they came to a standstill, and the sub-officer who had accompanied them told them they could now remove their bandages, they found themselves in front of a small building, close to the commander's quarters. The packs were, by the order of the officer, taken off the horses by the soldiers who had led them up, and carried into the house. The horses were fastened in the shade to rings in the wall, and on Surajah pointing out the packs containing goods he wished to show to the ladies, two of the soldiers carried them across to the governor's house. The old officer himself came to the door.

"Enter, my friends," he said. "You are the first traders who have come up here since we took over the fort, some six months ago, and methinks you will do a brisk business if your wares are, as you sent up to say, good and cheap."

The bales were taken into a room, the soldiers retired, and in a minute the commander's wife, accompanied by three or four other ladies, entered. Dick and Surajah, after salaaming profoundly to the veiled figures, at once began to unpack their bales.

The assortment had been very judiciously made, and to women who had, for more than six months, been deprived of the pleasure of shopping, the display was irresistible. In their desire to examine the goods, the ladies speedily lifted their veils, and, seating themselves on cushions they had brought in with them, chattered unrestrainedly; examining the quality of the silks which Surajah and Dick, squatting behind their wares, handed for their inspection; comparing the colours, asking each other's advice, and endeavouring to beat down the terms Surajah named.

In the first place, he asked the prices marked on small labels attached to each article, but suffered himself, after the proper amount of reluctance, and protests that he should be a ruined man, to abate his terms considerably, although the ladies were evidently well satisfied that the goods were indeed bargains.

It was a long time before the ladies could make up their minds which to choose, among the many silks exhibited for their selections. When this had been settled, the pack containing delicate muslins was opened, and the same scene gone through. It was, altogether, four hours before the purchases were all made, and even then the boxes of trinkets remained unopened, the governor's wife saying:

"No, we will not look at them. We have ruined ourselves already. Tomorrow, when our husbands know how much we have spent, you can show the trinkets to them, and try your best to get them to buy. These things we have been getting are our own affair. It is for them to make us presents of ornaments, if they are disposed to.

"This evening you must come in again. The ladies from the other fort will be here, then."

The purchases made were paid for, the bales again fastened up, and carried across to their room. The governor met them as they went out.

"I suppose you have been ruining us all?" he said good humouredly. "Well, it is a dull life up here, and the ladies have but few chances of spending money."

"We are to see the ladies from the other fort this evening, my lord," Surajah said. "Have we your permission, in the meantime, to go and sell in the soldiers' quarters? We have goods suited to the needs of their wives also, as well as those for the ladies."

"Certainly. You can go about as you please up here. It is only as to the approaches that we have to be careful. But wait in your room for a short time. I will have food sent over to you."

In a few minutes a servant brought across a large dish of pillau, and several cakes of sweetmeats, the latter being, as he informed them, the special gift of the governor's wife. There was no occasion for them to start, as they had intended, after their meal, for the news of their coming had spread, and by the time they had finished, a number of women were waiting outside. Until sunset they were busily engaged in selling their goods -- for the most part bright cotton cloths, red silk handkerchiefs, and cheap silver trinkets. Soldiers sauntered in and out. For these they had provided a store of pipes, tobacco, tobacco boxes, knives, and muslins for turbans; and as the news spread that these were to be obtained, the number of soldiers increased, until the room was quite crowded with them, as well as by many natives engaged in the work of rebuilding the fortifications.

Surajah did the selling, while Dick's part of the work was receiving the money and giving change. As he was stooping over a tray in front of him, piled with copper, picking up the change for silver coin, he heard a man ask Surajah for a pound of his best tobacco and a pipe.

There was something in the accent that caused him to look up sharply. As he did so, he started. The blood rushed to his head so violently that a mist seemed to pass across his eyes, and his hand shook so that he dropped the coins he was counting. Forgetful of the dark stain on his face, he bent forward over the tray again to conceal his emotion, forced himself to pick out the right change, and then, handing it to its owner, again looked up.

The man who was standing before Surajah was broader and taller than those around him. The sun had darkened his face, until its shade approached those of his companions, and yet there was no mistaking the fact that he was a European. A heavy moustache and beard, streaked with grey, concealed the lower part of his face. Dick dared not gaze on the man too earnestly, and could see no likeness to the picture on the wall at Shadwell; but, allowing for the effects of hardship and suffering, he judged him to be about the age of his father.

The man was evidently on good terms with the soldiers, one or two of whom were chaffing him on his purchase.

"Will nothing but the best tobacco satisfy you?" one laughed.

"Nothing; and even that won't really satisfy me. This stuff is good enough, when rolled up, for cigars, and it does well enough in hookahs; but I would give all this pound for a couple of pipes of pigtail, which is the tobacco we smoked at sea."

Again Dick's heart beat rapidly. This man must have been a sailor. He could not restrain himself from speaking.

"Have you been a sailor, then?" he asked.

"Ay, I was a sailor, though it is many years ago, now, since I saw the sea."

"We got some English tobacco at Madras," Dick said, not hesitating for once at telling an untruth. "We sold most of it to the Feringhee soldiers, on our way up, but I think I have got a little of it still left somewhere in the pack. I am too busy to look for it now, and we shall soon be going to show our goods to the officers' wives; but if you can come here at nine o'clock, I may have looked it out for you."

"I can't come at nine," the man said, "for at half-past eight I am shut up for the night."

"Come at eight, then," Dick said. "If I am not back, come the first thing in the morning, before we get busy."

"I will come, sure enough," the man said. "I would walk a hundred miles, if they would let me, for half a pound of pigtail."

"Get rid of them, Surajah," Dick whispered, as the man shouldered his way through the crowd. "Make some excuse to send them off."

"Now, my friends," Surajah said, "you see it is getting dusk. It will soon be too dark to see what you are buying, and we have been selling for eight hours, and need rest. At eight o'clock tomorrow we will open our packs again, and everyone shall be served; but I pray you excuse us going on any longer now. As you see, we are not as young as we once were, and are both sorely weary."

As time was no object, and the work of purchasing would relieve the tedium of the following day, the crowd good humouredly dispersed. Surajah rose and closed the door after the last of them, and then turned to Dick. He had, himself, been too busily engaged in satisfying the demands of the customers to look up, and had not noticed that one of them was a white man.

"What is it?" he asked, as he looked round. "Has the heat upset you?"

Then, as his eye fell on Dick, his voice changed, and he hurried towards him, exclaiming anxiously:

"What is it, Dick? What has happened?"

For Dick was leaning against a bale by the side of him, and had hidden his face in his arms. Surajah saw that his whole frame was shaking with emotion.

"My dear lord," Surajah said, as he knelt beside him and laid his arm across his shoulder, "you frighten me. Has aught gone wrong? Are you ill?"

Dick slightly shook his head, and, lifting one of his hands, made a sign to Surajah that he could not, at present, speak. A minute or two later, he raised his head.

"Did you not see him, Surajah?"

"See who, Dick?"

"The white man you last served."

"I did not notice any white man."

"It was the one you gave a pound of the best tobacco to. Did you not hear me speak to him, afterwards?"

"No. I was so busy, and so fearfully hot with this padded thing, it was as much as I could do to attend to what they said to me. A white man, did you say? Oh, Dick!"

And as the idea struck him, he rose to his feet in his excitement.

"Do you think -- do you really think he can be your father?"

"I do think so, Surajah. Of course, I did not recognise his face. Nine years must have changed him greatly, and he has a long beard. But he is about the right age, and, I should say, about the same figure; and he has certainly been a sailor, for he said, to one of the soldiers, that he would give that pound of tobacco for a couple of pipes of pigtail, which is the tobacco sailors smoke. I told him that, perhaps, I might be able to find him some in my packs, and asked him to come here at eight o'clock this evening. If I was not in, then, he was to come the first thing tomorrow morning; but of course I shall be in at eight. You must make some excuse to the ladies. Say that there are some goods you wish to show them, in one of the other packs, and ask me to go and look for it."

"Oh, Dick, only to think that, after all our searching, we seem to have come on him at last! It is almost too good to be true."

Great as was Surajah's confidence in Dick, he had never quite shared his faith that he would find his father alive, and his non-success while with the army, and since, had completely extinguished any hopes he had entertained. His surprise, therefore, equalled his delight at finding that, after all, it seemed probable that their search was likely to be crowned with success.

"Of course we will manage it," he said. "I will put aside that narrow Benares cloth-of-gold work for trimmings, and you can be as long as you like looking for it. They will be too busy examining the other things to give it a thought, after you have gone out."

"I can be back at half-past eight," Dick said, "for the man told me he was locked up at that hour. If it had not been for that, I should have arranged for him to come a little later. But, of course, I shall have opportunities for talking to him tomorrow.

"There is someone at the door."

Surajah opened it, and a soldier entered with their evening meal, and a request that they would go across to the governor's as soon as they had finished it, as the ladies had already assembled there. They hurried through their food, and then went across. There was quite a large gathering, for not only had the wives of the officers in the other fort come over, but all those who had been there in the morning were again present, several of them prepared to make further purchases. Trade was as actively carried on as it had been before.

When he judged it to be nearly eight o'clock, Dick nudged Surajah, who said, a minute afterwards:

"We have forgotten the Benares cloth-of-gold. I am sure that will please the ladies for waist bands, or for trimmings. It must have got into the other bales, by mistake."

"I will go and fetch it," Dick said, and, rising, left the room.

A figure was standing at the door, when he reached the house.

"I was afraid you had forgotten me," the man said. "It is not quite eight o'clock yet, but as I found that you were both out, I began to be afraid that you might be detained until after I had to go; and you don't know how I long for a pipe of that tobacco. The very thought of it seems to bring old days back again."

By this time they had entered the house, and Dick shut the door behind him. He had left a light burning, when they went out. Dick was so agitated that he felt unable to speak, but gazed earnestly in the man's face.

"What is it, old chap?" the latter said, surprised at the close scrutiny. "Is anything wrong with you?"

Dick took off his spectacles, rather to gain time than to see more clearly, for a plain glass had been substituted for the lenses.

"I want to ask you a question," he said. "Is your name Holland?"

The man started.

"My name is Jack Holland," he said, "sure enough; though how you come to know it beats me altogether, for I am always called Jack, and except the governor, I don't think there is a man here knows my other name."

"You were captain of the Hooghley, wrecked on the Malabar coast, nine years ago," Dick said, this time speaking in English.

After an exclamation of startled surprise, the man stared at him in an astonishment too great for words.

"Are you English?" he said slowly, at last. "Yes, I was in command of the Hooghley. Who, in God's name, are you?"

Dick took his two hands.

"Father," he said, "I am your son, Dick."

The sailor gazed at him with a stupefied air.

"Are you mad, or am I?" he said hoarsely.

"Neither of us, Father. I am disguised as an old man, but really I am little more than eighteen. I have been searching for you for more than two years, and, thank God, I have found you at last;" and, bursting into tears, Dick would have thrown his arms round his father's neck, but the latter pushed him off with one hand, and held him at arm's distance, while his other hand plucked at his own throat, as if to loosen something that was choking him.

"It can't be true," he muttered to himself. "I am dreaming this. I shall wake presently, and you will be gone."

"It is quite true, Father. Mother is down at Tripataly, waiting for me to bring you to her."

With a hoarse cry the sailor reeled, and would have fallen, had not Dick caught him and allowed him to sink gradually to the ground; where he lay, half supported by one of the bales. Dick ran to one of the saddlebags, where he carried a flask of brandy in case of emergencies, poured some into a cup, and held it to his father's lips. The sailor gasped.

"It is brandy," he said suddenly. "I can't have dreamt that."

Then he broke into a violent sobbing. Dick knelt by his side, and took his hand.

"It is assuredly no dream, Father," he said gently. "I am really your son, Dick. I am here with a trusty friend, and now we have found you, you may be sure that we will, in some way, manage your escape. There is no time, now, to tell you all that has happened. That I can do, afterwards. All that is important for you to know, is, that Mother is quite well. She has never given up hope, and has always insisted that you were alive, for she said that she should surely have known, if you had died. So she taught me her language, until I could speak like a native; and two years and a half ago, she came out here with me.

"I accompanied the army, with my uncle's troop, and searched every hill fort they took, for you. Since they went back, I have been up in Mysore with my friend Surajah, and, thank God, at last we have found you!"

"Thank God, indeed, my boy. I do thank Him, not only that you have found me, but that your mother, whom I had never hoped to see again, is alive and well; and also, that He has given me so good a son."

"And now, Father, about your escape. In the first place, have you given your parole not to try to get away?"

Captain Holland was himself now.

"No lad, no. At the fort, where I was for six years, there was no possibility of escape; and as I was a long time, before I began to speak the language, even if I had got away I could never have made my way through the country. Then the governor -- it was the same we have here -- took me with him to Kistnagherry. I was the only white captive who went there with him. At Kistnagherry there were five or six others, but when Tippoo heard that an English army was coming up the ghauts, an order came that they were to be killed. But the governor is a kind-hearted old fellow, and as I had become almost a chum of his, he chose to consider that the order did not apply to me, but only to those he had found at Kistnagherry -- for I fancy my existence had been forgotten altogether.

"I had great hopes that the British would take the place. I think that is the only time I have hoped, since I was made prisoner; but the old man is a good soldier, and beat them off.

"When peace was made, Kistnagherry was, as you know, given up, and the governor was ordered to evacuate the place, and to come here. He brought me with him, making me dye my face before I started, so that in my native dress it would not be noticed, in any town we passed through, that I was a white. For had this been done, the news might have come to Tippoo's ears, and there would have been an end of me.

"Except that I am locked up at night, I am not treated as a prisoner; but the governor, who has a strong sense of duty, has a certain watch kept over me. He has a real friendship for me, and would do all in his power to save my life, short of disobedience to an actual order. But his view is that I have been confided to his care, and that if, at any moment, the Sultan should write to demand me of him, he would be bound to produce me."

"Well, Father, it must be nearly half-past eight. I will go with you, and see where you are confined -- that is the first step. We will both, tonight, think over the best way of attempting your escape; and in the morning, when your guard is removed, if you will come straight here we will talk it over.

"I am afraid you will have to wait for your pigtail till we get to Madras."

Captain Holland laughed.

"I can afford to wait for that, now. God bless you, my boy! I have never looked for such happiness as this again. But, as you say, it is time for me to be off. I have never been late yet, and if it were reported to the governor that I was so tonight, he might think that there was something in the wind."

Dick walked with his father across the fort.

"That is the house, in the corner," the captain said, pointing to one before which a group of soldiers were standing. "Don't come any farther."

Dick stood looking after him, and heard a voice say:

"You are late, Jack. I was beginning to wonder what had become of you."

"I don't think it is past the hour, yet," Captain Holland replied. "I have been with those traders. They told me, this afternoon, they might be able to find me some English tobacco in their pack; but they have been too busy to look for it. I hope they will light on it, tomorrow. If they do, I will give you half a pipeful. I won't give you more, for it is strong enough to blow your head off, after this tasteless stuff you smoke here."

Then Dick hurried off to the house, snatched up the stuff he was supposed to be looking for, and joined Surajah at the governor's.

It was another hour before the ladies had completed their purchases. Dick, on entering, had given a little nod to Surajah, to let him know that it was really his father whom he had discovered, and had then tried to keep his attention upon his work as a salesman; and Surajah, as he handed him the goods, had given a furtive squeeze to his hand in token of his sympathy.

"So it is really your father?" he said, as, carrying their greatly diminished pack, they walked across to their house.

"It is, indeed. You may imagine his surprise and joy, when I told him who I was. Now we have got to talk over the best plan of getting him out."

When the door was shut, and they had seated themselves on two of the bales, Dick first repeated all that his father had told him, and then, for a long time, they discussed the best plan of attempting an escape. Both agreed, at once, that it would be next to impossible to get him down the road and out of the gate. In the first place, they would have to leave by daylight; and even could a disguise be contrived that would deceive the sentries and guard at the gate, all of whom were well acquainted with Captain Holland's figure and appearance, it was certain that, as but two had come up the rock, a third would not be allowed to leave, unless he had a special order from the governor.

They agreed, therefore, that the escape must be made over the precipice. That this was a matter of great difficulty was evident from the fact that the captain had made no attempt to get away in that manner. Still, there was hope that, with the assistance of the silk rope Dick had brought with them, it might be managed.

There was, too, the initial difficulty of getting out from the fort to be faced.

"We can do nothing, till we have had a long talk with my father," Dick said. "I have no doubt that he has thought all these things over, and has, long before this, made up his mind as to the point at which a descent would be easiest. As at present we know little, except by the casual examination we made last time, we can decide on nothing by ourselves."

"I hope it won't be a long way to let oneself down," Surajah said, "for I am quite sure I could not hold on, by that thin rope, for any distance."

"Nor could I, Surajah, if I had to trust only to my hands. My father, as a sailor, will be able to put us up to the best way to do it. But at any rate, he might let you down first; and I think that by twisting the rope two or three times round my body, and then holding it between my knees and feet, I might manage. But I dare say my father will hit on some better plan than that.

"And now we will lie down. I am so stiff that I can hardly stand, from squatting for so many hours behind those things of ours. I thought that I had got pretty well accustomed to it, but I never calculated on having to do it from ten in the morning until ten at night, with only two half-hours off."

Dick, however, had little sleep that night. He was too excited over the glorious success he had obtained to be capable of closing an eye, and it was not until day was breaking that he fell into a doze.

An hour later, he started to his feet at a knock at the door. He was wide awake in a moment, and on running to it, his father entered.

"You look older today than you did yesterday," the latter said, as he held his hand and gazed into Dick's face. "I fancy that neither of us has had any sleep to speak of. As for myself, I have not closed an eye."

"Nor did I, Father, until day began to break. Now please, let us talk over our plan of escape first, for we may be interrupted at any moment."

"Right you are, lad. Does your friend here speak English? For I have never got to be a good hand at their lingo. I want to thank him, too, but as you say, time is precious, and we must postpone that."

"He understands it, Father, and can talk it pretty fairly. We have been constantly together for nearly two years.

"Now, in the first place, is there any place where we can get down from the top here, with the aid of a rope?"

"It would be a pretty tough job, anyhow, but at the farthest end of the rock is a place where it goes sharp down, as if cut with a knife. That would be the best place to try. I take it to be about two hundred feet deep. Beyond, the ground seems to slope regularly away. If I could have got a rope I should have tried it, but they are pretty scarce commodities up here -- in fact, I have never seen a piece twenty feet long since we came. What sort of rope have you got?"

Dick opened the front of his garment, and showed the rope round his body. Captain Holland gave a low whistle of dismay.

"I should not like to trust a child with that thing, Dick, much less a grown man. It is no thicker than a flag halliard."

"It is thin, Father, but there is no fear as to its strength. I tested every yard of it, and found it would bear six hundred weight."

"Well, that is ample; but how is one to hold on to a cord like that?"

"That is just what we want you to tell us, Father. There must be some way of managing it, if one could but hit upon it."

"Yes, that is so, lad," the sailor said thoughtfully. "I will think it over. Anyhow, I think I could lower you both down, and by knotting it I might get hold enough to come down after you; but even the knots would be precious small."

"One might get over that, Father, by fastening a short stick across, every five or six feet; or every two or three feet, if you like."

"Good, Dick. That would prevent one's coming down with a run, certainly, and by keeping it between one's legs, one could always get a rest. Yes, that will do, lad, if I can think of nothing better. There are a lot of spears stowed away, in the room adjoining mine. If we were to cut them up into six-inch lengths, with one of a foot long to each ten, for sitting on, they would be just the thing."

"That is capital, Father. I had a lot of practice in rope climbing, before I came out, and I am sure that I could manage with the help that would give. I don't think Surajah could, but we could let him down first, easily. Now, as to your prison."

"There are bars to the windows," the captain said, "and a sentry is always on duty outside. The only way would be to escape at the rear. I have often thought it over, but it was of no use breaking out there, if I could not get any farther. The wall is built of loose stone, without mortar. You see, it would have been a big job to bring up either mortar or bricks from down below, so most of the buildings are entirely of stone. The wall is two feet thick, but there would be no great difficulty in getting out the stones, and making a hole big enough to crawl through. I could not do it in my room, because they always look round to see that everything is safe before they lock me up; and it would take so long to do it noiselessly that half the night would be wasted, before I could get out. But the magazine, where the spears are kept, communicates with my room, and I could slip in there in the daytime, when no one was looking, get behind the spears, which are piled against the wall, and work hidden by them. No one would be likely to go into my room during the day, and if he did, he would not expect to find me there, as I am generally about the place. In that way, I could get out enough stones to render it an easy job to finish it, after I was locked up. A spear head is as good a thing, to help me prize them out, as one could wish for."

"Very well, Father. Then we had better settle that you shall get out in that way. Now, shall we go round on the outside, and help you?"

"No; I don't say but that your help would make it easier to get the stones out, without making a noise. Still, your going round might be noticed."

"Well then, Father, shall we seize and gag the sentry? We have done such a thing before, successfully."

"No, that wouldn't do, Dick. The guard house is hard by, and the slightest noise would destroy us all. Besides, as they have not many sentries posted up here, they relieve guard every hour, so that the thing would be discovered in no time.

"No; when I get out I will creep along noiselessly by the wall. There are houses in the yard almost all along, and though the sentry would not be likely to see me, in the shade of the wall, I will take care to cross the open spaces when his back is turned. I will then come straight here for you, and we will make for the wall behind the governor's house. There is no sentry on that side, for that steep ravine covers it from attack there. However, there are six or eight feet of level ground between the foot of the wall and the edge of the ravine. The walls are twenty feet in height. With fifty feet of that rope I will make a ladder, and will get hold of a piece of iron to make a grapnel of. How much time can you give me?"

"I should think we could stay here today and tomorrow, without seeming to be dawdling without reason. Do you think you could get ready by tomorrow night, Father?"

"Yes, that will give me plenty of time. Let me see. There is the short ladder to make. That won't take me over an hour. There are a hundred bits to cut for the long ladder, putting them about two feet apart. That will be a longish job, for the spear shafts are of very tough wood. However, I have a saw, and some oil, which will prevent it making a noise, and can make fairly quick work of it. I have several tools, too. I very often do carpentering jobs of all sorts -- that is what first made the governor take to me. I can get all that part of the work done today. Tonight I will do the knotting. Of course, I shall make it a goodish bit over two hundred feet long, for it may turn out that I have not judged the depth right, and that the cliff is higher than I thought it was.

"I don't think sawing up the spear shafts will take more than an hour or two, so I shall be able to show myself about the place as usual. I will go over and take a good look at the rock again, and stick a spear head into the ground, at the point where it seems to me that it goes down straightest, and where there is the least chance of the rope getting rubbed against a sharp edge. I sha'n't begin at the wall until tomorrow, for I don't suppose I shall be able to get out the first few stones without making a bit of a noise, and it would not do to work at night.

"Now, lad, I think we can consider that as all settled, and I won't come near you again, unless there is some change of plan. I shall be here tomorrow evening, I hope it will be by ten o'clock -- that must depend upon how long it takes me to get down the outside layer of stone.

"If you should hear a sudden row, make at once for the wall behind the governor's house, and wait there for me to join you. You see, some of the stones may come down with a run, and if they do I shall give the rest a shove, and be out like a shot. I shall hear which side the sentry is running round the house, and shall belt the other way. Of course, he will see the stones and give the alarm; but in the darkness, I have not much doubt of being able to slip away, and I will then make my way straight to the wall. Of course, I shall have the ladders tied up into bundles, and shall take care not to leave them behind me."

"All right, Father. We will be ready tomorrow evening. We shall wait quietly for you until you come, unless we hear a sudden alarm. If we do, we will go round behind the governor's house, and wait there for your coming."

"That is it, my lad. Now I will be going. I am glad that no one has come in while I have been here."



Chapter 20: The Escape.


Soon after eight o'clock customers began to drop in, and throughout the day a brisk trade was carried on. Surajah was sent for, in the course of the morning, by the governor; who bought several silver bracelets, brooches, and earrings for his wife. Most of the other officers came in during the day, and made similar purchases, and many trinkets were also sold to the soldiers, who considered them a good investment for their money. Indeed, no small portion of the earnings of the natives of India are spent upon silver ornaments for their women, as they can at any time be converted into cash.

The commoner cloths, knives, beads, and trinkets were almost all disposed of, by the end of the day, for as no traders had come up for six months, and as a long time might elapse before others did so, the garrison were glad to lay in a store of useful articles for themselves and families, especially as the prices of all the goods were at least as low as they could have been bought in a town.

"We sha'n't leave much behind us," Dick said, as he looked round after the last customer had left, and they had sat down to their evening meal. "Almost all the silver work and the better class of goods have gone, and I should say three-quarters of the rest. I daresay we shall get rid of the remainder tomorrow. I don't suppose many of the soldiers stationed down by the gate have come up yet; but when they hear that we sell cheaply, some of them will be here tomorrow. We have made no money by the transaction, but at any rate we shall have got back the outlay. Of course, I should not have cared if we had got nothing back. Still, it is satisfactory to have cleared oneself.

"I wonder how Ibrahim is getting on, down in the wood."

"He won't be expecting us today," Surajah replied, "but I have no doubt he will begin to feel anxious by tomorrow night. I wish we could have seen some way of getting the horses down. It will be awkward doing without them."

"Yes. I hope we shall get a good start. Of course, we must put on our peasant's dresses again. I am glad enough to be rid of that rope, though I have had to put on two or three additional things, to fill me out to the same size as before. Still, I don't feel so bound in as I did, though it is horribly hot."

"I am sure I shall be glad to get rid of all this stuffing," Surajah said. "I felt ready to faint today, when the room was full."

"Well, we have only one more day of it," Dick said. "I do hope Father will be able to get out by ten o'clock. Then, before eleven we shall be at the edge of the rock. Say we are two hours in getting down, and walking round to join Ibrahim. That will take us till one, and we shall have a good five hours before Father's escape will be discovered. They will know that he can't have gone down the road, and it will take them fully two hours to search the fort, and all over the rock. It will be eight o'clock before they set out in pursuit, and by that time we ought to be well on the road between Cenopatam and Anicull.

"If we can manage to buy horses at Cenopatam, of course we will do so. We shall be there by five o'clock, and ought to be able to get them in a couple of hours. Once on horseback, we are safe. I don't think they will pursue very far -- perhaps not even so far as Cenopatam; for the governor will see that he had better not make any fuss about a white captive having escaped, when it was not known that he had one there at all. I think it more likely that, when he finds Father has got fairly away, he will take no steps at all. They have no cavalry here, and he will know, well enough, that there will be no chance of our being tracked and overtaken by footmen, if we had but a couple of hours' start."

"I think that is so, Dick. He has done his duty in keeping your father a prisoner, but I don't think he will be, at heart, at all sorry that he has made his escape."

"I think, Surajah, I will write a letter to him, and leave it here, to be found after we have got away, thanking him in Father's name for the kindness that he has always shown him, saying who I am, why I came here, and asking his pardon for the deception that I have been obliged to play upon him. He is a good old fellow, and I should think it would please him."

"I should think it would," Surajah agreed.

"I will do up my brace of pistols in a packet, and put them with the note," Dick went on, "and will say, in it, that I hope he will accept them as a token of our esteem and gratitude. They are well-finished English pistols, and I have no doubt he will prize them. I will mention, too, that we shall have made our escape at eleven o'clock, and therefore, by the time he receives my letter, we shall be far beyond the reach of pursuit. I daresay that will decide him upon letting the matter pass quietly, and he will see himself that, by making no fuss over it, no one outside the fortress will ever know that a prisoner has escaped."

The next day passed comparatively quietly. A good many soldiers and women came up from below, and before sunset their goods were completely cleared out. The governor came over in the afternoon and had a talk with them. They expressed their satisfaction at the result of their trading, and said that they should be off before sunrise.

"I hope you will come again," he said; "but not for another six months, for assuredly you will take away with you pretty nearly every rupee in the fortress. My wife and the other ladies are all well content with their purchases, and agree that they would not have got them cheaper at Seringapatam, or Bangalore."

"We try to buy cheaply and sell cheaply," Surajah said modestly. "In that way we turn over our money quickly. But it is seldom, indeed, that we find so good a market as we have done here. When we left Bangalore, we thought that it might be a month before we should have to go back there to replenish our packs from our magazine; but we shall only have been away five or six days."

"I am glad that you are content, for you are honest traders, and not like some of the rascals that have come up to the forts I have commanded, and fleeced the soldiers right and left."

Although not given to blushing, Dick felt that he coloured under his dye at the praise; for although they had certainly sold cheaply, he doubted whether the term honest could be fairly applied to the whole transaction.

As ten o'clock approached, the two friends sat with open door, listening intently for every sound. Conversation was still going on in the houses, and occasionally they could make out a dark figure crossing the yard.

It was not yet ten when a light footfall was heard, and a moment later Captain Holland appeared at the door.

"It is all right so far," he said, "but wait five minutes, to give me time to get the ladder fixed. You had better come one by one, and stroll quietly across the yard. It is too dark for anyone to recognise you, unless they run right against you; and even if they do so, they will not think it strange you should be out, after having been cooped up all the day."

In another moment he was gone. They had each, during the day, gone out for a time, and had walked round through the narrow lane behind the governor's house, to see that there were no obstructions that they might fall over in the dark. They agreed, on comparing notes, that Captain Holland had chosen the best possible place for scaling the wall, for the lane was evidently quite unused, and the house, which was higher than the wall, would completely screen them from observation.

In five minutes Dick followed his father, leaving Surajah to come on in a minute or two. They had secured about them the gold and silver they had received for their purchases, but they left behind a large heap of copper coins, on the top of which Dick had placed his letter to the governor, and the parcel containing the brace of pistols. He met no one on his way to the rendezvous, but almost ran against his father in the dark.

"Steady, Dick, or you will run me down," Captain Holland said. "I have got the ladder fixed, so you had better go up at once. Take these three spears with you. I will bring the long ladder."

"We sha'n't want the spears, Father. We have a brace of double-barrelled pistols, and two brace of single barrels."

"Never mind that, Dick. You will see that they will come in useful."

Dick took the spears, and mounted the ladder without further question. His father then came up and placed the long rope, which, with the pieces of wood, was a bulky bundle, on the wall and then descended again. It was another five minutes before Surajah came up.

"I was stopped on the way," he said, "and had to talk with one of the officers."

He and the captain were soon by Dick's side. The ladder was then pulled up, and lowered on the other side of the wall. They were soon standing at its foot.

"Shall I jerk the ladder down, Father?"

"I think not, Dick. It would only make a clatter, and it is no matter to us whether they find it in the morning or not. You had better follow me. I know every foot of the ground, and there are some nasty places, I can tell you."

They had to make several detours, to avoid ravines running deep into the plateau, and for a time Captain Holland walked very cautiously. When he had passed these, he stepped out briskly, and in less than an hour from starting they were near the edge of the precipice. Their eyes had, by this time, become accustomed to the darkness.

"We are just there now," Captain Holland said. "But we must go very cautiously, for the rock falls sheer away, without warning. Ah! There is the edge, a few yards ahead of me.

"Now, do you stay where you are, while I feel about for that spear head I put in to mark the place. It had about three feet of the staff on it. If it were not for that, there would be small chance of finding it. I know it is somewhere close here."

In a few minutes he returned to them.

"I have found it," he said. "Keep close behind me."

After walking for fifty yards, he stopped.

"Here it is, lads.

"Now give me those spears, Dick."

He thrust them firmly into the ground, a few inches apart.

"Throw your weight on them, too," he said. "That is right. Now they will stand many times the strain we shall put on them.

"I have chosen this place, Dick, for two reasons. In the first place, because it is the most perpendicular, and in the second, because the soil and grass project slightly over the edge of the rock. There is a cushion in that bundle, and four spear heads. I will peg it down close to the edge, and the rope will run easily over it.

"Now, Surajah, we had better let you down first. You will be tied quite securely, and there will be no risk whatever, as you know, of the rope giving way. I should advise you to keep your eyes shut, till you get to the bottom, for the rope will certainly twist round and round; but keep your arms well in front of you, and whenever you feel the rock, open your eyes, and send yourself off with your arms and legs. I don't think you will touch, for at this point it seemed to me, as I looked down, that the rock projects farther out than anywhere else on the face of the precipice, and that a stone dropped straight down would fall some fourteen or fifteen feet from its foot. Would you like me to bandage your eyes?"

"No, thank you. I will keep my eyes closed."

"That is the best thing you can do," Captain Holland said, "though it is so dark that you would not be able to see, if you did. When you get to the bottom, untie the rope, pull it gently down, and call out to me whether the lowest piece of stick touches the ground. If it does not, I will pull it up again and fasten on some more. I have got a dozen spare ones with me."

Captain Holland then told Surajah and Dick to take off their upper garments. These he wound round and round the lower four feet of the rope, increasing its diameter to over two inches.

"There," he said, as he fastened this round Surajah's body, under the arms. "It won't hurt you, now. That silk rope would have cut in an inch deep before you got to the bottom, if it had not been covered."

Then he took off his own garment, made it up into a roll, lashed one end to the rope in the centre of Surajah's back, passed it between his legs and fastened it to the knot at his chest.

"There," he said; "that will prevent any possibility of the thing slipping up over your shoulders, and will take a lot of the strain off your chest."

Then he lay down and crawled forward to the edge, pegged the cushion down, and then, turning to Surajah, said:

"All is ready now."

Surajah had felt rather ashamed that all these precautions should be taken for him, while the others would have to rely solely upon their hands and feet, and, sternly repressing any sign of nervousness, he stepped forward to the side of Captain Holland.

"That is right," the captain said approvingly. "Now, lie down by my side, and work yourself backwards. Go over on one side of the cushion, for you might otherwise displace it. I will hold your wrists and let you over. Dick will hold the rope. I will put it fairly on the cushion. Then I shall take it and stand close to the edge, and pay it out gradually as you go down. If you should find any projecting piece of rock, call out 'Stop!' I will hold on at once. We can then talk over how we can best avoid the difficulty. When you are down, and I tell you Dick is coming, take hold of one of the steps, and hold the ladder as firmly as you can, so as to prevent it from swaying about.

"Now, are you ready?"

"Quite ready," Surajah said, in a firm voice.

Dick, who was standing five or six yards back, tightened the rope. Gradually he saw Surajah's figure disappear over the edge.

"Slack out a little bit," his father said. "That is right. I have got it over the cushion. Now hold it firmly until I am on my feet. That is right. Now pay it out gradually."

It seemed an endless time, to Dick, before his father exclaimed:

"The strain is off! Thank God, he has got down all right!"

A minute later there was a slight pull on the rope, and the captain paid it out until he heard a call from below.

"Have you got to the lowest stick?" he asked, leaning over.

"Yes; it is just touching the ground."

"Not such a bad guess," the captain said, as he turned to Dick. "There are about twenty feet left."

He now fastened the rope round the spears in the ground.

"I will lower you down, if you like, Dick. You are half as heavy again as that young native, but I have no doubt that I can manage it."

"Not at all, Father. I am not a bit nervous about it. If it was light, I should not feel so sure of myself, for I might turn giddy; but there is no fear of my doing so now."

"Well, lad, it is as well to be on the safe side, and I manufactured this yesterday."

He put a loop, composed of a rope some four feet long, over Dick's shoulders and under his arms. To each end was attached a strong double hook, like two fingers.

"There, lad! Now, if you feel at all tired or shaky, all you have got to do is to hook this on to one of the steps. Do you see? One hook on each side of the cord. That way you can rest as long as you like, and then go on again. You say you can go down a rope with your hands only. I should advise you to do that, if you can, and not to use your legs unless you want to sit down on one of the long steps; for, as you know, if you use your feet the rope will go in till they are almost level with your head; while, if you use your arms only, it will hang straight down."

"I know, Father. And I don't suppose I shall have to rest at all, for these cross sticks make it ten times as easy as having to grip the rope only."

Dick laid himself down as Surajah had done, and crawled backwards until he was lying half over the edge. Then he seized the rope and began to descend, hand over hand. He counted the rungs as he went down, and half way he sat down on one of the long pieces, hitched the hooks on to the one above, and rested his arms. After a short pause, he continued until he reached the bottom.

The captain, who was stooping with his hand on the rope, felt the vibration cease, and as he leaned over he heard Dick call out:

"I am all right, Father. Those bits of wood make easy work of it."

Then the captain at once began to descend, and was soon standing beside his son and Surajah.

"Thank God that job is finished! How do you both feel?"

"My arms feel as if they had done some work, Father. I have been four or five months without practice, or I should hardly have felt it."

"And how are you, Surajah?"

"I feel ashamed at having been let down like a baby, Captain Holland, and at being so nervous."

"There is nothing to be ashamed of," Captain Holland said. "Rope climbing is a thing that only comes with practice; and as to nervousness, most landsmen are afraid to trust themselves to a rope at all. Did you open your eyes?"

"Not once, Sahib. I kept my arms out, as you told me, but I did not touch anything. I could feel that I was spinning round and round, and was horribly frightened just at first. But I went down so smoothly and quietly that the feeling did not last long; for I knew that the rope was very strong, and as I did not touch anything, it seemed to me that there could be no fear of it being cut against the rock."

The clothes were soon unwound from the rope, and put on again. Captain Holland cut off all the slack of the rope, and made it into a coil.

"The slope is all right, as far as I could see from the top," he said; "but we may come across nasty bits again, and this will stand in useful, if we do."

They went down cautiously, but at a fair rate of speed; until, without meeting with any serious difficulty, they arrived on the plain. Four miles' brisk walking brought them to the grove where Ibrahim had been left, and they had scarce entered among the trees when he asked:

"Who is it that is coming?"

"It is us, Ibrahim. We have got my father!"

Ibrahim gave an exclamation of joy, and a minute later they joined him.

"You were not asleep, then, Ibrahim?" Dick said.

"No, my lord. I have slept during the day, and watched at night; but I did not sleep yesterday, for I was growing sorely anxious, and had begun to fear that harm had befallen you."

"Well, let us be off at once. Of course, we have had to leave the horses behind us, and I want to be at Cenopatam by daybreak. We will buy horses there."

They struck across the country to the southwest, until they came on a road between Magree and Cenopatam, and arrived within sight of the latter town just at daybreak. As they walked, Dick and Surajah had, with no small amount of pain, removed their beards and the patches of hair.

"You ought both to have shaved before you put those things on," Captain Holland said, as they muttered exclamations of pain. "You see, cobbler's wax, or whatever it is, sticks to what little down there is on your cheeks and chin, and I don't wonder that it hurts horribly, pulling it off. If you had shaved first, you would not have felt any of that."

"I will remember that, Father, if I ever have to disguise myself again," Dick said. "I feel as if I were pulling the whole skin off my face."

The painful task was at last finished.

"I shall be glad to have a look at you in the morning, Dick," his father said, "so as to see what you are really like; of which I have not the least idea, at present. You must feel a deal more comfortable, now that you have got rid of the rope."

"I am, indeed. I am sure Surajah must be quite as much pleased at leaving his padding behind."

They stopped half a mile from the town, which was a place of considerable size. Dick took, from the saddlebag of the horse Ibrahim was leading, the bottle of liquid with which he was in the habit of renewing his staining every few days, and darkened his father's face and hands. Then they took off their costumes as merchants, and put on their peasants' attire. Dick directed Ibrahim to make a detour, so as to avoid the town and come down on the road half a mile beyond it, and there wait until they rejoined them -- for his father was to accompany Ibrahim.

It was growing light as Dick and Surajah entered the town, and in half an hour the streets became alive with people. After some search, they found a man who had several horses to sell, and, after the proper amount of bargaining, they purchased three fairly good animals. Another half hour was occupied in procuring saddles and bridles, and, after riding through quiet streets to avoid questioning, they left the town, and soon rejoined their companions.

"Now, Surajah," Dick said, "we will be colonels again for a bit."

The saddlebags were again opened, and in a few minutes they were transformed.

"Why, where on earth did you get those uniforms?" Captain Holland asked, in surprise. "Those sashes are the signs that their wearers are officers of the Palace, for I have seen them more than once at Kistnagherry; and the badges are those of colonels. There is nothing like impudence, Dick, but it seems to me it would have been safer if you had been contented with sub-officers' uniforms."

Dick laughed.

"We are wearing them because we have a right to them," Dick laughed. "We are both colonels in Tippoo's army, and officers of the Palace -- that is, we were so until a month ago, though I expect since then our names have been struck off their army list. I will tell you about it, as we ride."

"You had better tell me afterwards, Dick. I have never ridden a horse in my life, except when they were taking me from the coast to Mysore, and I shall have enough to do to keep my seat and attend to my steering, without trying to listen to you."

They rode all day, passed through Anicull and Oussoor, and halted for the night in a grove two or three miles farther on. They had not been questioned as, at a walk, they went through the town. Captain Holland had ridden behind with Ibrahim, and the latter had stopped and laid in a stock of provisions at Anicull.

"Thank goodness that is over!" Captain Holland said, as they dismounted. "I feel as if I had been beaten all over with sticks, and am as hungry as a hunter."

"Ibrahim will have some food ready in half an hour, Father, and I shall be glad of some myself. Though, you know, we all had some chupatties he bought."

"They were better than nothing, Dick, but a pancake or two does not go very far, with men who have been travelling since ten o'clock last night. Well, lad, I am glad that you have got rid of your beard, and that, except for that brown skin, I am able to have a look at you as you are. You will be bigger than I am, Dick -- bigger by a good bit, I should say, and any father might be proud of you, much more so one who has been fetched out from a captivity from which he had given up all hope of escaping. As it is, lad, words can't tell how grateful I feel, to God, for giving me such a son."

"My dear Father, it is Mother's doing. It has been her plan, ever since she heard that you were wrecked, that we should come out here to find you, and she has had me regularly trained for it. I had masters for fencing and gymnastics, we always talked Hindustani when we were together, and she has encouraged me to fight with other boys, so that I should get strong and quick."

That evening by the fire, Dick told his father the whole story of his life since he had been in India.

"Well, my lad, you have done wonders," his father said, when he had finished; "and if I had as much enterprise and go as you have, I should have been out of this place years ago. But in the first place, I was very slow in picking up their lingo. You see, until within the last three or four years, there have always been other Englishmen with me. Of course we talked together, and as most of them were able to speak a little of the lingo, there was no occasion for me to learn it. Then I was always, from the first, when they saw that I was handy at all sorts of things, kept at odd jobs, and so got less chance of picking up the language than those who were employed in drilling, or who had nothing to do but talk to their guards. But most of all, I did not try to escape because I found that, if I did so, it would certainly cost my companions their lives. That was the way that scoundrel Tippoo kept us from making attempts to get off.

"Well, soon after the last of the other captives was murdered, we moved away to Kistnagherry, which was a very difficult place to escape from; and besides, very soon after we got there, I heard of the war with our people, and hoped that they would take the place. It was, as you may suppose, a terrible disappointment to me when they failed in their attack on it. Still, I hoped that they would finally thrash Tippoo, and that, somehow, I might get handed over to them. However, as you know, when peace was made, and Kistnagherry had to be given over, the governor got orders to evacuate it, without waiting for the English to come up to take possession.

"Well, since I have been at Savandroog, I have thought often of trying to get away. By the time I got there, I had learned to speak the language fairly enough to make my way across the country, and I have been living in hopes that, somehow or other, I might get possession of a rope long enough to let myself down the rocks. But, as I told you, I have never so much as seen one up there twenty feet long.

"I did think of gradually buying enough cotton cloth to twist up and make a rope of; but you see, when one has been years in captivity, one loses a lot of one's energy. If I had been worse off, I should have set about the thing in earnest; but you see, I was not badly treated at all. I was always doing odd carpentering jobs for the colonel and officers, and armourer's work at the guns. Any odd time I had over, I did jobs for the soldiers and their wives. I got a good many little presents, enough to keep me in decent clothes and decent food -- if you can call the food you have up there decent -- and to provide me with tobacco; so that, except that I was a prisoner, and for the thought of my wife and you, I had really nothing to grumble about, and was indeed better off than anyone in the fortress, except the officers. So you see, I just existed, always making up my mind that some day I should see a good chance of making my escape, but not really making any preparations towards casting off my moorings.

"Now, Dick, it must be past twelve o'clock, and I am dog tired. How far have we to ride tomorrow?"

"It is thirty-five miles from Oussoor to Kistnagherry, which will be far enough for us to go tomorrow, and then another five-and-twenty will take us down to Tripataly. As the horses have gone about forty miles, it would be a long journey for them to go right through tomorrow."

"I don't think I could do it, Dick, if they could. I expect I shall be stiffer tomorrow than I am now. Eager as I am to see your dear mother, I don't want to have to be lifted off my horse when I arrive there, almost speechless with fatigue."

The next day they rode on to Kistnagherry, passing a small frontier fort without question. They slept at the post house there, Dick and Surajah having removed their scarves and emblems of rank, as soon as they passed the frontier, in order to escape all inquiries. They started next morning at daybreak, and arrived within sight of Tripataly at ten o'clock.

"Now, Father, I will gallop on," Dick said. "I must break the news to Mother, before you arrive."

"Certainly, Dick," his father, who had scarcely spoken since they started, replied. "I have been feeling very anxious about it, all the morning; for though, as you tell me, she has never lost faith in my being alive, my return cannot but be a great shock to her."

Dick rode on, and on arriving at the palace was met in the courtyard by the Rajah, who was on the point of going out on horseback. He dismounted at once.

"I am truly glad to see you back, Dick, for your mother has been in a sad state of anxiety about you. Eight days ago, she started up from a nap she was taking, in the middle of the day, and burst out crying, saying that she was certain you were in some terrible danger, though whether you were killed or not she could not say. Since then she has been in a bad state. She has scarcely closed an eye, and has spent her whole time in walking restlessly up and down."

"It is quite true that I was in great danger, Uncle, and I am sorry indeed that she is in this state, for my coming home will be a shock to her; and she has an even greater one to bear. Surajah and I have rescued my father, and he will be here in a few minutes."

"I congratulate you," the Rajah said warmly. "That is news, indeed -- news that I, for one, never expected to hear. It is simply marvellous, Dick. However, I am sure that your mother is not fit to bear it, at present. I will go up now, and tell Gholla to break your return gradually to her. I will say nothing about your father to your aunt. As soon as the news that you are here is broken, you must go to your mother. Tell her as little as possible. Pretend that you are hungry, and have a meal sent up, and persuade her to take some nourishment; then declare, positively, that you won't tell her anything about your adventures, until she has had a long sleep. Gholla will prepare a sleeping draught for her.

"In the meantime, I will ride off, directly I have seen my wife, to meet Surajah and your father, and bring him on here. I sha'n't tell anyone who he is, in case a chance word should come to your mother's ears. If she wakes up again this evening, and asks for you, you must judge for yourself whether to tell her anything, or to wait until morning. You might, perhaps, if she seems calm, gladden her with the news that, from what you have heard, you have very strong hopes that a prisoner in keeping at one of the hill forts is your father. Then, tomorrow morning, you can tell her the whole truth. Now I will run up to Gholla. There is no time to be lost."

"I shall be in the dining room, Uncle, when I am wanted."

A few minutes later, Gholla came in hastily.

"Your mother has fainted, Dick. I broke the news to her very gently, but it was too much for her, in her weak state. When she comes round again, and is able to talk, I will fetch you. In the meantime, I will send Annie in to you."

Two minutes later the girl ran in with a flushed face, threw herself into Dick's arms, and kissed him.

"I can't help it, Dick," she said, "so it is of no use your scolding me. This is a surprise. Who would have thought of your coming back so soon? But it is lucky you did. Your mother has been in a sad way, and she was so sure that you had been in some terrible danger, that I have been almost as anxious as she has. And now, it seems that I need not have frightened myself at all."

"I was in great danger, Annie. Just at the time my mother dreamt about me, Surajah, Ibrahim, and I were attacked by a party of Stranglers, disguised as merchants; and if it had not been that I had some strange suspicion of them, we should all have been murdered. As it was, we shot the whole gang, who, fortunately for us, had no firearms."

"It must have been your mother who warned you," Annie said gravely. "She told us that she dreamt you were in some terrible danger, though she could not remember what it was, and she tried with all her might to warn you."

"Perhaps it was that, Annie. I don't know why I suspected them so strongly -- Surajah quite laughed at the idea. Anyhow, it saved our lives.

"And how are you getting on, Annie? Are you happy?"

"Oh, so happy!" she exclaimed. "At least, I was until your mother got ill, and I was working very hard at my lessons; but of course that has all been stopped, as far as taking them from her is concerned. But I have gone on working, and the Rajah's sons have been very good, and helped me sometimes, and I begin to read words of two letters. And what has brought you back so soon?"

"That I can't tell you yet, Annie. I will only tell you that it is not bad news; and no one but my uncle will know more than that, till I have told my mother -- even my aunt won't hear it."

"Has Surajah come back too, Dick?"

"Yes; I heard horses in the courtyard just now, and I have no doubt it was him. I rode on first, being anxious to see my mother."

They chatted for a few minutes. Then the Rajah came to the door, and called Dick into the next room.

"I have settled your father in the room at the other end of the gallery, Dick. He agreed with me that it was better for him to keep there, by himself, until you have told your mother that he is here. I have just ordered a meal to be sent, and after that will send my barber in to shave him. He says your mother will never recognise him, with all that hair on his face. I am going to see if something cannot be done to take the stain off his face, and shall then set half a dozen tailors to work on some dark blue cloth, to turn him out a suit before tomorrow morning, in what he calls sailor fashion, so that he may appear before your mother in something like the style in which she remembers him."

A few minutes later Gholla came in, and said that Mrs. Holland was ready for Dick to go in to her. Dick found his mother looking pale and weak; but the joy of his coming had already brightened her eyes, and given a faint flush to her cheeks.

"I have been so dreadfully anxious, Dick," she said, after the first embrace. "I was certain you had been in some terrible danger."

"I have been, but thank God I escaped; owing, I think, to the warning Annie says you tried to give me. But we must not talk about that now. I will tell you all the story tomorrow. You are not fit to talk. You must take some broth, and some wine, and a sleeping draught; and I hope you will go off, and not wake up till tomorrow morning.

"Now, you do as I tell you. While you are drinking your broth, I will go in and take something to eat, for I have had nothing today, and am as hungry as a hunter. Then I will come back, and sit by you till you go off to sleep."

He was not long away, but he was met at the door by his aunt, who said:

"She has gone off already, Dick. I have no doubt that she will sleep many hours, but if she wakes, I will let you know at once."

"If that is the case, Gholla," the Rajah, who had come in at the same moment, said, "I can let you into a secret, which no one but myself knows yet, but which, now that Margaret is asleep, can be told."

Gholla was very pleased when she heard the news, and Dick went off at once to his father. It was a great relief, to the latter, to know that his wife had gone off to sleep, and would probably be well enough to have the news broken to her in the morning.

"I hear that you are preparing for the meeting, Father, by getting yourself shaved, and having a blue cloth suit made?"

"Yes, Dick. I should like to be as much like my old self as possible."

"I don't think Mother will care much what you look like, Father. Still, it is very natural that you should want to get rid of all that hair."

"What bothers me, lad," Captain Holland went on, putting his hand to the back of his neck, "is this shaved spot here. Of course, with the turban on and the native rig, it was all right, but it will look a rum affair in English clothes."

Dick could not help laughing at his father's look of perplexity.

"Well, Father, it is just the same with myself. I have not changed yet, but when I do, the hair above, which is now tucked up under the turban, will be quite long enough to come down to the nape of the neck, and hide that bare place till the hair grows again."

"Yes; I did not think of that. My hair is long enough to come down over my shoulders. I was going to tell the barber to cut it short all over, but I will see now that he allows for that."

"Now, Father, do you mind my bringing in Annie Mansfield? I know she will be wanting to keep close to me all day, and I should never be able to get rid of her, without telling her about you."

"Bring her in by all means, Dick. She must be a plucky young girl, by what you said about her."

"Where have you been, Dick?" Annie inquired, when Dick went out a few minutes later. "I have been looking for you everywhere. Nobody had seen you, unless it was the Rajah. I asked him, and he said that little girls must not ask questions, and then laughed.

"You have not brought home another white girl?" she exclaimed suddenly.

"Would it not be very nice for you to have a companion, Annie?"

"No," she said sharply; "I should not like it at all."

"Well, I will take you in to see her, and I think you will like her.

"No; I am only joking," he broke off, as he saw tears start into her eyes. "It is not another girl. But you shall see for yourself."

He took her hand, and led her to his father's room.

"There, Annie, this is the gentleman who has come back with me this time."

Annie looked at Captain Holland in surprise, and then turned her eyes to Dick for an explanation.

"He is a respectable-looking old native, isn't he, Annie?"

"Yes, he looks respectable," Annie said gravely; "but he doesn't look very old. Why has he come down with you, Dick? He can't have been a slave."

"But I have, lass," the captain said, in English, to Annie's intense astonishment. "I have been in their hands a year or so longer than you were."

Annie turned impulsively to Dick, and grasped his arm.

"Oh, Dick," she said, in an excited whisper. "Is it -- is it your father, after all?"

"Ay, lass," the captain answered for him. "I am the boy's father, and a happy father, too, as you may guess, at finding I have such a son. And I hear he has been a good friend to you, too."

"Oh, he has, he has indeed!" Annie cried, running forward and seizing his hands in both of hers. "I don't think there ever was anyone so kind and good."

"What bosh, Annie!" Dick exclaimed, almost crossly.

"Never mind what he says, my dear. You and I know all about it. Now we can do very well without him, for a time. He can go and tell his uncle and cousins all about his adventures, which, I have no doubt, they are dying to hear; and you and I can sit here, and exchange confidences until my barber comes. I don't look much like an Englishman now, but I hope that they will be able to get me something that will take this stain off my face."

Mrs. Holland did not wake till evening. She seemed very much better, and had a short chat with Dick. She would have got up, had he not told her that he should be going to bed himself, in a short time, and that all his story would keep very well until the morning, when he hoped to find her quite herself again.

By dint of the application of various unguents, and a vast amount of hard scrubbing, Captain Holland restored his face to its original hue.

"I look a bit sunburnt," he said, "but I have often come back, browner than this, from some of my voyages."

"You look quite like yourself, in your portrait at home, Father," Dick said. "It is the shaving and cutting your hair, even more than getting off the dye, that has made the difference. I don't think you look much older than you did then, except that there are a few grey hairs."

"I shall look better tomorrow, Dick, when I get these outlandish things off. I have been trying on my new suit, and I think it will do, first rate. Those clothes that you wore on board ship, and handed to them as a model, gave them the idea of what I wanted."

And indeed, the next morning, when Captain Holland appeared in his new suit, Dick declared that he looked just as if he had walked down from his picture. The ranee had agreed to break the news to Mrs. Holland, as soon as she was dressed. She came into the room where the others were waiting for breakfast, and said to Captain Holland:

"Come. She knows all, and has borne it well."

She led him to the door of Mrs. Holland's room, and opened it. As he entered there was a cry of:

"Oh Jack! My Jack!"

Then she closed it behind him, and left husband and wife together.

A few days afterwards, there was a family consultation.

"Now, Dick," his father said, "we must settle about your plans. You know we have decided upon going home, by the next ship, and taking Annie with us, without waiting for her father's letter. Of course I shall have no difficulty in finding out, when I get there, what his address is. I have promised your mother to give up the sea, and settle down again at Shadwell, where I can meet old friends and shall feel at home. We have had a long talk over what you said the other night, about your insisting that we should take the money those jewels of yours fetch. Well, we won't do that."

"Then I will sell them, Father," Dick said positively, "and give the money to a hospital!"

"I have not finished yet, Dick. We won't take all the money, but we have agreed that we will take a quarter of it. Of course, we could manage on my savings, as your mother did when I was away. We shall lose the little allowance the Company made her, but I shall buy a share in a ship with my money, which will bring in a good deal better rate of interest than she got for it in the funds, so we could still manage very well. Still, as we feel that it would please you, we agree to take a quarter of the money the jewels fetch; and that, with what I have, will give us an income well beyond our wants. So that is settled.

"Now, about yourself. I really don't think that you can do better than what you proposed, when we were talking of it yesterday. You would be like a fish out of water, in England, if you had nothing to occupy your time; and therefore can't do better than enter the Service here, and remain, at any rate, for a few years.

"As your commission was dated from the time you joined Lord Cornwallis, two and a half years ago, you won't be at the bottom of the tree, and while you are serving you will want no money here, and the interest of your capital will be accumulating. If I invest it in shipping for you, you will get eight or ten percent for it; and as I shall pick good ships, commanded by men I know, and will divide the money up in small shares, among half a dozen of them, there will be practically no risk -- and of course the vessels will be insured. So that, at the end of ten years, by reinvesting the profits, your money will be more than doubled, and you will have a nice fortune when you choose to come home, even if the jewels do not fetch anything like what you expect."

A week later the party journeyed down to Madras, where they stayed for a fortnight. Dick, on his arrival, called upon the governor, who congratulated him most heartily when he heard that he had succeeded in finding and releasing his father, and at once appointed him to one of the native cavalry regiments; and his parents had the satisfaction of seeing him in uniform before they started. Annie showed but little interest in the thought of going to England, and being restored to her parents, being at the time too much distressed at parting from Dick to give any thought to other matters. But at last the goodbyes were all said, and, as the anchor was weighed, Dick returned on shore in a surf boat, and next day joined his regiment.

Surajah had wanted to accompany him to Madras, and to enlist in any regiment to which he might be appointed; and the assurance that it might be a long time before he became a native officer, as these were always chosen from the ranks, except in the case of raising new regiments, had little influence with him. The Rajah, however, had finally persuaded him to stay, by the argument that his father, who was now getting on in years, would sorely miss him; that the captain of the troop would also be retiring shortly; and that he should, as a reward for his faithful services to his nephew, appoint him to the command as soon as it was vacant. Ibrahim entered the Rajah's service, preferring that to soldiering.



Chapter 21: Home.


It was early in December, 1792, that Dick Holland joined his regiment, which was stationed at Madras. There were but five other officers, and Dick found, to his satisfaction, that the junior of them had had four years' service. Consequently, he did not step over any one's head, owing to his commission being dated nearly three years previously. As there were, in the garrison, many officers who had served on the general staff in the last war, Dick soon found some of his former acquaintances, and the story of his long search for his father, and its successful termination, soon spread, and gained for him a place in civil as well as military society.

The next year passed peacefully, and was an unusually quiet time in India. That Tippoo intended to renew the war, as soon as he was able, was well known to the government, and one of its chief objects of solicitude was the endeavour to counteract the secret negotiations that were constantly going on between him, the Nizam, and the Mahrattis.

Tippoo was known to have sent confidential messengers to all the great princes of India -- even to the ruler of Afghanistan -- inviting them to join the confederacy of the Mahrattis, the Nizam, and himself, to drive the English out of India altogether. Still greater cause for uneasiness was the alliance that Tippoo had endeavoured to make with the French, who, as he had learned, had gained great successes in Europe; and, believing from their account that their country was much stronger than England, he had sent envoys to the Mauritius, to propose an offensive and defensive alliance against England. The envoys had been politely received, and some of them had proceeded to France, where Tippoo's proposal had been accepted. They committed France, indeed, to nothing, as she was already at war with England; but the French were extremely glad to embrace the proposal of Tippoo, as they overrated his power, and believed that he would prove a formidable opponent to the English, and would necessitate the employment of additional troops and ships there, and so weaken England's power at home. To confirm the alliance, some sixty or seventy Frenchmen, mostly adventurers, were sent from the Mauritius as civil and military officers.

Tippoo's council had been strongly opposed to this step on his part. They had pointed out to him that their alliance, with a power at war with the English, would render war between the English and him inevitable; and that France was not in a position to aid them in any way. The only benefit, indeed, that he could gain, was the possibility that the fourteen thousand French troops, in the service of the Nizam, might revolt and come over to him; but even this was doubtful, as these were not troops belonging to the French government, but an independent body, raised and officered by adventurers, who might not be willing to imperil their own position, and interests, by embarking on a hazardous war at the orders of a far-distant government.

These events happened soon after Dick's return, but nothing was generally known of what was passing, although reports of Tippoo's proceedings had reached the government of India. The party of Frenchmen arrived at Seringapatam and were, at first, well received by Tippoo. But they had soon disgusted him by their assumption of dictatorial powers; while they, on their part, were disappointed at not receiving the emoluments and salaries they had expected. Most of them very speedily left his service. Some of the military men were employed at Bangalore, and other towns, in drilling the troops, and a few remained at Seringapatam, neglected by Tippoo, whose eyes were now open to the character of these adventurers. But this in no way shook his belief that he would obtain great aid from France, as he had received letters from official personages there, encouraging him to combine with other native powers, to drive the English out of India, and promising large aid in troops and ships.

When the Earl of Mornington -- afterwards the Marquis of Wellesley -- arrived at Calcutta as Governor General of India, in May 1798, the situation had become so critical that, although war had not been absolutely declared on either side, Tippoo's open alliance with the French rendered it certain that hostilities must commence ere long; and Lord Mornington lost no time in proceeding to make preparations for war. As Lord Cornwallis had done, he found the greatest difficulty in inducing the supine government of Madras to take any steps. They protested that, were they to make any show of activity, Tippoo would descend the ghauts, and at once ravage the whole country; and they declared that they had no force whatever that could withstand him. They continued in their cowardly inactivity until the governor general was forced to override their authority altogether, and take the matter into his own hands.

The first step was to curb the Nizam's power, for everything pointed to the probability that he intended to join Mysore, being inclined so to do by Tippoo's promises, and by the influence of the officers of the strong body of French troops in his service. Negotiations were therefore opened by Lord Mornington, who offered to guarantee the Nizam's dominions if he would join the English against Tippoo, and promised that after the war he should obtain a large share of the territory taken from Mysore.

The Nizam's position was a difficult one. On one side of him lay the dominions of his warlike and powerful neighbour, Tippoo. On the other he was exposed to the incursions of the Mahrattis, whose rising power was a constant threat to his safety. He had, moreover, to cope with a serious rebellion by his son, Ali Jah.

He was willing enough to obtain the guarantee of the English against aggressions by the Mahrattis, but he hesitated in complying with the preliminary demand that he should dispense with the French. The fighting powers of this body rendered them valuable auxiliaries, but he secretly feared them, and resented their pretensions; which pointed to the fact that, ere long, instead of being his servants, they might become his masters. When, therefore, the British government offered him a subsidiary force of six battalions, and to guarantee him against any further aggression by the Mahrattis, he accepted the proposal; but in a half-hearted way, that showed he could not be relied upon for any efficient assistance in disarming his French auxiliaries.

No time was lost, by the government, in marching the promised force to Hyderabad. The French, 14,000 strong, refused to disband, and were joined by the Nizam's household force, which was in the French interest. The Nizam, terrified at the prospect of a contest, the success of which was doubtful, abandoned the capital and took refuge in a fortress, there to await the issue of events; but positively refused to issue orders to the French to disband. Two of the English battalions, which were on the other side of the river to that on which the French were encamped, opened a destructive fire upon them, and with red-hot shot set fire to their magazines and storehouses, while the other four battalions moved into position to make a direct attack.

The Nizam now saw that he had no alternative but to declare openly for the French, or to dismiss them. He preferred the latter alternative. Peron, who commanded the French, saw that unless he surrendered, the position of his force was desperate. Accordingly, on receipt of the order, he and his officers expressed their readiness to accept their dismissal. Their men were, however, in a state of mutiny, and the officers were compelled to make their escape from the camp under cover of night. The next morning the camp was surrounded by the English and the troops of the Nizam, and the French then surrendered without a shot being fired.

While the Nizam was thus rendered powerless, negotiations had been going on with the Mahrattis; but owing to the quarrels and jealousies of their chiefs, nothing could be done with them. It was, however, apparent that, for the same reason, Tippoo would equally fail in his attempt to obtain their alliance against us, and that therefore it was with Mysore alone that we should have to deal.

In the meantime, though preparing for war, Lord Mornington was most anxious to avoid it. When Tippoo wrote to complain that some villages of his had been occupied by people from Coorg, the governor general ordered their immediate restoration to him. In November he sent the Sultan a friendly letter, pointing out that he could look for no efficient aid from France, and that any auxiliaries who might possibly join him would only introduce the principles of anarchy, and the hatred of all religion, that animated the whole French nation; that his alliance with them was really equivalent to a declaration of war against England; and, as he was unwilling to believe that Tippoo was actuated by unfriendly feelings, or desired to break the engagements of the treaty entered into with him, he offered to send an officer to Mysore to discuss any points upon which variance might have arisen, and to arrange a scheme that would be satisfactory to them both.

To this letter no answer was received for five weeks, by which time Lord Mornington had arrived at Madras. He then received a letter containing a tissue of the most palpable lies concerning Tippoo's dealings with the French. Two or three more letters passed, but as Tippoo's answers were all vague and evasive, the governor general issued a manifesto, on the 22nd of February, 1799, recapitulating all the grievances against Mysore, and declaring that, though the allies were prepared to repel any attack, they were equally anxious to effect an arrangement with him.

But Tippoo still believed that a large French army would speedily arrive. He had received letters from Buonaparte in person, written from Egypt, and saying that he had arrived on the borders of the Red Sea, "with an innumerable and invincible army, full of the desire to deliver you from the iron yoke of England." Tippoo well knew, also, that although the governor general spoke for himself and his allies, the Nizam was powerless to render any assistance to the English, and that the Mahrattis were far more likely to join him than they were to assist his foes.

The manifesto of Lord Mornington was speedily followed by action, for at the end of January an army of nearly 37,000 men had been assembled at Vellore. Of these some 20,000 were the Madras force. With them were the Nizam's army, nominally commanded by Meer Alum, but really by Colonel Wellesley -- afterwards Duke of Wellington -- who had with him his own regiment, the 33rd; 6,500 men under Colonel Dalrymple; 3,621 infantry, for the most part French troops who had re-enlisted under us; and 6000 regular and irregular horse.

Dick, who had now attained the rank of captain, had been introduced by one of Lord Cornwallis's old staff officers to General Harris, who, as general of the Madras army, was in command of the whole. On hearing of the services Dick had rendered in the last war, and that his perfect acquaintance with the language, and with the ground over which the army would pass, would enable him to be equally efficient on the present occasion, General Harris at once detached him from service with the regiment, and appointed him to a post on his own staff.

Had it not been that Dick had seen, for the last two years, that hostilities must ere long be commenced with Tippoo; he would, before this, have left the army and returned home. He was heartily tired of the long inaction. When the regiment was stationed at Madras, life was very pleasant; but a considerable portion of his time was spent at out stations, where the duties were very light, and there was nothing to break the monotony of camp life. He received letters regularly from his mother, who gave him full details of their home life.

The first that he received merely announced their safe arrival in England. The second was longer and more interesting. They had had no difficulty in discovering the address of Annie's father, and on writing to him, he had immediately come up to town. He had lost his wife, on his voyage home from India, and was overjoyed at the discovery of his daughter, and at her return to England.

"He is," Dick's mother wrote, "very much broken in health. Annie behaved very nicely. Poor child, it was only natural that, after what you did for her, and our being all that time with her, the thought of leaving us for her parent, of whom she had no recollection, was a great grief. However, I talked it over with her, many times, and pointed out to her that her first duty was to the father who had been so many years deprived of her, and that, although there was no reason why she should not manifest affection for us, she must not allow him to think, for a moment, that she was not as pleased to see him as he was to welcome her. She behaved beautifully when her father arrived, and when he had been in the house five minutes, and spoke of the death of his wife, his bitter regret that she had not lived to see Annie restored to them, the loneliness of his life and how it would be brightened now that she was again with him, his words so touched her that she threw herself into his arms, and sobbed out that she would do all she could to make his life happy. He had, of course, received the letter we had written to him from Tripataly, and quite pained me by the gratitude he showed for what he called my kindness to his daughter.

"He said that, by this post, he should write to endeavour to express some of his feelings to you. Annie went away with him the next day, to a place he has bought near Plymouth. He has promised to let us have her for a month, every year, and we have promised to go down for the same time, every summer, to stay with her. He asks numberless questions about you, which neither I nor Annie are ever tired of answering. Even with a mother's natural partiality, I must own that her descriptions are almost too flattering, and he must think that you are one of the most admirable of men.

"Next as to the jewels. Your father took them to be valued by several diamond merchants, and accepted the highest offer, which was 16,000 pounds, of which he has already invested twelve, in your name, in shares in six ships. Four of these are Indiamen. The other two are privateers. He said that he did not think you would object to a quarter of the money being put into a speculative venture, and that they were both good craft, well armed and well commanded, with strong crews; and would, if successful, earn as much in a year as a merchantman would in ten."

Since then the letters had been of a uniform character. The shares in the Indiamen were giving a good and steady return. The privateers had been very fortunate, and had captured some rich prizes. Annie had been up, or they had been down at Plymouth. The letters during the last three years had reported her as having grown into a young woman, and, as his mother declared, a very pretty one. After that the allusions to her were less frequent, but it was mentioned that she was as fond of them as ever, and that she was still unmarried.

"She always asks when you are coming home, Dick," Mrs. Holland said, in the last letter he had received before accompanying General Harris to Vellore. "I told her, of course, that your last letter said that war was certain with Tippoo; that you hoped, this time, to see Seringapatam taken and the tyrant's power broken; and that after it was over you would come home on leave and, perhaps, would not go out again."

During the six years that he had been in the army, Dick had very frequently been at Tripataly, as there was little difficulty in getting leave for a fortnight. His cousins had now grown up into young men, Surajah commanded the troop, and his stays there were always extremely pleasant. The troop now numbered two hundred, for with quiet times the population of the territory had largely increased, and the Rajah's income grown in proportion. The troop was now dressed in uniform, and in arms and discipline resembled the irregular cavalry in the Company's service, and when Dick arrived at Vellore he found his uncle and cousins there with their cavalry.

"I thought, Dick, of only sending the boys," the Rajah said, "but when the time came for them to start, I felt that I must go myself. We have suffered enough at the hands of Mysore, and I do hope to see Tippoo's capital taken, and his power of mischief put an end to, for good and all."

"I am glad, indeed, that you are coming, Uncle. You may be sure that, whenever I can get away from my duties with the general, I shall spend most of my time in your camp, though I must occasionally drop in on my own regiment."

The Rajah had already been down to Madras a month before, and with his sons had been introduced to General Harris, by the latter's chief of the staff, as having been always, like his father before him, a faithful ally of the English, and as having accompanied Lord Cornwallis on the occasion of the last campaign in Mysore. The general had thanked him, heartily, for his offer to place his two hundred cavalry at the disposal of the government, and had expressed a hope that he, as well as his sons, would accompany it in the field.

On the 11th of February, 1799, the army moved from Vellore, but instead of ascending by the pass of Amboor, as had been expected, it moved southwest, ascended the pass of Paliode, and on the 9th of March was established, without opposition, in Tippoo's territory, at a distance of eighty miles east of his capital. They then marched north, until they reached a village ten miles south of Bangalore. This route, although circuitous, was chosen, as the roads were better, the country more level, and cultivation much more general, affording far greater facilities for the collection of forage for the baggage animals.

Hitherto, nothing had been seen of the Mysorean army. It had been confidently expected that Tippoo would fight at least one great battle, to oppose their advance against his capital, but so far no signs had been seen of an enemy, and even the Mysore horse, which had played so conspicuous a part in the last campaign, in no way interfered with the advance of the army, or even with the foraging parties.

A despatch that reached them, by a circuitous route, explained why Tippoo had suffered them to advance so far unmolested. While the Madras army had advanced from the southeast, a Bombay force, 6,500 strong, was ascending the Western Ghauts. As the advance brigade, consisting of three native battalions, under Colonel Montresor, reached Sedaseer; Tippoo, with 12,000 of his best troops, fell upon it suddenly. His force had moved through the jungle, and attacked the brigade in front and rear.

Although thus surprised, by an enemy nearly six times their superior in force, the Sepoys behaved with a calmness and bravery that could not have been surpassed by veteran troops. Maintaining a steady front, they repulsed every attack, until a brigade, encamped eight miles in their rear, came up to their assistance; and Tippoo was then forced to retreat, having suffered a loss of 1,500 men, including many of his best officers.

This proof of the inferiority of his troops, even when enormously outnumbering the English, and fighting with all the advantages of surprise, profoundly impressed Tippoo, and from this time he appeared to regard the struggle as hopeless, and displayed no signs whatever of the dash and energy that had distinguished him, when leading one of the divisions of his father's army. He marched with his troops straight to Seringapatam, and then moved out with his whole force, to give battle to the main body of the invaders. The antagonists came within sight of each other at the village of Malavilly, thirty miles east of the capital. For some time an artillery fire on both sides was kept up. Gradually the infantry became engaged, and the Mysoreans showed both courage and steadiness, until a column of two thousand men moved forward to attack the 33rd Regiment.

The British troops reserved their fire, until the column was within fifty yards of them. Then they poured in a withering volley, and charged. The column fell back in disorder. General Floyd at once charged them, with five regiments of cavalry, sabred great numbers of them, and drove the remainder back in headlong rout. The whole British line then advanced, cheering loudly. The first line of Tippoo's army fell back upon its second, and the whole then marched away, at a speed that soon left the British infantry far behind them.

Instead of continuing his march straight upon the capital, General Harris, learning from spies that Tippoo had wasted the whole country along that line, moved southwest; collecting, as he went, great quantities of cattle, sheep, and goats, and an abundance of grain and forage; crossed the Cauvery at a ford at Sosilay; and, on the 5th of April, took up his position at a distance of two miles from the western face of the fort of Seringapatam.

This movement completely disconcerted Tippoo. He had imagined that the attack would, as on the previous occasion, take place on the northern side of the river, and had covered the approaches there with a series of additional fortifications, while on the other side he had done but little. So despondent was he, that he called together his principal officers, and said to them:

"We have arrived at our last stage. What is your determination?"

His advisers took no brighter view of the prospect than he did himself. They had unanimously opposed the war, had warned Tippoo against trusting to the French, and had been adverse to measures that could but result in a fresh trial of strength with the English. The Sultan, however, while not attempting to combat their opinion, had gone on his own way, and his officers now saw their worst fears justified. They replied to his question:

"Our determination is to die with you."

On the day after arriving before Seringapatam, the British attacked the villages and rocky eminences held by the enemy on the south side of the river, and drove them back under the shelter of their guns. General Floyd was sent, with the cavalry, to meet the Bombay force and escort it to Seringapatam. This was accomplished, and although the whole of the Mysore cavalry, and a strong force of infantry hovered round the column, they did not venture to engage it, and on the 14th the whole arrived at the camp before Seringapatam.

The Bombay force, which was commanded by General Stuart, crossed to the north bank of the river, and took up a position, there, which enabled them to take in flank the outlying works and trenches, with which Tippoo had hoped to prevent any attack upon the western angle of the fort, where the river was so shallow that it could be easily forded.

Tippoo now endeavoured to negotiate, and asked for a conference. General Harris returned an answer, enclosing the draft of a preliminary treaty, with which he had been supplied before starting. It demanded one half of Tippoo's territories, a payment of two millions sterling, and the delivery of four of his sons as hostages. Tippoo returned no reply, and on the 22nd the garrison made a vigorous sortie, and were only repulsed after several hours' fighting.

For the next five days, the batteries of the besiegers kept up a heavy fire, silenced every gun in the outlying works, and compelled their defenders to retire across the river into the fort. Tippoo now sank into such a state of despondency that he would listen to none of the proposals of his officers for strengthening the position, and would not even agree to the construction of a retrenchment, which would cut off the western angle of the fort, against which it was evident that the attack would be directed.

He knew that, if captured, there was little chance of his being permitted to continue to reign; and had, indeed, made that prospect more hopeless, by massacring all the English prisoners who had, by his order, been brought in from the hill forts throughout the country on his return to Seringapatam, after the repulse he had suffered in his attack on the Bombay force.

On the 2nd of May, the batteries opened on the wall of the fort, near its northwest angle; and so heavy was their fire that, by the evening of the 3rd, a breach of sixty yards long was effected. General Harris determined to assault on the following day. General Baird, who had, for four years, been a prisoner in Seringapatam, volunteered to lead the assault; and before daybreak 4,376 men took their places in the advance trenches, where they lay down.

It was determined that the assault should not be made until one o'clock, at which time Tippoo's troops, anticipating no attack, would be taking their food, and resting during the heat of the day. The troops who were to make the assault were divided into two columns which, after mounting the breach, were to turn right and left, fighting their way along the ramparts until they met at the other end. A powerful reserve, under Colonel Wellesley, was to support them after they had entered.

When the signal was given, the troops leapt from the trenches and, covered by the fire of the artillery, which at the same moment opened on the ramparts, dashed across the river, scaled the breach, and, in six minutes from the firing of the signal gun, planted the British flag on its crest.

Then the heads of the two columns at once started to fight their way along the ramparts. At first the resistance was slight. Surprised and panic stricken, the defenders of the strong works at this point offered but a feeble resistance. Some fled along the walls. Some ran down into the fort. Many threw themselves over the wall into the rocky bed of the river. The right column, in less than an hour, had won its way along the rampart to the eastern face of the fort; but the left column met with a desperate resistance, for as each point was carried, the enemy, constantly reinforced, made a fresh stand. Most of the officers who led the column were shot down, and so heavy was the fire that, several times, the advance was brought to a standstill.

It was not until the right column, making their way along the wall to the assistance of their comrades, took them in the rear, that the Mysoreans entirely lost heart. Taken between two fires, they speedily became a disorganised mass. Many hundreds were shot down, either in the fort or as, pouring out through the river gate, they endeavoured to cross the ford and escape to the north.

As soon as the whole rampart was captured, General Baird sent an officer with a flag of truce to the Palace, to offer protection to Tippoo and all its inmates, on condition of immediate surrender. Two of Tippoo's younger sons assured the officer that the Sultan was not in the Palace. The assurance was disbelieved, and, the princes being sent to the camp under a strong escort, the Palace was searched. The officer in command, on being strictly questioned, declared that Tippoo, who had in person commanded the defence made against the left column, had been wounded, and that he had heard he was lying in a gateway on the north side of the fort.

A search was immediately made, and the information proved correct. Tippoo was found lying there, not only wounded, but dead. He had indeed received several wounds, and was endeavouring to escape in his palanquin, when this had been upset by the rush of fugitives striving to make their way through the gate.

The gateway was, indeed, almost choked up with the bodies of those who had been either suffocated in the crush, or killed by their pursuers. On his palanquin being overturned, Tippoo had evidently risen to his feet, and had at the same moment been shot through the head by an English soldier, ignorant of his rank. In the evening he was buried with much state, by the side of his father, in the mausoleum of Lal Bang, at the eastern extremity of the island.

It was with great difficulty that, when the British soldiers became aware of the massacre of their countrymen, a few days before, they were restrained from taking vengeance upon his sons and the inmates of the Palace. In the assault, 8000 of the defenders were killed; while the loss of the British, during the siege and in the assault, amounted to 825 Europeans and 639 native troops. An enormous quantity of cannon, arms, and ammunition was captured, and the value of the treasure and jewels amounted to considerably over a million pounds, besides the doubtless large amount of jewels that had, in the first confusion, fallen into the hands of the soldiers.

As Dick, after the fighting had ceased, went, by order of the General, to examine the prisoners and ascertain their rank, his eye fell upon an old officer, whose arm hung useless by his side, broken by a musket ball. He went up to him, and held out his hand.

"Mirzah Mahomed Buckshy!" he exclaimed. "I am glad to meet you again, although sorry to see that you are wounded."

The officer looked at him, in surprise.

"You have spoken my name," he said, "but I do not know that we have ever met before."

"We have met twice. The first time I was, with a friend, dressed as one of Tippoo's officers, and came to examine the state of Savandroog. The second time we were dressed as merchants, and I succeeded in effecting the liberation of my father. Both times I received much kindness at your hands. But far more grateful am I to you for your goodness to my father, whose life you preserved.

"I see you still carry the pistols I left for you, and doubtless you also received the letter I placed with them."

"Thanks be to Allah," the old colonel said, "that we have thus met again! Truly I rejoiced, when my first anger that I had been fooled passed away, that your father had escaped, and that without my being able to blame myself for carelessness. Your letter to me completed my satisfaction, for I felt that Heaven had rightly rewarded the efforts of a son who had done so much, and risked his life for a father.

"Is he alive? Is he here? I should be glad to see him again; and indeed, I missed him sorely. I have been here for two years, having been appointed to a command among the troops here."

"My father is well, and is in England. He will, I know, be glad indeed to hear that I have met you, for he will ever retain a grateful remembrance of your kindness. Now I must finish my work here, and will then go to the general, and beg him to give me an order for your release."

An hour later Dick returned with the order, and carried Mahomed Buckshy off to the Rajah's camp. Here his arm was set by one of the surgeons, and he was so well cared for by the Rajah, Dick, and Surajah, that a fortnight later he was convalescent, and was able to join his wife in the town.

"I am thankful," he said, on leaving, "that my life as a soldier is over, and that I shall never more have to fight against the English. Tippoo was my master, but it is he who, by his cruelty and ambition, has brought ruin upon Mysore. I have saved enough to live in comfort for the rest of my life, and to its end I shall rejoice that I have again met the son of my friend Jack."

The capture of Seringapatam was followed, at once, by the entire submission of the whole country. A descendant of the old Rajah of Mysore was placed upon the throne. His rule was, however, but a nominal one. A very large amount of territory was annexed. The island of Seringapatam was permanently occupied as a British possession. The new rajah was bound to receive, and pay, a large military force for the defence of his territories; not to admit any European foreigners into his dominions; to allow the Company to garrison any fort in Mysore that might seem advisable to them; and to pay, at all times, attention to such advice as might be given him as to the administration of his affairs. He was, in fact, to be but a puppet, the British becoming the absolute rulers of Mysore.

The family of Tippoo, and the ladies of the harem, were removed to Vellore, where they were to receive a palace suitable to their former rank and expectations, and allowances amounting to 160,000 pounds a year.

Thus Mysore, one of the most ancient and powerful of the kingdoms of India, fell into the hands of the English, owing to the ambition, bigotry, and besotted cruelty of the son of a usurper.

Dick's part in all these operations had been a busy, although not a very dangerous one. The only share he had taken in the active fighting had been in the battle at Malavilly, where, having been sent with a message to Colonel Floyd, just before he led the cavalry to the assault of the column that had attacked the 33rd, he took his place by the side of the Rajah and his cousins, whose troop formed part of Floyd's command, and joined in the charge on the enemy. He had, however, rendered great services in the quartermasters' department, was very highly spoken of in the despatches of General Harris, and his name appeared, as promoted to the rank of major, in the list of honours promulgated by Lord Mornington, at the termination of the campaign.

His regiment was among those selected for the occupation of Mysore, and, a month after the capture of the city, he obtained leave to return to England. He stayed for a week at Tripataly, and then took an affectionate farewell of his uncle, the ranee, his cousins, and Surajah, and sailed from Madras a fortnight later. The ship in which he was a passenger was accompanied by two other Indiamen; and when, a fortnight out they encountered a French frigate; which, however, they beat off, and arrived in England without further adventure.

As soon as he landed, Dick drove to the house where his father and mother had taken up their residence, on their arrival in England; but he found to his surprise that, eight months before, they had moved to another, in the village of Hackney. He proceeded there, and found it to be a considerably larger one than that they had left, and standing in its own grounds, which were of some extent. He had written to them after the fall of Seringapatam, and told them that he should probably sail for England about six weeks later. As the vehicle drove to the door, his father and mother ran out. His father grasped his hand, and his mother threw her aims round his neck, with tears of joy.

As soon as the first greeting was over, Dick saw a young lady, in deep mourning, standing on the steps. He looked at her for a moment in surprise, and then exclaimed:

"It is Annie Mansfield!"

Annie held out her hand, and laughed.

"We are both changed almost beyond recognition, Dick."

Then she added, demurely, "The last time, I had to ask you -- "

"You sha'n't have to ask me again, Annie," he said, giving her a hearty kiss. "My first impulse was to do it, but I did not know whether your sentiments on the subject had changed."

"I am not given to change," she said.

"Am I, Mrs. Holland?"

"I don't think you are, my dear. I think there is a little spice of obstinacy in your composition.

"But come in, Dick. Don't let us stand talking here at the door, when we have so much to say to each other."

He went into the sitting room with his father and mother, where Annie presently left them to themselves.

"Why, Father, the privateers must have done well, indeed!" Dick said, looking round the handsome room.

"I have nothing to grumble at, on that score, Dick, though they have not been so lucky the last two years. But it is not their profits that induced us to move here. You saw Annie was in mourning. Her father died, nearly a year ago, and at her earnest request, as he said in his will, appointed us her guardians until she came of age, which will be in a few months now. As he had no near relations, he left the whole of his property to her; and having been in India in the days when, under Warren Hastings, there were good pickings to be obtained, it amounted to a handsome fortune. She said that she should come and live with us, at any rate until she became of age; and as that house of ours, though a comfortable place, was hardly the sort of house for an heiress, she herself proposed that we should take a larger house between us.

"And so, here we are. We shall stay here through the winter, and then we are going down to her place at Plymouth for the summer. What we shall do, afterwards, is not settled. That must depend upon a variety of things."

"She has grown much prettier than I ever thought she would do," Dick said. "Of course, I knew she would have grown into a woman, but somehow I never realised it, until I saw her, and I believe I have always thought of her as being still the girl I carried off from Seringapatam."

In a few minutes Annie joined them, and the talk then turned upon India, and many questions were asked as to their friends at Tripataly.

"I suppose by this time, Annie -- at least, I hope I may still call you Annie?"

"If you call me anything else, I shall not answer," she said indignantly.

"Well, I was going to say, I suppose you have got a good deal beyond words of two letters, now?"

"I regard the question as an impertinent one. I have even mastered geography; the meaning of which word you may remember, you explained to me; and I have a partial knowledge of history."

The next day Dick met an old friend, Ben Birket. Dick had kept his promise, and had written to him as soon as he returned to Tripataly with his father, and a few weeks after Captain Holland's return, his old shipmate came to see him and his wife. Ben had for some time thought of retiring, and he now left the sea, and settled down in a little cottage near. Captain Holland insisted upon settling a small pension upon him, and he was always a welcome guest at the house. His delight at Dick's return was extreme.

"I never thought you would do it, Master Dick, never for a moment, and when on coming home I got your letter, and found that the Captain and your mother were in England, it just knocked me foolish for a bit."

Three weeks later, Dick told Annie that he loved her. He spoke without any circumlocution, merely taking her hand one evening, when they happened to be alone together, and telling her so in plain words.

"I know nothing of women, Annie," he said, "or their ways. I have been bothering myself how to set about it, but though I don't know how to put it, I do know that I love you dearly. All these years I have been thinking about you -- not like this, you know, but as the dear, plucky little girl of the old days."

"The little girl of old days, Dick," she said quietly, "is in no way changed. I think you know what I thought of you, then. I have never for a moment wavered. I gave you all the love of my heart, and you have had it ever since.

"Why, you silly boy," she said, with a laugh, a few minutes later, "I had begun to think that, just as I had to ask you for a kiss in the old times, and again when you met me, I should have to take this matter in hand. Why, I never thought of anything else. Directly I got old enough to look upon myself as a woman, and young men began to come to the house, I said to my dear father:

"'It is of no use their coming here, Father. My mind has been made up for years, and I shall never change.'

"He knew at once what I meant.

"'I don't blame you, my dear,' he said. 'Of course, you are young at present, but he has won you fairly; and if he is at all like what you make him out to be, I could not leave you in better hands. He will be home in another three or four years, and I shall have the comfort of having you with me, until then. But you must not make too sure of it. He may fall in love out there. You know that there is plenty of society at Madras.'

"I laughed at the idea.

"'All the pretty ones either come out to be married, or get engaged on the voyage, or before they have been there a fortnight. I have no fear, Father, of his falling in love out there, though I don't say he might not when he gets home, for of course he thinks of me only as a little girl.'